It's Not A Dead Parrot

I'm talking about BP CEO Tony Hayward, you know, the Brit guy on TV with the adorable Gekko accent, the public face of the BP deep ocean oil well explosion disaster. I don't think this man knows that he is the designated whipping boy, and if he does, he sure knows how to make himself sound clueless with his epic rhetorical blunders.

The gems coming out each time he opens his mouth reminded me of Marie Antoinette's purportedly arrogant "Let them eat cake" when confronted by a starving crowd outside the palace doors.

You must speak his lines below in full Monty Python style, and then tell me if you don't agree with me that this guy's eating some soles, and I don't mean the dead fish floating in the polluted Gulf.

I'm rephrasing some of his quotes taken from my Google and Yahoo news feeds. Go check out the news articles yourself and read for yourself his comments about not being an expert and other "gems."

Louisiana/Gulf Residents: "Excuse me, we'd like to register a complaint. There's a leaking oil well in our ocean."

Hayward: "No one wanted to resolve the crisis as badly as I because I'd like my life back."

Ahem. Dear, Mr. Hayward, so do the residents of Louisiana, who lives will NEVER be the same for a long, long time after you've returned home to eat cake.

Before the Senate hearing (I'm paraphrasing and parodying C-Span here, so you have to play along):

Senator: "This is a dead well."

Hayward: "That's irreverent, isn't it?"

Senator: "But it's dead and it's dead because of your company!"

Hayward: "We drill hundreds of wells. I wasn't part of the decision making process on THIS well. Another well that hasn't exploded, yes, but not this one. This one is somebody else's decision."

S: "But you're the CEO!"

H: "But that's irreverent again, isn't it? I'm the CEO, yes, but that doesn't make me an expert.

S: "What then do your oceanography scientists say about the well and the leaking oil?"

H: "Sorry, I'm not an oceanography scientist. Next question?"

S: "But aren't your engineers going to drill a relief well to save the ocean?"

H: "Sorry, sorry, I'm not a drilling engineer either. Just a humble little CEO."

S: "You're stonewalling us!!!"

H: "I'm really, really sorry. Really, I am. Now I have to go to attend to Bob. I need a weekend off to see my precious Bob sail around the Isle of Wight. Lots of millionaires there, you know. Now, I'm an expert of that. You can come along, if you like, but really, it's just me trying to get some family time."

"Bob" is Mr Hayward's yacht and he took the weekend off to take it sailing at a world-famous race. Because, you know, that's what CEO do.

Here, y'all watch the great Monty Python skit below and tell me if Mr. Tony Hayward doesn't sound like he's trying to convince the people the parrot wasn't dead.

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From Workshop To Bodyshop

I'm here in Charleston to do a workshop about why BOOK TWO is, in some ways, more difficult and more important than BOOK ONE. My topic was roughly titled "second books and second contracts: why they are important to an author." It was fun talking to the writers who are at different levels of their career, giving insight on how the "second" manuscript wasn't just a second book, or a middle book, or a "set-up to the finale" book. It was also interesting to discuss about contracts because I feel many authors don't share the process enough and many newer writers are more or less in the dark when it comes to what is in a publishing contract.

Everything went super well and the trip has been very nice except for one detail. Someone keyed both sides of my beautiful Lexus convertible ;-(. All along the door and front fenders. It's going to cost me quite a lot of money, I'm sure, to get the scratches and repainted. I've recently changed insurance company, and sure don't feel like seeing my rates go up.

It's painful to look at my beautiful baby all scarred up too. The strange thing about this is, that was my reward to myself after getting my second contract with my publisher. Because the second contract meant that I was "established." That my publisher thought that I was good enough to keep in their stable. So I bought my dream car and loved it.

And now some walking piece of human garbage has decided that it was fun to run his keys along the sides of my car. Not one side. BOTH. I am angry. The words running in my head aren't exactly print-worthy, and since I'm not at home, but with other people at a beach house, I have to ruthlessly bottle everything inside. It's killing me! Because, if I were home, I would have screamed and cursed, and frightened all the mutant poms into hiding.

So this is what Jed must feel like, inside, if you're wondering.

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