Why Is BP Being Called Out?

There’s good reason to be suspicious. In the case of the Exxon Valdez, Exxon paid pennies on the dollar.

If you’ve been following the Gulf of Mexico oil spill story you have heard BP called out by President Obama and other members of the administration. It seems harsher and more focused than what I’ve heard a president say about a corporation before.

Press Secretary Robert Gibbs, as I type this, just said it was the government’s commitment BP would pay all the costs and damages associated with this tragedy. Again, there was no vacillating. BP was called out.

There’s good reason to be suspicious and wary. When the Exxon Valdez broke up in Prince William Sound Exxon paid pennies on the dollar and took years to do even that.

Such tactics saved Exxon billions of dollars in the civil settlement for damages to public lands and wildlife (in which damages were estimated at up to $8 billion; but for which Exxon paid just $900 million) and in the class action lawsuit filed by those whose livelihoods were curtailed by the spill (for which the original jury awarded $5 billion in punitive damages; but which Exxon fought for 20 years until the Supreme Court lessened its burden to just $507 million). – Riki Ott, PhD

In the meantime the oil continues to gush and move toward shore.

Dick Martin – The Sillier of Rowan and Martin

The male attempts to find the queen bee, and when he does, they mate in mid-air. Then the queen moves on, taking with her the male bee’s genitalia.

rowanandmartin.jpgDick Martin died this weekend. He was the sillier of Rowan and Martin, the nightclub comedians who become huge stars through “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.”

I saw them perform in 1975. It was my first grownup nightclub experience.

I was out-of-work and depressed about life. My ‘gold friend’ Bob flew to Phoenix, then we drove through California from San Diego to San Francisco before turning east to Las Vegas.

We hit the Vegas Strip and pulled into Caesar’s Palace. It was ‘the’ place in Las Vegas back then, without question.

We had no reservations and not much money. They wanted a credit card for ID. Bob had none. I had an Esso (now Exxon) card. The room was put in my name.

We spent the next few days playing two dollar blackjack and eating shrimp cocktails. We wanted to take in a show and ended up seeing Rowan and Martin, with opening act Teresa Brewer.

I don’t remember much of Rowan and Martin’s act, except that it began with Dan explaining the mating habits of bees. The male attempts to find the queen bee, and when he does, they mate in mid-air. Then the queen moves on, taking with her the male bee’s genitalia.

Dick Martin paused and pondered for a second, smiled and said, “Only way to fly.”

You bet your bippy.

Blogger’s note: Of course this routine is on the Internet! What isn’t?

Note 2: My friend Bob says, “I remember it very well. Saw Alan King grab a few chicken wings, and I remember how large the hotel room was. It should have been, it cost us $22.00.”

Greetings From California

I’m writing from 30 some odd thousand feet. I have no idea where we are, sitting in the aisle seat with the window shades to my left pulled down.

Stef saw what I wrote and pulled up the shade. We’re over mountains – probably the Rockies… possibly the Bullwinkles&#185.

Our exit from Connecticut was uneventful. Well, nearly uneventful. Over the past few days a low, throaty whir has been coming from somewhere in the rear of the Explorer. I drove it to Steve at the Exxon station. What an ear! Twenty seconds of driving to hear, “Wheel bearing. Left rear wheel. It could last another 50,000 miles.” But, would it last to Bradley Airport and back? “Yes.”

We headed to the airport… heading to the long term lot where we’ve parked for better than 15 years. AAA gives discount coupons, and it’s a really good deal.

When we got there a man with a walkie talkie was standing out front and the entrance was blocked. Full! We’d never seen that before. We went to their self park lot in the back. This would mean a cold car, covered in snow if it snows, on pickup. Life goes on.

I think we’re really close to the quarter ton goal with baggage. We checked 6, rolled 2 as carry ons and had a few random shoulder bags. The driver of the van to the terminal felt it necessary to ask how long we were staying.

I tipped him anyway.

Though the parking lot was full, the Southwest portion on the terminal was empty. Three people were behind the counter and we were the only ones needing help. I had printed pour boarding passes just after midnight, getting us “A” passes which got us on the plane in the first wave. Helaine handed them to the agent and got our baggage tags. Then it was time for me to drag, roll and push them to the TSA agents.

Even with a large load like this it no longer makes sense to use a skycap. There are too many steps, and the bags are yours to push far too soon for his help to be worthwhile.

We moved on to security screening. As we got there a sweet, white haired woman was having her sneakers removed by a rubber gloved officer. I’m not law enforcement savvy, but she didn’t seem like much of a threat to me.

My camera bag got the twice over and, of course, Helaine got the thrice over. I’m not sure what she’s done to upset the powers that be, but she is nearly always singled out for additional scrutiny.

While Helaine’s inspection continued, I noticed a Connecticut State Trooper on a Segway. I think it’s a good idea… but then I saw another trooper on a bike. Even in the terminal, I suspect the bike is faster… and the trooper gets more fit.

The flight from Hartford to Las Vegas was 5:50. That is too long to be in an airplane without entertainment. It was, by far, the noisiest flight I’ve ever been on. Not the plane – the passengers. I guess that’s part and parcel of going to Vegas. You get in that party mood as early as possible.

Our layover in Las Vegas was around an hour. Helaine and Steffie went to Burger King and brought a Whopper back for me. There is free Internet access at McCarren Airport, but my battery was down to a few minutes, so I checked my mail, sent some cryptic responses and ate my burger.

Las Vegas to Burbank is a much easier trip – about an hour gate to gate.

Bob Hope Airport in Burbank is like a throwback to an older time. That’s not to say it’s quaint and pretty, because it isn’t. It’s an airport that’s bursting at the seams. It’s also the first time in years that I deplaned using air stairs! Southwest unloaded the passengers through both the front and rear stairs of the 737.

We chose Burbank because we had heard it was much smaller and easier to get around in than LAX. That was absolutely true. The baggage claim is in a covered, though open air area. Thank heavens the heavy winter rains are over! Aren’t they?

Because we’re bringing enough baggage to stay permanently, should we choose, we rented an SUV. We got a white Chevy Trail Blazer from Alamo. Nice deal. Nice car. It feels bigger and heavier than our Explorer.

The drive to our hotel was uneventful… and now as Helaine and Stef unpack, I’m typing this. I guess I’d better stop and help. More tomorrow from Southern California.

Meanwhile, a little look off our west facing balcony. I believe that’s Santa Monica in the distance.

&#185 – Sorry. Unavoidable.

I’m Upset With First USA Southwest Rapid Rewards Visa

I am upset, again, at the way my credit card account is handled. This afternoon the card was denied for a purchase. Of course the credit card is totally current and has never been late&#185.

The battery on my car died last week (a story in itself). After six years it’s probably given me all I could ask for, so I had Steve at the Exxon station get me a new one. He installed it today and I gave him my First USA Southwest Airlines Rapid Rewards VISA to pay. Perfect. No problem. Right through.

We stood around and schmoozed for a while and then, before leaving, I realized I might as well fill the car with gas. So I drove it to the pump, ran the card and… nothing. In fact we tried it three times and then tried running it through the reader in the gas station’s office. DENIED.

You tell me, what impression would you have of someone who handed you a credit card that had been stopped?

This time (this is not the first, second or third time this has happened) I had the presence of mind to pick up my cellphone and call First USA. After entering the account number, part of my mother’s maiden name and a bit of my Social Security number, a computer started reading off our recent purchases – asking me if I recognized them.

I did recognize most, but this is an account used by both Helaine and me. I had some idea what she had bought recently, but didn’t specifically recognize one purchase that was probably OK.

The problem in dealing with a machine like this is there are no gray areas. I couldn’t ask for more information on purchase 4. It was either yea or nay. I said yea.

It turns out going through this purchasing quiz was enough to restart the card, but First USA didn’t tell me that! I had to speak to an operator to make that discovery. She also told me this hold was caused by my unusual pattern of purchases.

I see their point. What could be more suspicious than buying a battery and gasoline at a gas station that I have gone to at least once or twice a week for more than a decade? How could I have been so foolish?

Astute readers might remember me kvetching about this card in the past. Then why, you might ask, am I still with it… it’s not like there’s a shortage of VISA issuers. The answer is Southwest Airlines and their mileage program. This might be the best free flight program around, and I’ve became a major Southwest fan.

However, if Southwest decided to move their business to a different card issuer tomorrow, I would shed no tears.

&#185 – With Helaine running the finances we haven’t gotten a late notice for anything… anything… in well over 20 years. When I was single and ran my own financial life… well, it just wasn’t pretty.

My 1992 Camry – Goodbye Old Friend

It was a sad day today as my beautiful 1992 Toyota Camry was ratcheted onto a flatbed and driven away. In all, it was a rather ignominious ending for a wonderful car – maybe the best I’ve ever owned.

The Camry had 135,000 miles on it. The engine was sweet and still more powerful than you’d expect from four little cylinders. A cheap, fresh, black paint job, less than a year old, clung to it like some sort of auto toupee.

It pulled to one side, but that seemed to be tire related as opposed to car related. When the problem first showed up, I had Steve at the Exxon station rotate the tires and the problem just moved from one side of the road to the other.

I know it could go over 105 mph, because one Saturday on the very quiet portion of I-84, just south of the Massachusetts line, I had opened it up. I was feeling good having just captured two Emmys and was rushing back to Connecticut to help out at the Hamden High School ‘after prom’ and then a Good Morning America/Sunday live shot.

Inside, some radio buttons (specifically the one set aside for WCBS-880) were starting to show my digital favoritism. The tiny pop-out knobs for the bass and treble had long since popped out. The floor mats curled along the edges as I inadvertently pushed them slightly to the side every day.

Once, the Camry seemingly healed itself. During its first year, while riding down I-91, I hit something on the road. Bang. It was loud, and I could feel it in my feet.

Whatever it was hit squarely on the bottom of the car. After an unrelated incident with my muffler, the service manager at Faulkner Toyota, outside Philadelphia, told me whatever had hit the car did significant damage to the oil pan and some other parts. I needed to replace them to the tune of $1,000+ or face the consequences further down the road.

I never fixed the oil pan and it never complained, though that happened at least 115,000 miles ago. Thanks Faulkner.

With my “toy car” in the garage during any kind of wet weather, the Toyota still managed 8-9,000 miles a year. It sipped regular and still exceeded 22 mph – even with my lead foot. It never burned oil.

It was the first car I ever owned with a vanity license plate. It started as FORCST. I was asked on more than one occasion, “What’s does ‘for cyst’ mean?” When Connecticut changed the protocol for marker plates, it became FOR&#149CST.

Over the years, the windshield became pitted from my 85 mph dashes going to and from work on I-91. That made it tough to see clearly when the Sun was low in the afternoon sky. The adhesive from the Velcro strip I used to hold the radar detector in place oozed a little on the dashboard.

A few years ago, when the freon had leaked from the air conditioner, Steve switched me over to some atmosphere friendly coolant. From that time forward you could hang meat in the car.

When Helaine suggested we get another four wheel drive vehicle, now that Steffie was driving to and from school, the handwriting was on the wall for the Camry. I wanted to keep it, but it just didn’t make sense for the three of us to have four cars, each with an insurance and tax bill, and each needing a place to park.

At the dealership, buying the RAV4 which would replace the Camry, Howie, the salesman apologized and then offered me $500 for it. As I would later learn from friends, that’s all he could expect to get for it at auction. On the other hand, if I went to sell it privately, the car was worth well over $2,000. But, who wants to sell a car from home?

My friend Harold had spearheaded a program at Connecticut Public Television where they would take your car, and since it was a donation, I could claim the fair market value (which I established online from the “Bluebook”).

So, this evening the flatbed arrived and the Camry went away.

If you’re in the market for a used car and this little cream puff shows up, believe me when I say, she’s a gem. Without a doubt, the best car I ever had and the first car I was ever sorry to see go.