Round Objects

Image courtesy of FRONTLINE, a PBS program

Today I am thinking about round objects: wheels, balls, spheres and how they are propelled! They come in all sizes and compositions. I am even including “air-heads” and inflated egos in this collection.

So here goes.

I am over the guilt that I felt when I really didn’t give a flip where LeBron James was going. To be more precise, I didn’t even know who LeBron James was and why he was going anywhere that would cause such speculation. Given all that was going on in the world, I was shocked that this was about an air-filled sphere and a bit of beach in South Florida.

My concerns for the beaches of Florida do not involve Mr. James or the Miami Heat. (Nor the Miami heat.) My concerns involve the ominous slick of oil hovering both above and below the surface of the beautiful Gulf of Mexico. BP has plugged the flow it seems, but the disaster continues. Tar balls behave differently from basketballs and despite what Cleveland thinks, with far greater consequences.

Cleveland is having a bad run. Not just in the sports arena, but also in the lofty Severance Hall – home of the Cleveland Orchestra. Their resident conductor, Franz Welser- Most, an arguably mixed bag of talent, was quoted at telling Swiss media that Cleveland was an “inflated farmer’s village.” This was reported locally by the Cleveland Plain Dealer music critic, Donald Rosenberg. Mr. Rosenberg has not been Mr. Welser-Most’s most ardent fan.

As a result of the leaked Swiss interview and other criticisms by Mr. Rosenberg, the editor of the Plain Dealer has reassigned the 16-year critic to covering other arts events but not the orchestra. He is even been warned to never use the word Cleveland and orchestra together.

Mr. Rosenberg is suing just about everybody – most especially the “big wheels” of the orchestra association and the newspaper. There is a lot of air being traded about as the trial is in progress. Welser-Most even tried to put a spin on the “inflated farmer’s village” remark as an intended compliment. Was he coached by Blago?

And the world keeps turning.

I have no guilt at all over the fact that I wish Mel Gibson would shut-up, head back to Australia, and tend livestock somewhere very remote in the outback. Talk about something filled with a lot of air! I do hate to impose that on the outback, however. So there is some guilt there.

Other transistions are taking place.

Rush Limbaugh is reportedly giving up New York City. This is entirely appropriate since most of NYC gave up on Rush years ago and it is bad manners to go where you are not wanted. I wish Rush would be more expansive in his moves to bow out. Maybe join Mel in the outback and banter about their prejudices. Enough hot air between them to kick up a dust storm in Alice Springs.

George Steinbrenner gave up New York City this past Tuesday. I felt I got to know Mr. Steinbrenner over the years. But in reality, I only knew the blustery voice of Larry David and the back of Lee Bear as “he” attempted to give a degree of direction to the hapless George Constanza on “Friends.” Misdirection is arguably still a direction. Another bit of air moving about between the George’s.

A cephalopod named Paul became a sensation at picking winners in the World Cup. Yet another headliner about an air-filled sphere.

Susan Boyle is “trending” on my Yahoo mail page. No wait, it is Larry Hagman. Susan’s “air” seemed so much more palpable than J.R.’s. However, J.R. ran in bigger circles.

Everyone is breathing a sigh of relief now that Bristol and Levi are going to make things right for the hapless Palin household. A hockey puck is a flat-sided sphere and certainly “Mama Grizzly is full of it. Do you really need to have me say it?

As I read this, I fear that I sound like I am tweeting. (You know, making a log on twitter.) But I neither tweet nor twitter; at least not in public.

I wish that the world’s problems could be solved by a sphere of air or a spnning wheel.

One extreme would have a scenario where the round object is a hot-air balloon and everyone is floated effortlessly about the potholes of life. But you are viewing reality at a safe distance. Nothing is totally within your grasp of scale. This leads to decisions made “out of context” with facts.

The other, of course, is the small sphere which is kicked by kids all over the world – even in the most depressed outposts – as a temporary escape from their realities. Many, in the poorest countries, are never out of touch with the scale of their existence. The soccer ball rolls “out of bounds” into a world of harshness.

Decisions in this scenario are “life and death.” The ball is merely a momentary diversion.

So how do we balance our worries about LeBron or Mel or Rush with the problems of wars, poverty, illiteracy, and the other serious situations besetting this globe we inhabit?

Trevor Field came up with an innovative idea called the Play Pump. It was variation on the “merry-go-round” found on public playgrounds all over the world. However, in this case, as the wheel turned, it pumped water into a holding tank affording a supply of water for the village. The wheel was working for great good.

However, in the rush to expand, technology failed and the idea fizzled as village after village in Africa was left with an inoperative PlayPump and no drinking water. A surprising turn in a great idea. Did the “wheel” at the “wheel” get too caught up in becoming a “bigger wheel?”

"How easily things get broken," sings the celebrant in Mass by Leonard Berstein.

Things seem to spin unexpectedly out of control.

A curious folk-artist, Buffy Sainte-Marie, sings a haunting song, “Little Wheel Spin and Spin, Big Wheel Turn around and around.” In one of the verses, the lyrics say:

Turn your back on weeds you’ve hoed,
Silly sinful seeds you’ve sowed.
Add your straw to the camel’s load.
Pray like hell when the world explodes!

When I searched online for why balls in sports are shaped as they are, I received the following: the most reasonable object to use due to the fact that they do not take any unexpected bounces.

But for many, the very definition of life is “an unexpected bounce.”

When "I'm Sorry" Isn't Enough!

Where the Gulf of Mexico meets the sand at Panama City Beach .

When I was in college – about a century ago – I had a prized Pontiac sedan. It was a “hand me down” from my parents, so it wasn’t very sporty, but it did have good clean lines. (It was before the design trends had embraced the look that made an automobile appear to be going 100 mph even when chained to a tree.)

One Thursday morning, on my way back to college from an overnight with my parents, a large dump truck made a left turn into the passenger side of my vehicle as I was attempting to pass. They had not signaled any intent to turn. The result was considerable damage and I was without the car for several weeks.

I was excited to pick the vehicle up when it was restored to its original pristine look, even newer in appearance than before the accident. I had the car for about three weeks when the residence across the street from where I lived at college had a dinner party and three different guests, heavy into Jack Daniels, backed into the side of my parked car. (Dealing with three separate insurance companies is not easy. "No, I do not know who did what to my car!")

Again I was without the vehicle during the repair.

Once more I was happy to have the car back. As I left the parking lot at school, I inadvertently ran over a low concrete post and caused damage to the area below the back doorway on the driver’s side. (I was the responsible party this time!)

Again to the repair shop. By now, I had not had my car for three of the past four months. It seemed an eternity.

Finally, it was all mended. A few weeks went by. Then the inexcusable occurred. You already know what is about to happen, you merely lack the gory details.

First let me set the stage.

My parents home sat on a large plot of land. The driveway was the width of a 2-lane highway. There were no obstructions alongside the edge of the drive save for the single lamppost beside the front walk. There were no visual impairments.

My sister, the one that always made me wonder if I was adopted, was enjoying being a newly licensed driver. She also liked my car, since she had inherited my old one - a much older Pontiac.

One evening, after dinner with the family and some friends, I decided that I would spend the night at home instead of driving back to school. My sister, seizing the opportunity, offered to move my car so that a friend could depart.

You are already ahead of me. You know what happened.

In all the vast expanse of where you could choose to drive, she elected to drive so close to the lamppost as to leave a large gash in the rear fender of my beautiful, multi-repaired beauty.

This is the car that had been the target of a dump truck in early February, three cars in late March, and a concrete post in May. And now its three-times painted back fender had a foot-long gash from the only vertical object within 100 feet. Plus it had a 150-watt bulb marking the spot.

She was profuse in her apologies. There were even some tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.”

But, owing to my frustration with the series of events involving my car, “I’m sorry” just didn’t seem to help. It was woefully inadequate for the enormity of her crime.

Cars are replaceable; machines wear out. The world in which we live in is not so resilient.

The human race is proving daily that our demands on our planet are taking a great toll. We are pitiable caretakers. Yet, we are arrogant in our belief that we can accomplish the seemingly impossible. We believe our technological prowess to be without question. We believe our expertise to be limitless.

Yet, on a day in May, Deepwater Horizon became a household word around the world and sent a searing message that perhaps we are not as proficient as we thought.

No result of our arrogance is more evident than the daily videos of the ruptured pipeline 5,000 feet down in the Gulf of Mexico. For days this disaster has poured an alien substance into a pristine environment and all the best minds have yet to achieve a viable solution.

People have lost their life, families have lost loved ones, jobs are lost, economies which depend upon the Gulf have been severely impacted, and the consensus among the scientific community is that the environmental impact will be felt worldwide and not be remedied within the foreseeable future.

For those who do not know the coast of Northwest Florida and South Alabama, or have made the trek along the shores of Mississippi toward New Orleans, you have not experienced that special beauty (and charm) which is the Northern Gulf Coast.

The sands are sugary white and dotted with patches of sea oats. The water is clear with a special hue that takes your breath away. The freshness of the air brings you alive. Dolphins often swim near the shoreline. Seagulls are abundant. It is a breeding ground for sea turtles. The brown pelicans float on unseen air currents before diving into the water for fish. Trawlers depart from marinas spotted along the way to bring back seafood that is without equal anywhere.

You may now read the previous paragraph and place everything in the past tense because all this has now changed; it seems for the rest of our lives. Oil is both above and below the surface of the water. There is no good end to this in sight.

In the midst of all this, BP - the group responsible, has launched a 50-million dollar advertising campaign to try to salvage their image.

I want to say, “BP, I’m sorry is not enough.” It is woefully inadequate for the enormity of your crime.

When I was a child on one of our family trips to the Gulf, we brought along our housekeeper. It was her first trip there. When she saw the bright, emerald green waters lapping against the pure white sand, she exclaimed, “how high does it get when it rains?”

Her fears were based upon her sphere of reality. What about ours? How much has to happen before our sensibility demands, “Enough!”?

Can we muster the same enthusiasm as those who chanted "Drill baby, drill?"