Today's NYTimes (click my title) describes numerous reports identifying the procedures to contain deep sea oil blowouts as inadequate. Regulatory changes were suggested, but of course BP and the rest of the industry opposed increased regulation. In fact the regulating agency decreased inspection frequency of these devices fro once every 7 days to every 14 days so as not to interfere with productivity.
To make matters worse than even our usual puny regulatory mechanisms, in this case the same agency (Mineral Management Services) collects government royalties on oil wells as well as regulating safety aspects. No conlict there, huh?
The current preventers are:
1. too slow to react
2.Not powerful enough to shear through the improved metals used in newer wells
3. Need another layer of redundancy
So how often do we need to shake our heads after a loss of lives tells us we were not prepared? Big Fork? Katrina? the financial crash.
Our inaction is a true tribute to the effectiveness of the anti-government and anti-regulatory ideology (Yes listen up Tea Partyers) so successfully propagated by our corporate leaders. We need to really spread the word and explain: People Before Profits!
Friday, May 7, 2010
B Minor Mass
My friends at Haverford introduced me to older classical music. Also to the choral music of Bach, the Masses and Cantatas. I particularly like Christ Lag in Todesbanden (#4.) One of my room mates, Tony Rosner also introduced me to the joy (even for Jewish guys) of attending a midnight mass Christmas eve at one of the big Catholic or Episcopal churches in NYC. We did it together several years.
One of these Christmas eve nights I was driving the old blue/gray 1948 Plymouth along NJ highways to meet Tony for midnight mass. B Minor Mass was on the radio. It filled the car. The music is so rich. Even the interludes are heavenly. I wouldn't make a deal with the devil for much, but to compose like Bach..... Anyway I was driving along in a cold fog and rain. The roads were pretty lonely. I had this sudden vision of something happening to the car and we turn over. I die in the accident; the wheels of the car continue to spin; out the windows surges the continuing music of the B Minor Mass. It seemed a beautiful way to go....and a powerful vision that still comes to me from time to time. There was no suicidal impulse here, it just seemed like the B Minor Mass was....enough.
One of these Christmas eve nights I was driving the old blue/gray 1948 Plymouth along NJ highways to meet Tony for midnight mass. B Minor Mass was on the radio. It filled the car. The music is so rich. Even the interludes are heavenly. I wouldn't make a deal with the devil for much, but to compose like Bach..... Anyway I was driving along in a cold fog and rain. The roads were pretty lonely. I had this sudden vision of something happening to the car and we turn over. I die in the accident; the wheels of the car continue to spin; out the windows surges the continuing music of the B Minor Mass. It seemed a beautiful way to go....and a powerful vision that still comes to me from time to time. There was no suicidal impulse here, it just seemed like the B Minor Mass was....enough.
Class at Haverford
Well I didn't have to learn much about class at Haveford: Me and my buddies in Newark had occasion to take a nail to the side of any really fancy car like a Cadillac that parked in our neighborhood. We hadn't read Marx, but we understood the underlying theory. We just didn't know what to do about it.
I chose Haverford by way of two routes. The first is I had attended Farm and Wilderness summer camp for two years, a Quaker camp, and really taken to it. Another was that my father drew two circles around our home in Springfield. His suggestion for where to go to college....far enough away I could not come home for dinner, close enough to come home for a weekend. Haverford was the Quaker school within that chosen area. It wasn't quite that simple.
Well the day we arrive at Haverford, my dad drives me down in his 1948 Plymouth (this was 1962 and people didn't drive 14 yr old cars then.) We pull up next to the freshman dorm and up behind us pulls a maroon Rolls Royce. We looked at each other and my stomach went south. I think my dad already knew what to expect.
In 1962, Haverford had a pretty heavy participation from private school preppies. They were not entirely pleasant to rough edged city kids like me. I also sensed a hint of anti-semitism, though there were plenty of Jews at Haverford....just that many of them were from private schools too. Well the preppies apparently had a lot more experience than I did in binge drinking. An early infamous episode at Haverford was when some drunk Haverfordians were hosting a party in a dorm for a visiting chorus from a women's school (I believe it wasMount Holyoke) and distinguished themselves and their prep school upbringing by peeing in public in the punch bowl. Now even a guy from Newark would have know better. Haverford had an honor system code of conduct which would adjudicate such behavior. It was administered by students. The behavior to be avoided was behavior degrading to a a female guest...by design a standard that could change with community standards. I can't remember if the perpetrator was suspended or expelled.
Quesiton: What's the one sure way to identify a preppie?
Answer: If he's wearing penny loafers with no socks.
My senior year I took an advanced sociology class at Bryn Mawr. Remember this was the 60's. Our instructor was a very left sociologist named Martin Oppenheimer. He was an early writer on participatory democracy. I was the only guy in the class. We met way upstairs in a medieval looking hall at Bryn Mawr. There were a lot of southern girls in that class. In general, their poise and self assuredness and perfect dress and manors made me uncomfortable. However I took evil glee in the fact that the politics and positions of Dr. Oppenheimer made them uncomfortable, while I just loved it. OK....a moment of class humiliation. This may be TMI for some, so read on at your own risk:
End of spring semester, we were sitting in the classroom, taking our final exam. It was hot and the windows were wide open. It was very quiet. It was very very quiet. I was sitting there merrily taking my test when my body sent the signals of the desire to let off a bit of gas. Well all my life I had been what I would call "silent but deadly." Never caught in the act. So I figured it was safe to let the flatulence go. It was only a natural phenomenon anyway. Deadly it was, silent it was not. I can still see the turning necks of the proper girls in the class. I read, "Aha, we knew he was a cretin." I shrank, I shriveled, there was no where to escape. They had their payback. I still remember.
I chose Haverford by way of two routes. The first is I had attended Farm and Wilderness summer camp for two years, a Quaker camp, and really taken to it. Another was that my father drew two circles around our home in Springfield. His suggestion for where to go to college....far enough away I could not come home for dinner, close enough to come home for a weekend. Haverford was the Quaker school within that chosen area. It wasn't quite that simple.
Well the day we arrive at Haverford, my dad drives me down in his 1948 Plymouth (this was 1962 and people didn't drive 14 yr old cars then.) We pull up next to the freshman dorm and up behind us pulls a maroon Rolls Royce. We looked at each other and my stomach went south. I think my dad already knew what to expect.
In 1962, Haverford had a pretty heavy participation from private school preppies. They were not entirely pleasant to rough edged city kids like me. I also sensed a hint of anti-semitism, though there were plenty of Jews at Haverford....just that many of them were from private schools too. Well the preppies apparently had a lot more experience than I did in binge drinking. An early infamous episode at Haverford was when some drunk Haverfordians were hosting a party in a dorm for a visiting chorus from a women's school (I believe it wasMount Holyoke) and distinguished themselves and their prep school upbringing by peeing in public in the punch bowl. Now even a guy from Newark would have know better. Haverford had an honor system code of conduct which would adjudicate such behavior. It was administered by students. The behavior to be avoided was behavior degrading to a a female guest...by design a standard that could change with community standards. I can't remember if the perpetrator was suspended or expelled.
Quesiton: What's the one sure way to identify a preppie?
Answer: If he's wearing penny loafers with no socks.
My senior year I took an advanced sociology class at Bryn Mawr. Remember this was the 60's. Our instructor was a very left sociologist named Martin Oppenheimer. He was an early writer on participatory democracy. I was the only guy in the class. We met way upstairs in a medieval looking hall at Bryn Mawr. There were a lot of southern girls in that class. In general, their poise and self assuredness and perfect dress and manors made me uncomfortable. However I took evil glee in the fact that the politics and positions of Dr. Oppenheimer made them uncomfortable, while I just loved it. OK....a moment of class humiliation. This may be TMI for some, so read on at your own risk:
End of spring semester, we were sitting in the classroom, taking our final exam. It was hot and the windows were wide open. It was very quiet. It was very very quiet. I was sitting there merrily taking my test when my body sent the signals of the desire to let off a bit of gas. Well all my life I had been what I would call "silent but deadly." Never caught in the act. So I figured it was safe to let the flatulence go. It was only a natural phenomenon anyway. Deadly it was, silent it was not. I can still see the turning necks of the proper girls in the class. I read, "Aha, we knew he was a cretin." I shrank, I shriveled, there was no where to escape. They had their payback. I still remember.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Penmanship
Penmanship used to be far more important than it is today. It's lucky for me, that it is no longer seen as a sign of your personality and culture. We use the impersonal type of email and can easily send digital images of ourselves and what we're doing (a picture worth a thousand words?)
My penmanship is pretty awful. Always has been. I tend to grab the pencil or pen in a death grip that prevents flow and grace. Conversely, with my piano learned hand and finger coordination, I'm a speedy typist.
My mother was a 6th grade teacher and so appalled as my horrible penmanship developed. My guess is that this was an almost personal affront to her. So I had to spend many sessions correcting my grip, and making the circles and other smooth movements that were to morph into pleasing penmanship. All to no avail. I did the work, but never learned the lessons. Win some, lose some....for both my mom and me.
At the personal level, I'm glad that my fast typing is an asset and that I am am not held back by my poor penmanship. Still, I miss the enforced slowness, style, and expressiveness of good handwriting. I also associate gracious handwriting with gracious communication and maybe even actions. I've seen business letters by my father-in-law that flow in a beautiful style, but also filled with gracious and generous words. That's something this and future generations miss.
My penmanship is pretty awful. Always has been. I tend to grab the pencil or pen in a death grip that prevents flow and grace. Conversely, with my piano learned hand and finger coordination, I'm a speedy typist.
My mother was a 6th grade teacher and so appalled as my horrible penmanship developed. My guess is that this was an almost personal affront to her. So I had to spend many sessions correcting my grip, and making the circles and other smooth movements that were to morph into pleasing penmanship. All to no avail. I did the work, but never learned the lessons. Win some, lose some....for both my mom and me.
At the personal level, I'm glad that my fast typing is an asset and that I am am not held back by my poor penmanship. Still, I miss the enforced slowness, style, and expressiveness of good handwriting. I also associate gracious handwriting with gracious communication and maybe even actions. I've seen business letters by my father-in-law that flow in a beautiful style, but also filled with gracious and generous words. That's something this and future generations miss.
Facebook Worlds
I've been on facebook for perhaps a year. Just recently I've been stepping back and trying to understand the larger view. By the way, I'm not an expert and don't really understand the architecture of the whole thin.
Each facebook person has his/her own world. It's defined by your own posts, and the posts of your friends. Custom facebook. So your home page is a page made up of your posts and the posts of these friends. Now your friends all see their own world which is similarly constructed, their own custom world. Now if you want to see a friend's page (or world) you can link to it, but different security settings control how much you see. So if my son allows me as a friend to see his page, I will see halves of conversations he is having....the half from the other person (2 degrees away from me) but not his half of the conversation. You also see tracks of the person 2 degrees away if they have tagged a person in a picture and that person is a friend of yours.
Anyway without the technical terms, that's how it looks to me. What's fascinating is the construct of these custom worlds, each one different and defined It's feels like sliding universes that touch at a few points, but mostly exist as separate entities. Now imagine if some of your friends are friends, then you and they will see parts of the same posts. Now there's more connection.
As to myself, I find that I have several different sets of friends: my actual friends, my kids and their friends who choose to friend me, an environmental grouping in Morgantown, a worldwide accordion group, my various families, a group I went to high school with, and a sailing/boating group. I get to follow all of them, but they are basically unaware of each other. Then I think about multiplying this experience by the millions on facebook...the creation of all these person centered universes or networks. Pretty amazing when you step back and look at it.
Benny - let me know if I have this wrong!
Each facebook person has his/her own world. It's defined by your own posts, and the posts of your friends. Custom facebook. So your home page is a page made up of your posts and the posts of these friends. Now your friends all see their own world which is similarly constructed, their own custom world. Now if you want to see a friend's page (or world) you can link to it, but different security settings control how much you see. So if my son allows me as a friend to see his page, I will see halves of conversations he is having....the half from the other person (2 degrees away from me) but not his half of the conversation. You also see tracks of the person 2 degrees away if they have tagged a person in a picture and that person is a friend of yours.
Anyway without the technical terms, that's how it looks to me. What's fascinating is the construct of these custom worlds, each one different and defined It's feels like sliding universes that touch at a few points, but mostly exist as separate entities. Now imagine if some of your friends are friends, then you and they will see parts of the same posts. Now there's more connection.
As to myself, I find that I have several different sets of friends: my actual friends, my kids and their friends who choose to friend me, an environmental grouping in Morgantown, a worldwide accordion group, my various families, a group I went to high school with, and a sailing/boating group. I get to follow all of them, but they are basically unaware of each other. Then I think about multiplying this experience by the millions on facebook...the creation of all these person centered universes or networks. Pretty amazing when you step back and look at it.
Benny - let me know if I have this wrong!
Friday, April 30, 2010
Earthly Powers
An opinion piece in the Economist was catalyzed by Europe shutting down air flight in reaction to the Iceland volcano. It comments on the asbsence of the usual sense of human power. The article argues that sense of limits of power was welcome by many in Europe. (I can say that part of the appeal to me of sailing, is exactly that lack of overwhlming power to shape.)
While the earth recovers from earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, hurricanes, the article discusses the much rarer events such as asteroid strike, very large volcano eruptions that reduce agricultural production and large coronal mass ejections (about every 500 years.) The distinction (and relationship to power) with global warming, however is the chance of cataclysmic climate change. Despite the limitations of our power over nature, we do need to face up to our power to prevent this catastrophy. And like the lesson from the volcano.....we should have planned for it in advance, we need to plan now and urgently to prevent the climate change to come.
(Click on title to go to article.)
While the earth recovers from earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, hurricanes, the article discusses the much rarer events such as asteroid strike, very large volcano eruptions that reduce agricultural production and large coronal mass ejections (about every 500 years.) The distinction (and relationship to power) with global warming, however is the chance of cataclysmic climate change. Despite the limitations of our power over nature, we do need to face up to our power to prevent this catastrophy. And like the lesson from the volcano.....we should have planned for it in advance, we need to plan now and urgently to prevent the climate change to come.
(Click on title to go to article.)
Sunday Drive
I can recall that spring through fall our family indulged in that great American postwar prosperity can culture institution of the Sunday drive. In 1951, my parents bought their first new car, a green 'fastback" chevrolet. (When we first got it, my father and I searched for an unduly long time to find the ash tray for my mother, which was camouflaged in the verticle chrome strips that made up the dash board.)
So on Sundays spring through fall we often climbed in the car and went on a half day drive with picnic. My father's favorite route was up route 19 along the Palisades Parkway that followed the Hudson River north. We'd usually stop at the US Military Academy at West Point with our picnic. The Hudson and its views from the cliffs that make up its banks is an under appreciated beauty. We'd also stop to gawk at the mothballed fleet of Victory ships that were anchored side by side, waiting for another war, along the river:
http://www.panoramio.com/photo/4164580
They were really spooky. Eventually they were mostly cut up for junk. (When my career turned to occupational health, I learned that the workers that built these and other WWII ships sufferred incredible death rates from asbestos related disease caused by exposures constructing the ships.)
A second destination was High Point...where PA, NJ, and NY come together. There's a tall fire tower there we'd climb to look out across the hilly countryside. We'd usually stop on that trip at the Delaware River Water Gap.
When we were more ambitious we'd go west to Pennsylvania Dutch country. I remember the colorful "hex" signs on the barns. Once my dad took me up on a sightseeing plane ride. It was awesome, but also scary. I remember I was sitting next to the door and it was just canvas and shook back and forth as we flew. It didn't make me feel very secure. I kept thinking about falling out.
I wonder what killed off the Sunday Drive. Maybe it was the financial and physical accessibility of longer and bigger vacations further away.
I'd usually fall asleep coming home in the dark. I liked to sleep on the back shelf under the back window. We weren't too concerned about safety at that point.
Speaking of which, we had that car when we moved to Springfield in 1954. Heading down rt 22 coming home from the first big box hardware store (Rickel's?) we had a big car accident. I was sitting in the front between my parents and hit the side of my face into the steering mounted shift lever. I had to be taken to the hospital and stayed 4 days. I was swollen up like a grapefruit. I remember going to a photographer to take a picture of my deformation. We got some money from the accident for this.....and that's why we cold afford to send me to National Music Camp at Interlochen the next year. It also caused me to stay home from camp that summer and work on my Barnegat Sneakbox sailboat restoration. I can still feel the scar tissue under my cheek from that accident. My smile is kind of lopsided because of it. Maybe that's why I don't smile in pictures.
Nobody else was hurt in the accident, but the car was totalled. My father was shocked how little money we got due to depreciation. He vowed never to buy a new car again.
He didn't for a long time. After that we owned a 1948 Nash Rambler, two 1951 Chryslers in succession, a 1954 Plymouth, a 1948 Plymouth, and a 1958 Plymouth. In 1961 they bought a new Mercury Comet. My father usually drove panel trucks he used for his floor scraping business.
So on Sundays spring through fall we often climbed in the car and went on a half day drive with picnic. My father's favorite route was up route 19 along the Palisades Parkway that followed the Hudson River north. We'd usually stop at the US Military Academy at West Point with our picnic. The Hudson and its views from the cliffs that make up its banks is an under appreciated beauty. We'd also stop to gawk at the mothballed fleet of Victory ships that were anchored side by side, waiting for another war, along the river:
http://www.panoramio.com/photo/4164580
They were really spooky. Eventually they were mostly cut up for junk. (When my career turned to occupational health, I learned that the workers that built these and other WWII ships sufferred incredible death rates from asbestos related disease caused by exposures constructing the ships.)
A second destination was High Point...where PA, NJ, and NY come together. There's a tall fire tower there we'd climb to look out across the hilly countryside. We'd usually stop on that trip at the Delaware River Water Gap.
When we were more ambitious we'd go west to Pennsylvania Dutch country. I remember the colorful "hex" signs on the barns. Once my dad took me up on a sightseeing plane ride. It was awesome, but also scary. I remember I was sitting next to the door and it was just canvas and shook back and forth as we flew. It didn't make me feel very secure. I kept thinking about falling out.
I wonder what killed off the Sunday Drive. Maybe it was the financial and physical accessibility of longer and bigger vacations further away.
I'd usually fall asleep coming home in the dark. I liked to sleep on the back shelf under the back window. We weren't too concerned about safety at that point.
Speaking of which, we had that car when we moved to Springfield in 1954. Heading down rt 22 coming home from the first big box hardware store (Rickel's?) we had a big car accident. I was sitting in the front between my parents and hit the side of my face into the steering mounted shift lever. I had to be taken to the hospital and stayed 4 days. I was swollen up like a grapefruit. I remember going to a photographer to take a picture of my deformation. We got some money from the accident for this.....and that's why we cold afford to send me to National Music Camp at Interlochen the next year. It also caused me to stay home from camp that summer and work on my Barnegat Sneakbox sailboat restoration. I can still feel the scar tissue under my cheek from that accident. My smile is kind of lopsided because of it. Maybe that's why I don't smile in pictures.
Nobody else was hurt in the accident, but the car was totalled. My father was shocked how little money we got due to depreciation. He vowed never to buy a new car again.
He didn't for a long time. After that we owned a 1948 Nash Rambler, two 1951 Chryslers in succession, a 1954 Plymouth, a 1948 Plymouth, and a 1958 Plymouth. In 1961 they bought a new Mercury Comet. My father usually drove panel trucks he used for his floor scraping business.
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