Last night was the final rehearsal for our little ad-hoc combo before next Thursday night’s charity auction gig. We rehearsed at our drummer’s house on the West Mountain (it’s really just a hill, for those of you not from ’round here) in Hamilton, which means a thirty-five minute drive each way for me.
When we were finished, I loaded my gear in the car and began heading home. I was dead tired; this past few weeks have been freaky busy with all the preparations for Founders Day, work commitments, organizational (and other) activities for the charity auction and rehearsals thrown in to boot. I was also wicked hungry; I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. It was pushing ten o’clock when I set the car in motion for the journey home. I resolved to drive straight past all the fast-food joints with their beckoning drive-thrus in favour of a more expeditious return to Juniorvania and some much needed couch time. When I glanced down at the instrument panel of the Probe, I noticed that I was running a little short on gas; nothing that threatened my ability to return home on time, but definitely something that would need attention prior to the morning commute. I decided that if I could wait for sustenance, so could the car, and I decided to head straight home.
When I woke up this morning, the very first item I heard on the radio news broadcast was prefaced with the announcer’s commentary that “anyone who decided to wait for this morning to fill up must be kicking themselves: gas prices have gone up over 13 cents a litre to $1.35 overnight.” I was not at that very moment kicking myself, but I have resolved to do so before the end of the day. Here’s the Spec article about it.
More than a 10% increase in this commodity price – overnight – with no actual market forces apparently behind it? WTF? I truly hope that there is a special place reserved in hell for oil company executives. I found it difficult to contain my anger about this even when dealing with the poor shlub manning the kiosk at the local filling station; although I know, intellectually, that neither the clerk manning this cash till nor the operator even of this particular station has any control over the price to be charged, they are the public face of those with whom the blame resides. Maybe a miracle will happen and people will actually start to make this shit (instead of animated fecal material) an issue in the course of the ongoing federal election campaign.
But probably not.
I’ve given up trying to comprehend oil companies; just like Tina Turner, Ike is going to cause a lot of pain in our lives even though the damage to refineries was minimal. I love how they can’t explain record-setting profits, quarter after quarter.
There are some jokes to be made here. Just for starters, I’m thinking that people will have to dig “River Deep” in their pockets in order to pay the “Mountain High” price at the pump. “Proud Mary” actually contains a lyrical reference to refuelling (“…pumped a lot of ‘tane down in New Orleans…”); that ought to be easy!