Did we not see this coming?
The Chicago Sun-Times called out BP three years ago for dumping toxins into Lake Michigan.
A Wikipedia page lists a long litany of offenses, mentioning that Mother Jones twice named BP one of the world’s 10 worst corporations.
Another report says BP’s safety record is worse than you imagined.
I fully realize it does nothing now to care and express anger after the fact. Do we need to refocus our conservation priorities? What good do slot limits and cutting up the little rings on plastic six-pack holders do if one careless, or possibly malevolent, corporation can so effortlessly undo any collective environmental gains?
And who else has the potential to take a dump in our backyard?
Later I’m getting my hair braided.
I play in front of people once a year. Everybody’s drunk, the expectations are low, and the co-players are as bad or worse than me.
It’s always been a dream to play a set at a dive bar, but I settle for the annual spring pike trip. The six string makes the packing list along with the tuning device for the tone deaf, and the memories of being asked to stop playing Bad Moon Rising on repeat.
Waiting for the tide to flow...
It’s been slim, I won’t deny it. But I’m counting the days because in a week’s time I’ll be kicking off a jag taking me far afield in salt and fresh alike and I’m picking out flies for what’s to come and trying to speed up time but then stop it. The anticipation is fun, too.
As far as I can gather the expression came first from the mouths of baseball analysts. It basically means there is no such thing as “if only,” there is only the way it is. It works, too, when the fly is presented and the fish is willing and able and the expectation is not met.
…the knot held
…the hook didn’t straighten
…the fly didn’t foul
…the loop didn’t tail
…the wind didn’t gust
…the fish didn’t miss
There’s football wisdom at play here, too. Like Bill Parcells said, You are what your record says you are.
The man is not on your side.
"Trey" with a tiny peacock.
Here’s a pic from the archives. The dude in camera is one of my best buds, so I blotted out his face, altered his beard to make him look Amish, and will refer to him henceforth by the code name Trey Anastasio. We ran the ditches this one time in FLA, and he caught this small yet robust butterfly peacock in super terrific spot #13, south section. Besides documenting a catch not worth bragging about, here’s what’s wrong with this hero shot:
1. It is a hero shot. Been played more than Stairway during Get The Led Out at Zep Ten O’Clock during Rocktober.
2. His attempt to mock the hero shot concept by dangling small fish as an earring is a gross miscalculation. Like wearing an ironic t-shirt in Brooklyn.
3. Too much Boston Red Sox paraphernalia by a count of two.
4. Small fish held off to the side rather than directly out to the camera with arms extended to make it look huge.
5. Fish taken too far from the water and holding it up by the fly or lip places undo strain on the fish’s mouth and organs, which are now being affected by the pull of gravity. Kills the bigguns.
6. I’m still waiting for Amy’s Farm on CD “Trey”, and the fact that you haven’t burned it for me yet leads to this harassment.
I did not catch a carp today. No matter. I saw several, an unexpected bonus of a muni park visit.
The mercury spiked to 60 degrees today, and most of the remaining snow melted away. I took the baby daughter to the park to look at ducks and swans and whatnot.
Last fall I met up with Creek Addict and we hit a park pond with many similar characteristics. Real shallow with the potential for sight fishing. I never noticed signs of life in this here pond before, but I was never really looking, either.
The sun came out, I dropped down the polarized. I noticed movement. We walked up to a higher vantage point and I could see them. Three or four carp moving sluggishly around the middle of the pond. This bodes well for spring. And for me catching one of those fat bastards on fly within the calendar year. Goddammit it’s starting to get ridiculous. I’ll be back.