The Death of Fishes, Part Two

Just when I thought the situation couldn't get any worse. Zoom in and you will read that a "truck driver somehow dropped the slimy, reeking fish on Interstate 215".

And now the story has changed. The new spin on this fishy tragedy is that they all died because of a toxic algae bloom, effectively absolving the rich Redondo-ites of any negligence.

Why were other common harbor animals like seals and dolphins unaffected by this supposed toxicity?

And you can be sure that a truckload of decaying seals or dolphins, if they fell onto a highway, would not be referred to as "slimy" or "reeking". That's because these lucky creatures enjoy a "cute factor".

But nobody respects sardines, whether in or out of their cans, swimming or rotting.

This is an obvious example species bigotry (specism) and reeks of a deep pockets cover-up.

And nobody cares.

I just hope I don't start weeping when I open up my next can of sardines...

Sardine Genocide

Think of it. One million sardines dead in Redondo. I like the sound of those last three words: Dead in Redondo" (good idea for a mystery title).

Kind of like the lyrics of the old Steve Martin song where he owns a : "Condo in Redondo"?

Anyway I was eating my "Kipper-Snacked Fillet of Fish" (refined, gourmet sardines) and started to think about all those dead little fishies down south. What a waste! And the newspaper article I read this morning didn't even mention of a memorial service. Will no one stand up for the sardines?

I expect every man, woman, and child to observe a moment of silence tomorrow in memory of the passing of these savory creatures.

But there's more to this fishtastrophe. I read further into the article and was horrified to learn that they were scooping up these poor little fellas and sending their delectable carcasses off to a landfill.

The shame! Every sardine yearns to end up in a proper resting place, the coffin of tin and sauce which I peel back, carefully and out of respect, holding up their revered remainders as I prepare to consecrate them by popping them into my mouth.

And that is why I urge all of my fish-loving friends to speak out in anger, speak out in rage! How could the people of Redondo have made so little effort to block their harbor, provide some warning that a sardine rave could result in oxygen deprived suffocation. A genocide, surely, maybe even a crime: (sar) dine-o-cide

I urge you all to write letters of indignation, stand up against the neglectful harbor masters, and let the big guys know that we are tired of their pollution, whether it's oil, unsafe water, or the proliferation of idiotic thought on social networks.

Remember the 'dines!

Merit Pay for Polishing

     I had a strange idea the other day.  Well, perhaps no stranger than my usual ideas.  But what if I was being paid to do something I love, say polish rocks?
     First, consider that polishing a three pound batch of rocks takes time, usually four to six weeks, involving various abrasives, washes between stages, and inspections.  Would the lure of money, cause me to rush the process and end up with an inferior product?  I hope not but look closely at the rocks sold in volume at local tourist shops and you'll see what I'm talking about, hairline scratches and uneven polish.
    Would I then get angry when a batch, just by nature of the rocks that happen to be in the tumbler, took longer than usual?  Often I stop the process after the first step and take out certain rocks to work with them individually, providing a more pleasing shape and removing flaws.  I doubt that I'd bother with any of this if time or money was an issue.  Sometimes the entire process can take eight weeks if done correctly.  But that's a long time to go without a paycheck...
     A paycheck that might be further delayed when a few rocks within a given batch polish more slowly than others.   Money or not, there are only two options at this point.  I could remove the slower ones and set them aside, recycling them into a later batch.  Though this reduces overall output and requires considerable patience, it results in a higher quality of rock.  There is an additional delay,  perhaps two weeks.  The other option would be to continue the process until the slow ones are finally done.  Doing this, however, risks spalding (rock-talk for fractures) in the already finished rocks due to over polishing.
     More time (and money) would be lost when a rock that is several degrees is placed in a batch of much softer stones.  These softer rocks softer rocks can be scratched and chipped through contact.  Sadly, one hard rock can ruin an entire batch.  I would, then, have to start all over again from the beginning.  Thoughtlessly putting miscellaneous rocks into a tumbler can be disastrous, I've learned, especially so if there were people paying you to polish didn't that understand this.
     I check my running batches for problems like this at least every other day.  But what if the people paying me  required that I open the tumbling barrel every hour to test the results?  Such overly monitored and overly evaluated rocks would take an agonizing long time to polish, reducing both production and success rates. 
     Experience has also taught me that some rocks will never polish, either because they are too coarse or too weak.  Polish these dull specimens all you want but they will never be glossy and bright.  Get enough problem rocks and I guarantee frustration, especially if you're collecting is limited to areas where resistant specimens are common.  Earning less just out of the happenstance of where I live and collect?  That doesn't sound fair.
     And imagine the shock of a "master rock polisher" who appears at your door wanting to observe your techniques.  I would have to get out of my recliner and wander around in the garage, making a show of putting oil on the bearings, wiping down the outside of the tumbler, and other tasks that don't really need doing.
     And then what would I do if the master rock inspector told me that I was behind in my quota?  What if the guy working out of his garage down the street was cranking out a more rocks and more often, and there went my bonus pay?  Certainly, hearing this would do little to improve neighborhood relations--and it might eventually result in a "mysterious garage fire".
     I guess I could put a few more rocks in each batch but that usually ends badly.  Anything beyond three fourths full and the rocks are too close to move around and can't bump against the other.  The barrel turns and turns but nothing is happening inside.  Another ill- advised approach to increased production would be to operate many tumblers at once.  So much for having any kind of personal life.  Then there's the additional risk of disasters due to inattention, trying to juggle too many rocks and too many tumblers.
     Would merit payments based on my overall rock output affect my love for this hobby?
     You bet.
     I enjoy the shaping of rocks and bringing them to a brilliant finish.  For me, this is a satisfying experience in itself.  Though not every rock is a success, that's okay.  But if the process was all about numbers, I'm pretty sure I'd hate it in no time.
     Well, just another of my strange ideas, that's all.
     Oh, and by the way, none of this has anything to do with teaching in the 21st century.
     Absolutely.

High Tide at the Pico

8:15 am

Respectable waves, close together and quick cresting. They break down with so little ceremony
a person would have to raise his voice
to be heard.

A non-issue since nobody else
is around this morning.
except for Stewart, my dog
(and he's about as indifferent to my poetic musings
as my human friends).

I wonder how a surfer
might describe these waves,
but what little I remember
of 60's surf jargon would be laughably inadequate.

If true to the rules of any technical language,
a surfer's words would be short, concise
and unfamiliar to outsiders,
the treasured slang of a specialized group.

But for all I know, he might take a quick look,
decide the conditions were "crappy"
and drive off to whatever it is surfers do 
when they're not surfing.

Sitting against a driftwood log,
I get a today's paper out of my backpack:
3 to 4 foot southerly seas will accompany
today's west-northwesterly 5 to 7 foot swells 
with an 11- to 13-second period.

That's good, too, I suppose.
But not so nice as being here.

Shaping Rocks, Spouses and Children

I collect rocks. Anyone would know this after reading a few blog entries. I take some rough but promising stones and throw them into a tumbler. After several steps, various abrasives, and many weeks, I bring them out and admire their smooth, polished surfaces--which are often quite impressive (at least to me).

Though I appreciate their overall beauty, I am sometimes distracted by a perceived shortcoming; either they're not symmetrical enough to suit me or there's a tiny flaw that jars against my idea of perfection.

So I turn on my grinding wheel with its hard diamond coated surface and attempt to correct their overall form.

While attempting to reshape the smaller of these rocks, I often feel friction building up under my hands. If I continue, pressing on to complete this transformation, disaster follows. The stone is ripped from my hands by the increasing pressure and smacks against the metal casing beneath the wheel. Usually, the stone is unharmed.

But my hands continue their momentum toward the high-speed wheel. Often I lose a little skin and sometimes I bleed. These days, I seldom insist that a stone conforms to my need for perfection.

And larger rocks? Best leave them alone. Their faults and beauties lie so deep, it takes a long time to produce any observable change. And when I persist, their natural beauty is often marred in the attempt to erase some relatively minor flaw.

Can anything be learned from my observations, aside from tragic hindsight?

Not sure.

JR

2/6/11

 .

Surfers

Always run, never walk—much less saunter

down to their watery thrones;

Straddling wood and foam, these impatient deities

await The Curl.

.

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There Will Always Be a Spring: California Images

Ludlow, Mojave desert

Visalia, after the rain

San Simeon, foothill wildlife

 

                          

  

San Luis Obispo County, coastal landscapes

                      

Hearst State Park, a walk north

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                   

                                                

  Spring 2010