jumpingfish

CBS tried to get a look at oil coming ashore in Louisiana a couple days ago. They have video of a boatload of BP contractors turning them back.  The boat evidently included a couple Coast Guard officers.  It was “BP rules” the Coast Guard officers said, as they told the journalists to turn back under threat of arrest.

BP rules.  Coast Guard officers. Threat of arrest.

After reporting from the scene, Kelly Cobiella turned it back over to anchor, Katie Couric.  Katie’s cutting-edge follow-up journalism?  To ask, with empathic concern in her eyes, And Kelly, what is the impact on wildlife so far?

As if to say, Well that’s interesting.  Now let’s talk about something else.

No need to dig into the collusion of government officials with BP to prevent the media from seeing firsthand the results of the oil spewing up from the bottom of the Gulf.  No need to draw attention to that.  No.  What we need to talk about now is the wildlife. Something to pull the heart strings and distract our audience from this colossal disaster.

During the Cold War, we in the West were taught that the Great Satan was an all-powerful government — down that path lay tyranny.  Those in the Eastern Bloc were taught that the Great Satan was an all-powerful capitalist oligarchy — the dreaded bourgeoisie. These were our closely guarded mythologies.

But there is a different way to look at things. A way to see beyond the myths. A way to perceive something that threatens to engulf us as the 21st century dawns and doesn’t fall into those convenient late 20th century templates.  A centaur, a minotaur, a harpy, a hybrid of the tyrannical government and the exploitive capitalism drawn from darkest night thoughts of the West and East: government and capitalism working hand-in-hand not for the betterment of the people, but to keep them from knowing, to keep them blissful in their ignorance, to protect the flow of profits, to maintain control. (Britt/Pattern #9, Mills/Corporate State)

There’s no call to show the public those videos of the oil spewing forth.  And for that matter, there’s no call to let uppity scientists with federal research grants talk about their own estimates of how much oil is gushing out of BP’s black hole. (Notice how they’ve clammed up since they first contradicted the gospel of BP?)

No.  No need to dig any deeper, Katie. Best to move on. Because, you know, we need to talk about turtles.  Because in the long run, it’s turtles all the way down.

We sat on the top of the hill looking down on the stage.  Overhead, stars twinkled in the sky.  Across the amphitheater, over the heads of the crowd sitting on blankets and folding chairs, a great Oak tree stood listening.

The Eggmen had been playing since before the sun went down.  With each song, the crowd grew and the number of kids playing on the playscape increased.

Day turned into night.  The band played Beatles tunes. The entire crowd sang along, sometimes waving their hands, great beaming smiles on their faces.

And then…

We sat on the top of the hill looking down on the stage. The words melted the sour gloominess in my heart.  A smile came over me, and tears came to my eyes.  Trudy took my hand. And we sang.

It’s that time of day—when the organizations call.

 

“Hello?” I say.

There’s a delay on the other end as their auto-dialing software rings up some poor drone.  I sit silently, waiting for them to speak.

“Hello?” says the drone, evidently puzzled by the silence.

“Yes?” I say, stepping out of the darkness.

“Oh hello. May I speak to Trudy, please?”

“She’s not here.  May I take a message?”

“Oh that’s ok.  This is an organization she supports.  We’ll get something out of her later.”

Um, my bet is that you won’t.  Not if you keep calling while she’s at work, and not if you word your ask like that.

I gotta go: the phone’s ringing again.

Cleaning up some papers sitting atop my dresser this afternoon, I found a sheet that had the following three things on it.

1. In the center of the page was a statement of the eigenvalue problem: Lf = λ f, residue of a project that never got off the ground.

2. On the right side was the phone number of a friend I call when I have programming questions—the telecommuter’s equivalent of walking down the hall.

3. And then in the lower righthand corner was a list entitled, “externalities”:

• bags in the bushes
• oil spills
• pacific gyre (awash in plastics)
• Chernobyl
• non-union mines
• unregulated finance
• global warming
• nuclear waste
• highways instead of trains
• soda pop
• cutting down the trees on Easter Island

The eigenvalue problem and phone number sat on the page with this long curling list wrapping around the bottom of the page, threatening to overwhelm them with foul complaint.  I don’t think I was in a good mood that day.

1. Bun Run

A good day for a taco.  The sky was grey but not ominous.  The temperature was comfortable.  A slight breeze blew as I put a book under my arm and walked out the door to go to Torchy’s.

A mile into the walk, I came to the big street and waited for the light to turn.  On the other side, there were police cars with flashing lights and barricades blocking some of the traffic and police officers standing around. And there were people walking in one lane of the big street that was cordoned off.

I had forgotten about the Bun Run; these were the walkers at the end of the race.  I crossed the street quickly, hoping to beat the crowd for a migas taco.

2. Fluffy Dogs

I sat outside with my cup of coffee and a hot taco with more migas on it than would stay contained between the corn tortillas.  My eyes rolled back in my head with pleasure as I set down my book and used two hands to make sure the eggs and cheese and tomatoes and avacado and onion and peppers stayed put.

Some ladies sitting next to me tried to get their dogs to behave.  Five ladies and four dogs.  One of the dogs seemed to think the small, fluffy ones were breakfast.  He snarled and growled and lunged, but his owner had him on a short leash and pulled him back.

The fluffy ones were Pomeranians — a white one and a brown one.  Nothing but balls of fluff.  And they barked their non-bark bark trying to meet that nice dog on the other side of the table who was now on a very short leash facing in the other direction yawning from the stress of it all.

The ladies’ tacos arrived as I finished mine. The restaurant was now quite full of runners and walkers, and it didn’t seem right to fill up a table just to read, so I gulped down my coffee, tucked my book under my arm and got up to walk home.

3. Good Morning for a Hello

Back at the big street, I waited at the light again.  The race was done, all the straggling walkers evidently finished. The cordons on the street had already been removed. Across the street a man was waiting to cross. The light changed, and he and I waited for all the left turn traffic to turn.  The walk light came on, and we both stepped out into the street.

He was wearing a black sweather with grey hounds-toothing on the front.  It was windy but not cold, so that caught my attention.  I watched him as we approached each other.  And he watched me.

As we got closer to each other, I smiled and nodded. He scowled.  The sun was coming out; maybe it was in his eyes.

As we passed each other, I said, “Hello.”  It really was a perfect morning for a hello, I thought.  I smiled again, but his scowl turned sour.  He squinted his eyes and seemed to say something to me, and he returned my gaze and then spat at my feet.

Good morning for a hello, indeed.