Terrible Analogies

With an estimated 56,000-84,000 barrels of oils a day pouring out of the damaged well in the Gulf Coast, and with President Obama poised to address the nation this coming Tuesday, it seems as if we’ve blown past the “worst case” scenario and have careened head-first into the dark gaping maw of disastrous uncertainty.

This is the type of event that changes nations.

BP is doing its best to white-wash the news by imposing virtual marshall law on the Gulf Coast area, forbidding both the curious and the professional from any and all hotspots.  BP has even gone so far as to purchase key search words on Google and Yahoo in an attempt to deflect negative press.

Still, pictures of the spill are getting out, and the damage is extensive.  The loss of wildlife is disheartening.  As of this post, the BP spill is currently standing at 66 million barrels of oil.  That’s six times larger than the Exxon Valdez oil tanker disaster.

Shoot.  I’m not one to really take up arms, march in the street, and rally around a cause, but this disaster is so unprecedented and catastrophic that one would have to be truly dead inside not to recognize the problem and the desperate need for a solution.

If BP can’t control an oil spill, how would they control a cup of spilt coffee?

This would be funny if it weren’t so sad…

While driving home today a man on the freeway with a neatly coiffed grey beard and white-collar Modena shirt and tie cut across two lanes of traffic directly in front of me, sped up to catch up to somebody in the slow lane, and flipped him the bird.  Mr. Angry Professional guy then slammed on the brakes of his beige Lexus and came to a full stop on the freeway.  As I passed this genetic defect I saw him flipping off the people who were now skidding to a stop behind him.

I’m unsure what was up with this guy.  Was he taking out his pent-up office aggression on anybody unfortunate enough to be within his direct vicinity?  Did he have a bad boardroom meeting?  Did somebody steal his reserved parking spot?  Was his pb&j pilfered from the break room refrigerator?  Whatever the case I decided that, because I had the baby in my car, I was going to just steer clear of this enraged individual.

And that’s how my work day ended, nearly getting into a high speed car accident with an infuriated Kenny Rogers.

Moron.

So I managed to get one day off from work last week, and decided to use this precious time to get a much-needed haircut.  Off I trudged to the local hairstylist (whatever happened to the term “barber”?), where I carefully printed my name on the sign-in sheet, grabbed a chair and the latest edition of Redbook (where did all of the Sports Illustrated go?), and settled in for what I was hoping was going to be a short wait.

Little did I know that the joker in front of me was one of those people who don’t know when to shut up.  

His loud, grating voice permeated every nook and cranny of the establishment as he talked about his kids, his dogs, and how brittle his hair was during the months of April and October. His diatribe about the evils of colon cancer and the plague of rats that infested his mother’s attic ceaselessly continued as he had his hair shampooed. Never stopping to take a breather, his non sequitur-riddled dialogue made a sharp right at foot odor, negotiated a roundabout with famous political assassination attempts, took a detour on stuffed mushrooms and mint jelly, before finally diving into the deep end with the evils of modern cinema. 

The man would Not.  Stop.  Talking.

And with every riveting change in topic, he’d ask the hairstylist to, “look at me.  This is something most people aren’t aware of.”  My God, man.  Can’t you see the distinct disinterest the hairstylist has in your inane ramblings?  How difficult is it to interpret her detached “hems” and “haws” as anything other than “will you shut the hell up, already”?  

Finally, the last scissor cut was made, the last brush of the comb was waved, and the obligatory dab of gel was applied. Mr. Talker slowly ambled up to the counter to pay, never breaking his conversational stride as he asked the stylist about this hair product and that that hair product, and should I use this gel or that mouse, and should I lather under hot water before applying, and did we know that kids are having spastic epileptic fits when they play these modern video games because they’re trying so hard to win, and my son is taking karate but he has ADD, and blah, blah, blah…deftly keeping his credit card just out of the reach of the hairstylist in a blatant attempt to extend his one-sided conversation for as long as humanly possible.

All the while I patiently waited, contemplating whether or not to intervene.  Luckily, Mr. Gasbag finally relequished his credit card, boldly stated for all to hear that he was leaving a five dollar tip (ohhh, big spender), and that he would return next month.  As he confidently strode past me (the waft of air that trailed him stank of cheese and wood chips) out the door I could see the poor hairstylist roll her eyes and let go a pent up sigh of relief, obviously none too thrilled at the prospect of seeing this particular customer again any time soon.

I thought people like this existed only in south Florida retirement communities and bad 80′s teen television comedies.  What the hell is wrong with some people?  What disease could you possibly have that could make you such a social misfit?

Well, that title might be stretching the truth just a little bit, but as I write this post we’re smack dab in the middle of three major storms.  The worst of the lot is expected to plow into southern California sometime Thursday morning.  And as the stereotype goes, Californians simply can not drive in the rain.  Some of us can’t figure out that when it’s raining you should slow down, turn on your headlights, and increase the buffer zone between you and the car in front.  Otherwise, this is bound to happen:

This was one of five accident scenes I passed by going home yesterday after work.  Geniuses are at play on the freeway, my friends.  The older I get the less sympathy I have impatient, discourteous drivers darting in and out of traffic when conditions take a turn for the worse.

For all of you loons out there who can’t seem to be able to get a grip and go with the flow during times of inclement weather, here…I made you a sweater vest.  Now, will you calm down already?

Having been flipped the bird in recent days, I’ve been thinking about the various ways in which the iconic “finger” is used.  It occurs to me that there are two major styles to the “one finger salute” that everyone uses, and like it or not your hand unconsciously favors one over the other.

Finger #1: “The Traditional”: Favored by hard-drinking bikers, lumberjacks, and brutes of varying intelligence levels, this style is much like a closed fist with one angry digit doing its mightest to poke conformity in the eye.  It’s used as a blunt tool in an equally blunt world.  With no instruction or previous experience this universal symbol can easily be thrown in the heat of any argument.

Finger #2: “The Cosmopolitan”: This twist on “The Traditional” requires a bit more dexterity and forethought, and lends an air of hipster dissatisfaction with a prudish bent.  Preferred by drunk sorority girls, supermarket cashiers, and published authors this finger tells the world to eff-off with a sophisticated flair missing from “The Traditional”.

Personally, I favor “The Traditional” over “The Cosmopolitan”. The Cosmo seems to send more of a pretentious message that tends to escalate tense situations quicker than the Traditional does. The Cosmopolitan conveys more of a flippant “screw you”, which makes one more of a target for a sucker punch. With the Traditional, words tend to get exchanged and combatants size each other up before the dancing commences.

Oh, BTW, the finger that was thrown to me a few days ago…Traditional!