BP – FALLOUT 2.0
We are all aware that fallout from the BP offshore disaster, which might best be described as “fubar”, has been devastating on many levels around our Planet.
We are all aware that fallout from the BP offshore disaster, which might best be described as “fubar,” has been devastating on many levels around our Planet.
The most tragic, heartwrenching, and immediate results, of course, are centered amid the 11 workers on the doomed rig who lost their lives. Typically, people don’t leave home for work and expect not to return.
Words cannot express my deep sympathy for these men; I won’t even try to imagine the pain and suffering that their families and friends must be enduring.
To their survivors, as well as the 17 workers who were injured and their families, please know that you’re in the minds and hearts of people all over the world.
Next to be severely impacted are those hard-working shrimpers and other seafood gatherers of the Gulf region.
These folks have a job I know I could never do, working insanely long hours (days and weeks non-stop, in many instances) at one of the most physically challenging occupations, for pay that hardly seems worth the effort unless the catch is sizable – with the hazard of death always just beyond the horizon.
It is distressing to think that their livelihood, perhaps their entire way of life, may be shattered for generations, possibly never to return.
Then, the commerce from tourism, a huge source of income for all the states which share the Gulf region, will be largely non-existent this year, and for untold seasons to come.
Moving on to the corporate level, BP itself is in deep trouble, its image as well as fiscal viability having sunk lower than whale shit.
However, nobody has taken the time to look at the “trickle down” effect this calamity has had across Main Street, USA and beyond.
Independent dealers who have contracts with BP, small operators of convenience marts, our neighbors, are getting shoved into oblivion by a ridiculous knee-jerk reaction to something over which they have absolutely no control.
Drive by any BP station and note the absence of activity. It has become quite apparent that people have forsaken their regular coffee and donut stop in an effort to boycott the big corporate bad guys.
In the process, they’re ruining small business owners whom just two months ago were considered friends.
I can fully understand it if someone doesn’t wish to use products that carry BP brand name, specifically gasoline and diesel fuel.
However, in bypassing the convenience store that just happens to be contractually associated with BP, by getting your cigarettes and soda at the Shell (or whatever) mini-mart down the street, you’re effectively putting the person you’ve always done business with out of business.
I know of one guy who showed up one morning and found the locks to his store had been glued shut. How freakin’ stupid is that?
It didn’t cost BP anything to get his locks replaced; it cost the station owner.
On top of that, his business has been off by some 80% since the oil rig explosion. That figure is store receipts as well as gasoline sales.
The loss of revenue doesn’t stop at the individual shop. A boycott of the stores that operate under the BP logo trickles down to those people who derive their income from supplying these marts.
These same salespeople may not supply the Shell mini-mart two blocks away, so they will not necessarily recoup the loss elsewhere.
Thus, they and their families have to adjust for a reduction in income.
And, the companies they work for will also feel the pinch.
You don’t wish to buy BP gasoline, fine. The dealers don’t set the retail price, and generally only make a couple of cents per gallon, anyway, so in itself filling up elsewhere won’t be the end of the world for them.
But, it would be to everyone’s advantage to make the extra stop – change your gasoline brand, but make a concerted effort to get your totable stuff from the guy where you’ve always shopped.
Of course, only the wholly unsophisticated wouldn’t realize that no matter where one buys gas or diesel, it’s entirely possible the source refinery was owned by BP…
Was it irony, coincidence, or intentional that just this past Sunday the Sundance Channel reran “Who Killed The Electric Car?” (2006), the four-star documentary that examined the success of GM’s EV1, and its subsequent destruction by the corporate giant?
Happy motoring, my fellow American!
Shalom.
(Jerry Tenuto is an erstwhile Philosopher and sometime Educator. A veteran with seven years of service in the U.S. Army, he holds a BS and MA in Communications from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. Depending upon your taste in political stew, you can either blame or thank Jerry for his weekly “Out Of The Blue” feature in The Lone Star Iconoclast. Visit his blog Blue State View at illinoiscentral.blogspot.com)
Toad Relocation Program
We’ve known for some years that there was a burgeoning toad population at the ranch. Frogs, toads, not sure I can tell the difference without a few minutes on the Internet to refresh my memory (some other time).
We’ve known for some years that there was a burgeoning toad population at the ranch. Frogs, toads, not sure I can tell the difference without a few minutes on the Internet to refresh my memory (some other time).
When our large, shallow stock tank fills up each winter or spring, we hear the frogs begin to “sing.” (I don’t know where they go when the tank dries up each summer). When there was a leak under our ancient hot tub on the back deck, every toad within a 50-mile radius seemed to congregate there. They formed a community, met, courted, coupled, and made little toads. LOADS of toads. Once the leak was repaired, the majority left, moved on, went to college, whatever. A few stayed on. Two weeks ago, we started seeing Tiny Todds all over the place. I had to scoop several up from the breezeway and put them back outside. They are all alternately called Todd (for the way “Todd Toad” just mellifluously rolls off the tongue) or Pete (after the toad in “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?”, one of our most favorite Coen Brother’s movies of all time).
Big Pete (or Todd, if you like) has been around for at least a couple of years, perhaps many more. He took up residence for a while in Stinky’s dog house on the back deck (near the hot tub, obviously a place of fond memories for the enormous amphibian). We would find him happily curled up in the old blankets there during the winter. This is the same, huge, $2 doghouse I happily dragged home one year from the County Wide Garage Sale — the same doghouse Stinky gleefully deserted when we allowed him onto the breezeway (and he finally figured out the doggie door). Now he shelters under a tarp draped table when the wind blows. This is a dog that hates wind and storms. But I digress.
I’ve found a couple of smaller Petes and Todds happily hopping this same general vicinity over the years. Even when we don’t see them, there’s ample evidence of their presence. Who could have imagined that toad droppings could be so large? I thought we had rats until our friend Ron the Hunter/Gatherer matched the poop with the proper poopee. How he’s so certain of these things, I’ll never know. But he’s rarely wrong.
One of the smaller Todds took to entering the doggie door and bothering the dog. This became pretty annoying when it happened repeatedly in the middle of the night. Poor dog was startled from a peaceful sleep, had no idea what had hopped on him, and barked like a banshee (just under our bedroom window). And we were growing pretty tired of catching Todd or Pete and putting him out both day AND night. (“Zack, that toad’s on the breezeway again. Zack. ZACK! Never mind, I’ll do it myself!)
One Todd made his way into the greenhouse where he hibernated all winter, dug deeply into a potted plant. With my live and let live attitude (unless it involves a snake, mouse, or insect in the house), I looked the other way. We’ve had lizards winter in the greenhouse before as well. I could live with it. The larger Todd took up residence last summer in a planter box on the back deck, and that’s when the problems began. He would torment the dog, then dash back to his planter box. Poor Stinky is not by nature a digger and has, to his credit, NEVER dug up my flowers or the yard in general. But he couldn’t seem to help himself no matter how many times I told him no. He’d look sheepish and do it again — dig up the planter box going after the toad. I moved the toad a few yards away to a moist spot near the green house hose, but he always returned to the back deck. We never actually caught Stinky digging in the planter box. I believe this was strictly a nocturnal event. The first few times it happened, we thought he was burying kibble, another quirky habit our overweight pooch developed when he finds a little extra food in his bowl. Like one day he might starve. This is unlikely. But it soon became obvious that this was no kibble situation.
As the toad became larger and was able to tunnel deeper and faster, Stinky kept up stroke for stroke. He’s dug out my moss rose plants three times so far this season. Just that planter, no other. Same as last year. Once a Pete picks a planter, he rarely relocates by choice, even when chased by a large, determined dog. A smaller Pete had taken up residence in a different planter, and finally, early this morning, I had enough. As I gazed sleepily out my kitchen window, there was the pile of dirt next to the planter, moss rose here and there, dead soldiers in the war of the toads. Marching outside with murder on my mind, I spotted Big Pete on the deck. Luckily I was one of those little girls who played with grass snakes and horned toads. Frogs and everyday toads never held the same appeal, but I didn’t miss a beat in grabbing the enormous, surprised Pete. I marched into Zack’s shop, stuck out my hand with the squirming toad — like I had singlehandedly captured Hamas. “Give me a box and where should I put him?” I demanded. Zack was busy putting a coat of stain on a shelf, so I knew I was on my own. And just like that, the Toad Relocation Program began.
Big Pete was unceremoniously transported to his new, damp home under the overhead water tank — in a wood screw box from the hardware store. Just the right size. I feel certain he’ll love his new digs, especially when the tank overflows. This is several hundred yards from Stinky’s back deck and my moss rose, so we’ll see if toads can find their way “home” as cats and dogs are able to do, often from great distances.
Within minutes of my return, a stroke of uncanny luck! I spotted Little Pete in another corner of the back deck, and repeated the entire relocation process (right down to presenting the creature to Zack before I placed him in his travel case (which I had left in the workshop trashcan from whence it originally came). I suspect this won’t be the last time I use the wood screw box. From now on, I’m keeping it handy.
Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She’s an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life. Check out Genie’s blog at http://rusticramblings.wordpress.com/
