It’s the holiday season, (Happy Holidays to all!), and that means we’re subjected to all sorts of advertisements asking or hawking something. It’s not enough that we’re just recovering from a slew of political advertising, but insult is now added to injury.
Take this coupling of back-to-back commercials seen the other night. The first one was for Feed the Hungry featuring a very sincere Scarlett Johansson. Certainly a good cause for those with little, especially around this season of giving. The second commercial immediately after that was for high-end David Yurman jewelry featuring, wait for it, a very alluring Scarlett Johansson. What is the message here?
This is not to say Ms. Johansson should refrain from such commercials activities. It’s likely she believes deeply about feeding the less fortunate. That does not prevent her from capitalizing on her fame to promote jewelry, some which she may already possess.
It does say something about the TV station/network in carelessness in scheduling commercials. A David Yurman ad right after a PSA (public service announcement) for the hungry is pretty thoughtless in itself. But when the spokesperson for both is the same, it borders on insensitivity. It diminishes the message of both. Perhaps they were making a statement of their own, “Look even the rich care about the poor.” Doubtful. What would Scarlett say about it?
But we’re confronted with this kind of thing daily. It’s not unusual to see a horrible highway accident story on the news followed by an ad for a personal injury lawyer. Tasteless? Sure. Too soon? Probably not – for the lawyer.
Late night TV is where a lot of this occurs. Watch Fallon, Kimmel, or Colbert and see countless ads for personal injury lawyers back to back to back. Each one claims to make you richer than the other. That’s nice. Now you too will be able to afford David Yurman jewelry. Just don’t count on Scarlett delivering the check.
It’s a word bandied about rather loosely without the true meaning attached to it. We receive “Friend” requests on Facebook, yet a “friend” on that site connotes something more than it actually is. Used that way, the word is becoming meaningless
The Oxford Language definition of friend is this: a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically exclusive of sexual or family relations. Do we really have that bond with our social media friends? Ehhh, I don’t think so. Nor can we. We are too far removed because of social media to have a genuine connection.
While it’s true many us have lots of “friends”, how many of those could we rely on should the need arise? Do we need that many friends? And how many of them really share our values, ideologies, positions, even our taste in ice cream? How important is that? You decide.
We are too quick to make new “friends” that we miss the value in the real ones who don’t need or maybe even want to know where we had dinner last night. Or why they weren’t there with us. A true friend respects our needs and asks nothing more than the same from us.
Finally, are we true friends to others? Hopefully, yes. Otherwise, we’re just acquaintances.
Poaching eggs is one thing but poaching on the sea has been a long time problem in Newfoundland. There are air and sea patrols to monitor, prevent, and eventually arrest the violators. It is not something taken lightly. But and not surprisingly it is a global issue. Wherever money, however small, can be made, theft is sure to be right behind it. And as often as not, too many thieves get away with it at the cost of those trying to eke out a living.
This is an article from the May 15, 2014 New York Times about poaching off the coast of Spain.
Scraping for Sea Delicacy, and a Meager Living
Trading Danger for Delicacy
On Spain’s Galician coast, generations of licensed divers scrape gooseneck barnacles in roiling surf to serve eager gourmands who pay up to 100 euros a kilo for the cherished crustaceans. Credit Samuel Aranda for The New York Times
A CORUÑA, Spain — Roberto Mahia, 44, was leaning against his car waiting for the sun to rise before pulling on the frayed wet suit at his feet when two vehicles pulled up not far away.
“Those are poachers,” Mr. Mahia declared, staring hard in the direction of their headlights. “We know those cars.”
On this morning, however, there would be no confrontation. The poachers soon moved on, apparently unwilling to tangle with Mr. Mahia and the other men gathered here who were trained and licensed to scramble among the crashing waves of the rocky Galician coastline in the country’s northwest corner, prying loose and collecting a rare prize for epicures — gooseneck barnacles.
The work has always been dangerous. All the men waiting for daybreak had scars to show. Avelino Mosteiro, 54, once got 36 stitches in his thigh. On another occasion, he got 18 stitches under his arm. But the work also used to be highly paid before the economic crisis, when restaurants clamored for the rare crustaceans.
These days, however, the men and women who do this for a living say it is hard to make ends meet. Certainly, there are fewer Europeans able to afford expensive treats of any kind.
But worse, there are the poachers, many of them out-of-work citizens, trying to make money any way they can. Their scavenging brings prices down further and depletes the area of barnacles, forcing the licensed collectors to work in more remote and difficult areas, often for a poorer haul.
“Fifteen days ago, we were on those rocks,” Mr. Mahia said, pointing out a jagged outcropping in the distance. “Two of us were legal collectors, and 11 were poachers.”
In the heady days before Spain’s economic crisis, barnacle collectors, many who learned the art of dodging waves from their parents, could earn more than $800 in a few hours. But on a recent morning the men here had collected only four or five pounds of barnacles each, most of them small and of less than ideal quality. Perhaps, they said, they could get $135 for them, maybe less.
In the past, the men said, they would not even have tried to go out on a day with such choppy seas. But lately, they could not afford to let any opportunity go by.
The barnacles, known as percebes in Spanish, can be collected only under certain conditions, including the point in the lunar cycle when tides are lowest.
Along the coast here, some restaurants offer barnacles for as much as $80 a serving. In Madrid, the price can be much higher. Cooking them is simple. They are generally boiled for just a few minutes. Aficionados compare them to oysters, not for their texture, which is chewier, but for their subtle sea taste.
Spanish officials agree that the unemployment rate has prompted more and more untrained people to take their chances in the rocky inlets here, occasionally paying with their lives.
“If from time to time you hear about someone dying doing this, it is almost always a poacher,” said Rosa Quintana Carballo, Galicia’s regional minister of the rural environment and the sea.
On Spain’s Galician Coast, the Hard Life of Barnacle Hunting
Lala Gonzalez, left, and her sister, Susana Gonzalez, collecting barnacles on the coast of Baiona, in the northern Spain region of Galicia. Considered a luxury seafood item, the barnacles, known as percebes, provide a livelihood for many families. Credit Samuel Aranda for The New York Times
In some areas, as in Baiona, a village farther down the coast, the licensed collectors have grown so frustrated that they are paying private security guards to patrol the area on land and on sea. The government splits the bill with them.
One morning, one of Baiona’s guards, Darío Freire, guided his S.U.V. up a hill so he could use binoculars to scan the coastline. He said confronting poachers was a dangerous business.
“I have been punched, threatened with a stick,” Mr. Freire said. “They have thrown things at the car and smashed the windows. It isn’t easy.”
Mostly, he said, he just alerts the police, who give the poachers summonses. But like José Do Val, 62, who readily admitted that he had been collecting barnacles that morning, most of the poachers are far too broke to pay the fines, so they are not a deterrent.
Mr. Do Val, who said he was once an executive in a food distribution company and dined regularly on barnacles, estimates that he has collected more than $135,000 in fines for poaching. “I’m not really sure how much it was,” he said. “It’s not something that really interests me.”
Galicia has struggled in the last few years with an unemployment rate of about 27 percent, one of the highest in the country. It once had a thriving shipping industry. But that is in shambles now, and there are few jobs that pay much for anyone. Police units assigned to stop the barnacle poachers are stretched thin and have perhaps more pressing business, keeping an eye on those who dig for clams in polluted areas, for instance, and then bleach them to make them look right.
“After what I have seen, I am finished with eating clams,” said Juan Da Rocha, who heads a regional police unit that concentrates on illegal fishing.
In Baiona, many of the barnacle collectors are women. Susana González works with her three sisters, who like her went to school for other professions, but ended up in wet suits instead. Though collecting barnacles is difficult, most of the people in this business find being up at dawn in the sea, without a boss, an attractive way of life. “You are free,” Mrs. González said. “I like that.”
After a successful morning collecting, the women gathered at the local auction house hoping that all the talk of economic recovery coming out of Madrid would mean higher prices. But that was not the case. Even the biggest barnacles sold for about $40 a pound, less than half the opening price.
“We really thought we would do better,” Mrs. González said with a sigh.
I’m not getting out much anymore. Sounds almost like a song. No, that’s “Don’t get around much anymore.” Good try. Johnny, show Bruce what he’s won.
No, I’m not getting out. There is a lot of work to do on this book. While I’m deeply involved in now creating the bones for “Arn? Narn.”, I find myself mightily homesick for Newfoundland. As I’ve written before, it has been a singularly transformative experience. To requote my wife from an earlier blog entry: “Where you’re born is not necessarily where you’re from.” Ergo – homesick.
I’m everyday looking at images from a land I’ve grown to love immensely. And it is so far away my heart feels as if it will break. I do miss it that much. (Little man on my shoulder – “Oh, grow the hell up!”)
OK, sniff-sniff, I will.
While I’m printing the photographs for the book, I am still keeping up with news from Newfoundland on the internet. I want to keep it as current as possible and include anything that might impact the story.
I see ads for restaurants, coffee shops, B&B’s, whale watches, etc. Some of these I’ve been to and remember them fondly. Other ads are just that, ads. Ads for car dealers; ads for hospital supplies (always good to know where you can get a splint in a hurry); and ads for other sundry items that I’ll never need. Whoa! What’s this?
It’s an ad for all things Newfoundland. And in that ad, partridgeberry jam. Now, if you’ve never had partridgeberry jam, write your will out now, pick out your box, and get your affairs in order. There’s no need to go on living. It’s that good.
This is it. The real stuff!
In other parts of the world, the partridgeberry in known as the lingonberry. I don’t know – that sounds like something you might call someone who’s a little drunk or just not with it. With slurred speech: “That guy’s a lingonberry!” Now, partridgeberry – not so – there’s a nobility to that.
“I’ll have the scones with the partridgeberry jam on it, James.” That sounds proper, doesn’t it? Now, replace it with lingonberry and you might as well be living in a trailer. “Puh-leeze pass the lingonberry jelly, Paw!” No, it has to be partridgeberry. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Woo-hoo! I called this store and they will ship it to the US. Of course who knows what customs would do when they got their hands on it. I can see it now – you’re driving through the gate at the US/Canada border and the Canadian guard is slathering my partridgeberry jam all over his Tim Horton donut while asking you for your papers! Homeland security my foot!
I order 4 jars of this edible soul salve and wait until it passes through the gauntlet of regulation and illicit tasting by border guards. It arrives. The top of each jar is covered with a cute, red piece of fabric. How precious! Tear that $%$!* off and give me the jam, damn it!
Once opened, once tasted, calm and contentment are restored. All that from just a little jar of partridgeberry jam. Yeah. it’s really that good. Yes, b’y.
Bruce Meisterman 