Category Archives: technology

BP: Bitchslap these ClusterFucking Punks.


CAUTION: These post is rated PG-13 for profanity and naked truth-telling. Consider yourself forewarned.

So. I know that BP stands for British Petroleum, but really – no, really – don’t you think if any random poll were taken lately, your average human being who HASN’T been living under a rock would vote for a name change?

I’ve got some ideas.

Bumbling Pinheads” or “Bastards of Pollution” (although that sounds almost too cool, like a band) or hey: let’s even change it to an acronym:

“Bitchslap these Punks.”

Here’s the thing: this fucking oil spill needs to be called something besides “an oil spill.” In fact, words fail me – and any reader of this blog knows: words rarely fail me.

I often wish my father were still alive, but I especially wish he were here today, because he had a fabulous way of making cussing sound charming and funny (he was a Marine; Semper Fi, Do or Die; the difficult we do immediately – the impossible takes a little longer.)

Daddy would be able to come up with some creative and apt phrases for this clusterfuck in the Gulf.  For cluster-fuck it is, no beating around the bush. Personally, I’m just sick and tired of all the sound bites and who should be apologizing to whom, and who should be paying for what.

The whole thing is simply and clearly a clusterfuck of the highest order, and why we aren’t seeing shiny, plastic-haired newscasters proclaiming things like:

Today’s update on BP’s clusterfuck in the Gulf…

Even snooty NPR should be naming it a “clusterfuck” in their calm, “we’re so fucking unruffled we don’t ever even raise our voices and we know you just turn us on to sound cool to your girlfriend, betcha didn’t even GET that last joke we told about Heidegger, ha ha ha…

I mean, HELL! This disaster should have people CRYING, for sweet Samson’s sake, but instead, as I’m perusing the Web for specific details, I see an actual report on a NY Times blog reporting a rig worker, Tyrone Benton, reported leaks in the Deepwater Horizon, the underwater drilling station that “mysteriously” exploded and caused this clusterfuck in the first damn place.

Benton TOLD his bosses. There are over 50,000 pages of e-mails and documents proving it. Like WAY too many people in charge, they put their hands on their ears and went “La-la-la-la-la-la I can’t HEAR you…” because it would have –

—  wait – cost BP money to fix.

They would have had to – OH… shut down. Fix the leak. THEN start back up again.

I SO want to sit down and play some poker with these assholes. Please, please, somebody set up a table and let me play some Texas Hold’Em with these jackasses. They are BAAAD betters.

I have two questions.

QUESTION THE FIRST:

Have these greedy motherfuckers NEVER seen a movie in their lives? I mean, come ON. Is it NOT the case, in every movie EVER made, that when some poor schmoe on the factory line sends a memo upstairs to the effect:

“Dear Boss Man: There is a leak in this very big, very dangerous explosive <insert nuclear power plant/enormous dam/evil death ray/weapon of ultimate destruction/oil rig capable of destroying all marine and human life within a mind-bogglingly large distance> which you might possibly wish to be made aware of, because so very much life is at stake.”

… That EVERY Boss Man turns out to be That Stupid and Greedy FuckHead Who Says To Himself and to The Equally Greedy FuckHeads on the Equally Evil and Greedy Board of Evil and Greedy Directors (while they all sit around, chuckling evilly and greedily, twirling their evil and greedy handlebar moustaches): “Ah, let it go, boys! I’m sure it’ll be all right! There’s MONEY to be made! We CAN’T stop PRODUCTION!

I mean, JESUS. As if this clusterfuck wasn’t bad enough. It’s also a fucking cliché.

QUESTION THE SECOND:

This is the one that scares me.

If Benton let the fuckheads upstairs know, and they ignored it, WHY did they?

IS IT BECAUSE THIS HAPPENS ALL THE TIME? HOW MANY FUCKING LEAKS ARE THERE IN THESE RIGS, ANYWAY?

That’s what keeps ME awake at night. That’s the argument I’d put in front of the judge that won’t let Obama shut down the damn drilling.

“Your Honor,” I’d say, if I were President, “You know what? These fuckheads KNEW, and were completely cool, calm and chilly-mostest about their pipes having holes in them like Swiss cheese. Now, Your Honor, what does that tell YOU? Do I NEED to paint you a fucking PICTURE?”

If Hizzoner did NOT see things my way, I think I might just have to take matters into my own hands.

And you know what? The very Constitution of Our United States, if y’all will recall, actually PROVIDES US PERMISSION for REVOLUTION.

If we’re not too covered with tar and feathers to take action by then, that is.

Want an idea of just how much crap is oozing out of the water, really?

Myanmar, Cuba, Iraq and Syria are the only markets in the world where Coca-Cola isn’t sold*; there are 1.2 billion 8-ounce servings consumed every single day across the entire globe. No surprise, really, right? Coke, although we don’t know it, in all probability secretly runs the world as a semi-benevolent dictatorship (but that’s another blog post.)

Y’all have no problem imagining that amount of fizzy sweetness in the world’s hands, right? Sucking down that carbonated, sugary zippiness, those multi-lingual belches, that dark brown, icy-cold satisfaction that only comes in a red bottle or can? We can all picture that because we all KNOW Coke is everywhere from the sandiest desert to the iciest tundra.

Now: imagine all that Coke is crude oil. 1.2 billion 8-ounce servings, all together now, Hallelujah, testify.

THAT is a CONSERVATIVE estimate of how much gunk is gushing out of the Gulf of Mexico. So far.

In truth, according to the NY Times, it might be twice as much as that.

I shit you not; it took me a solid thirty minutes to come up with that comparison, and I triple checked my math. In reality, Coke falls short of the crude oil by a scant bit, but it helps to give you a way to get your mind around the vast numbers.

You know what? BP has already proved itself completely useless.

They deserve nothing less than to be bankrupted, stripped of existence as a company, any remaining assets to be redistributed towards reparation. The entire oil business needs to be re-examined, restructured, and rebuilt from the ground up – or dismantled, if need be.

We all need to stop dicking around and get responsible. These are grownups acting like helpless children. Screw politeness, politics and petroleum-based products. I’ll walk, instead.

Sound impossible?

Then you just might have to call in the Marines.

# # #

* Source: Forbes.com

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La La La La Lasik…


Mr. Magoo

I don’t know how many people out there recall the lovable Saturday-morning cartoon gentleman Mr. Magoo, but for those of you not as addicted to YouTube YouTube as I am, his gimmick is that he’s blind as a bat.

(For those of you who’d LIKE to get to know the old codger better, here he is in an old black-and-white beer commercial. You know, back in the good old days when kids’ cartoon characters were deemed perfectly suitable for, you know, beer.)

ANYWAY: While navigating some really ridiculously stupid outdoor steps the other day – put together, I swear, by someone who REALLY either wants a lawsuit, or wants NO visitors, ever – they’re unlit, and all different sizes – it’s like they’re booby-trapped or something – my oldest daughter runs up to me, as I’m slowly navigating down the perilous path.

What are you doing?” I say, a little irritably, as she gently takes my elbow, as if I’m elderly or something, and she’s helping me across the street.

Er, well, I dunno,” she says, non-plussed. “You ARE a little hard of seeing, you know.

Hard of seeing. Hmm.

Never quite thought of it that way.

I’m Ms. Magoo.

Elizabeth Williams Bushey with multiple=That’s when I thought to myself – not for the first time – or the hundredth – or the hundredth thousandth – wouldn’t it be nice to actually SEE out these eyes of mine?

Not just CONTACTS, which are a drag, really, sticking your finger in your eye, and not being able to fall asleep on the couch watching television, or reading a book in bed. Do that, and wake up with holes in your cornea, or at the very least, your eyes stuck shut.

But rather, really open up your eyes and SEE, when the dawn breaks, you throw off the blankets and stretch into the day.

I’ve never experienced that feeling.

You know: waking up and being able to actually SEE past my hand. Or even actually SEEING my hand. Clearly, I mean. I wonder what that would be like?

Maybe I need that LASIK surgery.

screen shot from Six Million Dollar Man: bionic eyeYou know: the one where they actually slice up your eyeballs? Make them better, stronger, etc? (Insert intro from 1970s hit TV series, The Six Million Dollar Man)

I used to be afraid of it – and I used to be right – because the whole trick of it was to find a doc with experience, otherwise you could end up worse off than you started.

But all the way in California (of course, now that I’m here in California, wouldn’t you know?) I just heard about some docs in New York who are pretty darn skippy good at it. At the Stahl Eye Center, with locations in Manhattan and Long Island, N.Y., they have doctors are graduates from top universities such as UCLA, John Hopkins and Yale. Their 35-year record is pretty good, too: they meet or exceed the norm for the surgery – and it’s independently verified, which is cool.

And, being in quite enough pain, thank you, having been literally run over by a truck on November 28, it’s nice to know the procedure is (a) virtually painless, and (b) the recovery is in a couple of hours, with most patients seeing clearly in a day or so.

Makes a girl want to fly back east, is what it does.

SEE what I mean?

(Little joke there. Very little.)

Because it’s not about vanity.

It’s about booby-trapped stairs, and independence, and not having to worry about losing glasses, and most of all? Not having to worry about worrying daughters.

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Follow me on Twitter: Look: No, Really: Look.


twitter_32Follow me on Twitter: I’m @inklesstales.

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Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose. Duh.



Digg!

The evolution of... us.   

 

 

 

The evolution of... us.

Naturally, when I can hear Panic! At the Disco as clearly out of my daughter’s headphones as I can as if it were coming out of the CD player speakers, I turn around and nudge her –

All right, rewind (hey, rewind – that suits our topic – back to that later) since this IS a blog about reality, I’ll tell you “the reality.

First, I will hopelessly raise my voice, even though the “any reasonable person” test would fail. Duh. Why would I even think she could hear me?

Then, despite oncoming traffic, and my meager driving skills, (having spent WAY too much time in NYC, where a car is actually a burden, unless you’re my grandmother, and you have a summer place AND a suburban house – oh, wait, she had drivers, too, scratch that – back to the fact that I SUCK at driving)  I will turn around and raise my voice again, in the incredibly stupid hope that the louder I am, the better she will be able to read my lips.

This is fruitless, because she is not only rocking out, but also poring over the densely-packed Panic! At the Disco lyrics I printed out for her from the Internet before we left, so she’s bobbing her downturned head.

Is her little sister helping me out, with a nudge, or a shove? No. She is observing, amused, because SHE is intelligent enough to see the futility of my behavior, but not the danger — until I turn back to face the windshield and turn the wheel back so that we’re back on OUR side of the highway, thank you very much.

“Mom!” they join in chorus as the van whips them both suddenly sideways.

“Ah,” I say smugly. NOW I have their attention. And: enough with the volume. Turn it down or go deaf.

Personally? I feel completely hypocritical.

I myself blasted music in my own ears as a kid.

No headphones in MY house, though. Headphones were inherently rude. Want to sequester yourself from the family? You’ve got a room for that, dear.

So I’d go. I’d face the speakers toward each other, with room just enough for my head, lie down between them, play my music as loudly as possible without disturbing everyone else in the house, and achieve maximum eardrum damage at the same time.

When CDs first came out, I remember hearing someone tell someone else in our house: “I’M not going to replace my record collection. These compact discs are just going to be fad, like 8-Tracks or Betamaxes.” (Always a lurking observer; like “Harriet the Spy,” I was always listening, and if I was not heard, I was seldom seen, even in plain sight.)

A comment all but forgotten until I stumbled upon a very old cassette (it was Junk Week in our neighborhood) of Jesus Christ Superstar. Thinking my daughter, who is obsessed with Andrew Lloyd Webber (why, heaven only knows; I really have to turn her on to Puccini, from whom the man steals everything), would be interested, I scrounged up a cassette player somewhere and pressed PLAY.

What a tremendous drag, having to rewind and fast-forward to the spot you want to hear!

My youngest was baffled at the clunkiness of the technology, repeatedly asking me: “What… what are you DOING, Mom? Can’t you just FIND it?”

As if she didn’t remember me having to rewind all her “Big Comfy Couch” VCR tapes.

Change is frightening when it comes barging rudely into our lives. We, in this age of technology, are constantly being thrown new ideas, and having to catch them or feel bypassed.

Even TV commercials mock us: “26 million people just Twittered this. Another 26 million don’t know what that means.”

My daughter begged me for an EnV phone, with a keyboard for texting. At the time, I thought it was a ridiculous splurge. Now she texts me so often I want one myself, just to keep up. People text me more than they talk to me.

“Google” is now a verb. MS Word has destroyed my spelling skills, because my brain works like this: if I don’t HAVE to store it, it gets dumped, to make room. Now I know I can Google something, or have Word spell it for me, or my little calculator do math for me.

When my Internet goes out, I’m lost.

But when I first got online, I couldn’t imagine what I’d ever do with it.

Now I can’t live without it. Well, okay, I could. But I sure would miss it.

Still, as different as all this seems: what’s really different?

I use Google the same way I used to call the reference desk at my local library.

I use MS Word the same way I used to use my College dictionary.

I use Twitter the same way I use the world: I’m gregarious to the point of ridiculous; I can hardly leave the house without making a friend, and my house is usually full of people to the point where I wonder sometimes if I’m a magnet and they’re all iron filings.

In a good way.

The French have a saying. (Actually, practically the entire language is sayings; it’s mostly the reason they’d just rather speak your damn English.)

Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Hmmm….

But things DO change. And if you’re looking for a very good, commonsense approach to dealing with change, here’s an excellent article on The Huffington Post from a correspondent/acquaintance of mine: Tom V. Morris – from Twitter, of course.

But remember: they stay the same, too. So relax. 

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Brainbone: Am I the monkey at the monolith?


picture-31I have a definite love-hate relationship with Facebook’s Brainbone. You know, the kind of love-hate relationship you have with someone who doesn’t even know you exist, like a random celebrity, a robot, or one of the bitchy popular girls from middle school.

You really WANT them to like you, for them to think you’re cool and smart, but on the other hand, you sort of want to swagger by and act like you don’t care, too.

Still, you can’t manage it. You attempt a swagger, but you end up stumbling over your bookbag as it falls off your shoulder when you try to fling your hair back, casually but ungracefully, incurring the laughter of the entire seventh grade class.

So that’s where love-hate gets you. Absolutely nowhere but your knee socks tangled in your bookbag straps, and your hair in your beet-red face.

Why doesn’t someone tell you out of the gate that you only get cool when you stop caring about being cool?

Oh. Wait. They do. Only it’s your stupid, retarded, dorky parents, so what the heck do THEY know? Especially when they put it this way:

If everyone else jumped off the Empire State Building, would you do it, too?

Which of course, in middle school, you absolutely would. No questions asked. If it were that, or being hideously embarrassed? Off the ledge you would sail, like a ground-bound dart.

That’s how Brainbone makes me feel.

It doesn’t help that growing up, my sisters and I each had labels plastered on us. Actual labels, practically, with “Hi, my name is” strips on them, only mine was: “The Smart One Who Plays Guitar Really Well.”

I have two sisters. Theirs read: “The Pretty One Who Sings Really Well” and “The Quiet Skinny One.”

This kept life fairly uncomplicated for my parents. Nice for them, but confusing for us, since all of us were fairly skinny, all of us were actually pretty, and the quiet one only SEEMED quiet because she was, for the most part, virtually ignored.

As far as musical talent “assignments” went, turns out the One Who Played Guitar could Also Sing Pretty Damn Well, Too, and the One Who Sang Rocked on Keyboards – and the Quiet One, to whom no one paid any Damn Attention To At All signed her own damn self up for piano lessons when she grew up and ALSO Rocked The House on the Good Old Piano, inspiring the mother with the label-maker to trade in said label maker for her OWN piano, with lessons to go with.

Ah, how much more comfortable life is without all that sticky label adhesive.

Yet another reason I get a frisson of horror whenever Facebook’s Brainbone application asks me if I want to show my Brainbone stats on Twitter, or my web site, or anywhere public at all.

Show my Brainbone stats? Are you kidding? Why not also show my weight? And record me Confessing my sins to my local parish priest, while I’m at it, as a global podcast?

(Presuming I ever actually WENT to Confession… “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been… er…. it’s been… well, Padre, I think it’s been since second grade – you know – when they MAKE you go, in order to get your First Holy Communion? I think THAT was the last time I made my Confession. Wait – wait – <<insert sound of me sailing like a cannon out of the booth>>)

Yeah, I’m about as likely to show my Brainbone stats as I am to show off my untidy living room to unexpected company. (Wait: I do that.) Okay – as I am to show off my untidy living room to my mother, unexpectedly.

Because here’s the thing: I never realized how deeply I internalized that whole “I’m the smart one” thing. Every time I get a Brainbone question wrong, I feel deeply rattled, as if I should know this, somehow. Why I think I should know which country the city of Timbuktu is in, I don’t know, but somehow, I do.

Why I feel smug when I guess right is another mystery. I know I only guessed randomly, but when Brainbone rewards me with an exuberant “That’s correct!” I still feel like: “Boo-yeah!” As if I really earned it, instead of throwing dice.

Because I’m stupid enough to still feel like “the Smart One.”

Even though according to my percentages (SEE, Brainbone? I’m GOOD at math!) I’m technically FAILING Brainbone.

And because of this, I relentlessly answer the “Day’s Question,” for the sole purpose of upping my percentage to AT LEAST a passing grade.

THEN – and ONLY THEN – would I dare display my stats.

Because then EVERYONE could see, that of course…

I’m the smart one.

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Tweets to the Tweet: Tank You, Twitterers, for the Twittergasm.


Follow me on Twitter.

Tweety Bird Tweeting Twitter

Tweety Bird Tweeting Twitter

For those yet new to Twitter, let me start by introducing a word that I desperately hope makes it into the Oxford English Dictionary as soon as possible: “twittergasm.” Coined by a woman I’ve paged through but can no longer find, thanks to the proliferation of “tweets” on my Twitter page, I find the term charming and titillating – and perfect to describe the feeling you get when something you read on Twitter really works for you.

 

If you haven’t heard of Twitter, then stop reading this right now and turn instead to the page of this blog titled: “Elizabeth Williams Bushey is making fun of you.”

Maybe you’ve heard of Twitter, though, and you just pretend at parties and other gatherings that you know what it’s all about – you know, the same way that you pretend that you know what “CPU” and “RAM” means when people who DO know what it means talk to you about it. You get that faux-confident head bobble, like “yeah, man, I know…”

Maybe you even have a MySpace, but your only friend is Tom. (If you don’t get that, see above: “Elizabeth Bushey is making fun of you.”)

Then again, maybe in reaction to your ignorance, you’ve taken a pretend stand against all this “dang” technology, and protested that all this “social media” really “keeps us apart.”

Maybe you lumber up on top of a soapbox and proselytize for the days of old, when people had to proselytize from real soapboxes, on real streets, hassling flesh-and-blood passers-by, getting arrested by flesh-and-blood police officers.

You poor thing. If you haven’t gotten the hang of Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, LinkedIn, Skype, etc., you’re missing out on some cool opportunities to expand your network of some very cool people you’d otherwise never in a million years meet.

For instance, I just did a “virtual” school visit with a sixth-grade class in Alabama. I’m in New York, but I was able to answer all their questions, see their sweet faces, and play my guitar and sing for them – all from my studio at home. We used Skype, and it cost us nothing. And it was easy – for the teacher, and for me. (I pretty much just sat there, worked in between classes, and waited for the “calls.”)

Via Facebook, I’ve connected with some old college buddies that I haven’t talked to in years.

Via Gmail’s new video conferencing, I can see and speak with people – just like Judy Jetson – instead of devouring minutes on my cell phone.

Coolest of all: I’ve been struggling my ass off to build two sites using an open source technology called Joomla. Everyone in the known universe, every page I’ve Googled, says how easy it is. Somehow, though, despite changing web hosts, even, I haven’t been able to get it to work. Which is weird – since although I can’t do everything really well, the one thing I DO do pretty well is build web sites, and work with software. No matter how many times I installed and reinstalled it, at least one major thing went wrong.

As in, REALLY wrong. Like: the registration page would fail. Something particularly catastrophic like that.

So I called an old friend of mine up – she’s the web diva at a college, and I used to be, which is how we met – only now I’m an artist, and she’s now a SUPER diva. She listened compassionately to my problem, and went straight to Twitter. She has something like seventeen bazillion fans following her on Twitter.

Within the hour, I had at least four or five experts offering me help. People who didn’t even know her personally – let alone ME. I hooked up with this TERRIFICALLY fun guy – who has a charming gift for cussing, which totally works for me. Never would have met him without Twitter.

Talk about Twittergasm.

Talk about social media.

If you haven’t gotten on board yet – you’re gonna miss the train. Wave, though, from the platform. We’ll miss you!

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