Thursday, June 24, 2010

So I think it's time to start riding bikes and hugging trees

It's tempting to believe that the Gulf spill, like so many disasters inherited by Obama, was the fault of the Texas oilman who preceded him in office. But, though George W. Bush paved the way for the catastrophe, it was Obama who gave BP the green light to drill. "Bush owns eight years of the mess," says Rep. Darrell Issa, a Republican from California. "But after more than a year on the job, ( Interior Secretary Ken) Salazar owns it too."


President Obama in Port Fourchon, Louisiana, May 28, 2010.
McNamee/Getty

By Tim Dickinson
Jun 08, 2010 4:30 PM EDT

This article originally appeared in RS 1107 from June 24, 2010.

On May 27th, more than a month into the worst environmental disaster in U.S. history, Barack Obama strode to the podium in the East Room of the White House. For weeks, the administration had been insisting that BP alone was to blame for the catastrophic oil spill in the Gulf – and the ongoing failure to stop the massive leak. "They have the technical expertise to plug the hole," White House spokesman Robert Gibbs had said only six days earlier. "It is their responsibility." The president, Gibbs added, lacked the authority to play anything more than a supervisory role – a curious line of argument from an administration that has reserved the right to assassinate American citizens abroad and has nationalized much of the auto industry. "If BP is not accomplishing the task, can you just federalize it?" a reporter asked. "No," Gibbs replied.

Now, however, the president was suddenly standing up to take command of the cleanup effort. "In case you were wondering who's responsible," Obama told the nation, "I take responsibility." Sounding chastened, he acknowledged that his administration had failed to adequately reform the Minerals Management Service, the scandal-ridden federal agency that for years had essentially allowed the oil industry to self-regulate. "There wasn't sufficient urgency," the president said. "Absolutely I take responsibility for that." He also admitted that he had been too credulous of the oil giants: "I was wrong in my belief that the oil companies had their act together when it came to worst-case scenarios." He unveiled a presidential commission to investigate the disaster, discussed the resignation of the head of MMS, and extended a moratorium on new deepwater drilling. "The buck," he reiterated the next day on the sullied Louisiana coastline, "stops with me."

What didn't stop was the gusher. Hours before the president's press conference, an ominous plume of oil six miles wide and 22 miles long was discovered snaking its way toward Mobile Bay from BP's wellhead next to the wreckage of its Deepwater Horizon rig. Admiral Thad Allen, the U.S. commander overseeing the cleanup, framed the spill explicitly as an invasion: "The enemy is coming ashore," he said. Louisiana beaches were assaulted by blobs of oil that began to seep beneath the sand; acres of marshland at the "Bird's Foot," where the Mississippi meets the Gulf, were befouled by shit-brown crude – a death sentence for wetlands that serve as the cradle for much of the region's vital marine life. By the time Obama spoke, it was increasingly evident that this was not merely an ecological disaster. It was the most devastating assault on American soil since 9/11.

Like the attacks by Al Qaeda, the disaster in the Gulf was preceded by ample warnings – yet the administration had ignored them. Instead of cracking down on MMS, as he had vowed to do even before taking office, Obama left in place many of the top officials who oversaw the agency's culture of corruption. He permitted it to rubber-stamp dangerous drilling operations by BP – a firm with the worst safety record of any oil company – with virtually no environmental safeguards, using industry-friendly regulations drafted during the Bush years. He calibrated his response to the Gulf spill based on flawed and misleading estimates from BP – and then deployed his top aides to lowball the flow rate at a laughable 5,000 barrels a day, long after the best science made clear this catastrophe would eclipse the Exxon Valdez.

...

Except that it didn't. Salazar did little to tamp down on the lawlessness at MMS, beyond referring a few employees for criminal prosecution and ending a Bush-era program that allowed oil companies to make their "royalty" payments – the amount they owe taxpayers for extracting a scarce public resource – not in cash but in crude. And instead of putting the brakes on new offshore drilling, Salazar immediately throttled it up to record levels. Even though he had scrapped the Bush plan, Salazar put 53 million offshore acres up for lease in the Gulf in his first year alone – an all-time high. The aggressive leasing came as no surprise, given Salazar's track record. "This guy has a long, long history of promoting offshore oil drilling – that's his thing," says KierĂ¡n Suckling, executive director of the Center for Biological Diversity. "He's got a highly specific soft spot for offshore oil drilling." As a senator, Salazar not only steered passage of the Gulf of Mexico Energy Security Act, which opened 8 million acres in the Gulf to drilling, he even criticized President Bush for not forcing oil companies to develop existing leases faster.

For the entire article visit Rolling Stone:
The Spill, The Scandal and the President | Rolling Stone Politics

Saturday, June 19, 2010

True love located on isle four, next to a bitter pill and the sad lobsters kept in a tank

I was going to write a new post, but then I realized that I could sit and redesign the look of the website instead. Which involves a lot more of hitting buttons and looking at pictures and a lot less of actual writing. Score.

Then it dawned on me that this is how I'm spending my Friday night. Sitting comparing word fonts and looking at Youtube videos of Seattle Police beating women. (It's ok she's urban, so it doesn't count. Throw bows at a granola eating, Land Rover driving WASP and we might have an issue here.)

What better way to spice things up than new I'm writer so a books theme makes me look classy. If only I could focus long enough to write one.

I then find myself reading a magazine left on the coffee table before I remember that I was looking for my keys, so I could go to the store, and buy food, so I can write my blog.

I totally forgot to go to Trader Joe's earlier since I also forgot I only have old tofu and leftover cookies to eat. I need sustenance before anything Nobel Prize winning sputters out.

Yum, mac and cheese cravings.

I'm still a bit glammed up in heels and some glitter from a friend's birthday dinner earlier, which makes me feel a bit out of place at the grocery store next to a soccer dad in a velour jumpsuit and all the underage kids buying booze.

I grab sale Velveeta and shells and two cans of tuna. Not the weirdest thing one can buy at the store, insert offensive pregnancy joke, and at least it was albacore.

I click my way to the least overcrowded line and stand next to this obscenely in shape couple. I set my purchases on the conveyor and Mr. Arms starts looking at my goods from the corner of his eye. Both of the conveyor and glittery sort.

"You're so funny," Miss America says with a laugh.

Ok, awkward. Not only did she catch muscles staring but she's probably like, sure, check out the girl who eats fake cheese from a box and has to go home to feed her cats.

Which I totally don't have cats anymore and the box said the cheese is made with 2% milk. Not sure if that makes it any better, but suck it.

They are buying an energy drink and cigarettes with a side of gum. Probably will vomit it up later anyway.

At least it's not as bad as the guy who comments that you're buying a bottle of Pepto like it's a special club between the two of you. Pointing out the pink bottle for the world to see. Yeah, I know what that for. Trust me, we've all been there.

In this scenario, I'm all worried that I won't make it home in time stuck in my own personal hell and totally giving a stranger death stares for daring to point out any indigestion issues one may be having in my household.

Right on intrusive stranger, my roommate sure is having a rough night. Whew, wouldn't want to be her. *Cough*

It should be illegal to comment on grocery items, period.

So I'm pretending to be uber-interested in the Women's Day magazine cover and not listen to any snickers or feel laser eyes on me.

"Oh, you're going to buy my energy drink? Wow," Mr. Arms throws his head my way. "I got the best roommate."

I don't care if you call her grandma, bud. This isn't Trader Joe's, aka the real life Match.com.

I only want to get home so eat my delicious noodles and wallow in my own shame.

Which were delicious, a thank you.


Friday, June 11, 2010

This is just me bleeding profusely. No worries, your food will be right up

"You okay?"

All my co-workers in the kitchen stare at me. I can feel my face getting pale while I try to feign a smile.

"Yeah Yeah, just um, cut myself. Do we have band-aids?"

"Oh really? Let me see. Sylvia, go grab some band-aids."

"Lemme see... Oh wow! Okay hold on."

I just laugh pathetically and run the gushing finger under water. "No worries, it just won't stop bleeding."

Sylvia runs off to find first aid and the cook comes around the grill to examine the damage.

This is what hell must be like, stuck in a hot room while slowly bleeding waiting for aid. Or perhaps I am thinking of the emergency room.

This is my own fault. I had thought what a bad idea it was mid-division to wield a large serrated knife to cut a moist English muffin. It crumbled, my finger got slashed. Maird.

The life in a kitchen is wrought with dangers.

"You see this? See this?" the cook holds up a mangled finger. "Almost cut the tip of my finger right off."

"Ew, well mine doesn't hurt it just won't stop bleeding. That's all."

I start to have one of those odd out of body experiences where I wonder how did my life get reduced to this. The tip of my finger is irrevocably maimed forever and if the cook is any indicator will also induce the need to vomit in others for years to come. But all I can wonder is if I was suppose to deliver ketchup to one of my tables.
"Hey Domingo! Can you take out this food? This food right here," I holler at the busy bus boy. "I'm just kinda dealing with something right now." I check the bread for signs of blood. Muffin preserved. "Here take this out, too."

Domingo looks at the paper towel that is quickly turning red. "What happened? Let me see."

I look beyond the double doors that shields customers from the reality of a restaurant kitchen to faces of anticipation in the dining room. I am the only server on the floor. Domingo the bus guy will have to take one for the team.

This is what my life has come to. I'm going to be left here to bleed to death, while starving customers attempt to eat me for lunch.

"Stick in coffee." The cook just looks at me in interest and says, "Domingo, grab her some coffee grounds. It will make the bleeding stop."

News to me.

Sylvia comes running in the room with two of the smallest band-aids I've ever in my life.

"Sweetie, are you serious?"


The poor thing just looks at my finger that would probably benefit more from stitches than an aid that would better serve a human the size of barbie.

So here I am sticking my finger in coffee grounds, while I image the look of the customers faces as I place their delectable platter down with a oozing finger that is covered in roughage.

And I need enough tips to be able to go to a music festival. This is getting serious.

"Look at this cut." Now Sylvia is in on the trick. I look at a large mark across her forearm that looks more like a burn from what I can only imagine came from a slick kitchen blade.

She merely shakes her head to show how brave she is and how accepting she is of her daily trials.

"Don't we have any bigger band-aids? Perhaps some gauze?"

She straps two of the aids fit for baby on my finger, both of us praying for a miracle that I won't leak all over a table somewhere.

Domingo enters from stage left, "You have some people that want to order."

Of course I do.

'They're in a hurry."

Of course they are.

I try to hide my hand as I run out to the counter. Their first words to me are, "I'm in a hurry."

Aren't we all, bud. Aren't we all.

Manager John creeps up from out of nowhere. He looks preoccupied. I privy him for a more sufficient form of first aid.

"Hold on," he says.

The couple stare at me, "How long of a wait do you think it'll be?"

Johan returns with a rubber sanitary glove and chops off one of the fingers.

"Here put this on."

I slip on my finger condom and stare at the ingenuity.

"Thanks," I say and stare at the pale gloved finger. It works.

I may be able to afford a music festival filled with drug-addled hippies after all. Go summer!

I continue the rest of my day imagining I'm Margot Tenenabaum sporting a fake appendage. This might be a look I could get used to.

The cook made me feel better pancakes. Sometimes getting hurt is the best!

Monday, June 7, 2010

The Pleasant Peninsula Yawns Hello

So you graduate college after years of aneurism inducing papers, all night cram sessions and out performing the chump sitting next to you.

Then lucky you.

Obama is going to be the speaker at your graduation. The most powerful man in the "free world." The man preaching hope, change and the increase of off-shore oil drilling.

And yet, your this guy with the bobble head. Or this chick with the google eyes. This is the future of America.

Let's hope they just forgot their Red Bull and game faces that day.

Remember kids, that box he's speaking into is called a camera. That guy with the big ears in front of you is giving a speech. Time to pay attention.

As a Kalamazoo alum, although from a slightly less prestigious academy, I feel little miffed that these kids can't get their act together. Good luck finding a job. This economy isn't exactly a sleeper.

I at least learned how to fake pay attention. Let's be real, I went to college.

Friday, June 4, 2010

BBQ at my place. I'll provide the sacrificial goat.

Ok sun gods, let's make a deal. I moved to Southern California for sandy beaches, a general lack of snow and a killer tan.

Two out of three isn't bad, but I am shocked at the lack of sunshine in the golden state.

I leave the pleasant peninsulas with the gas on the pedal and one finger out the window only to get a persistant marine layer. Translation: gloomy skies and cold winds.

Starting to wonder if there isn't some curse of the goat in the Peach family. Some great-great-grandfather probably screwed someone out of a killer parcel of land or one hot house maid and now I get to deal with wind chill.

Maybe some Peach cut done a bunch of trees and a quiet but powerful shaman decided to teach that unassuming chap a lesson.

I mean I did knock over a small palm tree once. But it was a total accident involving a lot of alcohol and some poorly placed landscaping.

We do this wherever we go, but it's normally only vacation. And it's normally Florida.

Torrential rains after three month of drought. Fires plaguing the countryside causing the sky to turn black as night.

Or my favorite, record breaking temperatures causing sister to vomit in the Disney World topiaries. She got wheeled out in a fervor of employees dreading a lawsuit.

So I get to Los Angeles only to find that the tales spun of sunlight for eons and bathing beauties as far as the eye can see is disappointingly overcast.

Must be the same feeling of tourists that come to glitzy Hollywood and only see all the tranny hookers around the Manns Chinese Theater. Or end up in the Valley with all the porn stars and airports.

I hear Michigan summer is going to be one of the hottest in recent memory. I don't miss streams of sweat bursting from every pore or walking through a blanket of humidity. It's just not for me.

Yet if I hear that these gloomy Santa Monica skies or chilling wind that is making even my toes grow hair is just so "unseasonable" one more time, I'm moving back to the Lake Effect mitten.