Monthly Archives: October 2005

As I Barf Into an Oil Drum….

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Writing will come slowly to me today as I am as close to speachless as I can get.  In hearing the latest reports about the windfall profits made by Exxon this past quarter, I am apalled. Yes, certainly companies are suppose to make a profit. That is the whole point of consumerism and the basis of this dollar sign emblemed country. I get it. But when these profits are inflating (more like exploding) the pockets of a slight few while the remaining 99% of the country are digging for pennies under their car seats…something is terribly wrong.
 
Call it liberal propaganda if you like, though I have never been much of a self proclaimed liberal, there is a bigger picture here that obviously needs to be explained slowly and in small words for the Bushie followers who seem to not understand. Here’s a little bedtime story for your sleepy cowboys….
 
     Bush grew up with Uncle Exxon and Cousin Shell buying him lavish Christmas gifts and ponies on his birthday. When he grew up, he got to work with these fun lovin’ Texan buddies…thanks to Daddy of course. On holidays and special occasions the Bushes like to roll around in oil stained money, just for fun. Yeeee HA!! Wait..there’s a bunch of oil over there with the camels and sand?? You mean, its not all in Texas and Alaska? Well, I’ll be. We better go over there and get some control of that dontcha think?? I mean, those people are all a bunch of nuts who kill each other anyway…we’ll just tell people they are a threat to us. We’ll call it our patriotic duty. Yea, dad screwed it up the first time..but this time we have 9/11 to exploit. 2000 dead. Boy, they sure are sorry. But it is for a good cause, don’t forget…we must stop terrorism. Not to mention this war is making BILLIONS of dollars for their dear dear friends. So, daddy Bush, little Bush, quiet Cheney, Uncle Exxon, and Cousin Shell all go to the Halloween Ball. Their costumes, so telling…Chandler, Joey, Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe. They dance all night, celebrating their neverending dollars. And just as they are about to howl at the moon…millions of parents get ready to leave for their 2nd jobs in hopes to pay this month’s heating bill…another soilder gets wounded in hopes to secure our egocentric nation…another car dies on the freeway because it’s owner couldn’t scrape together enough gas money…but really, who cares..right?
 
What is happening here is nothing short of economic rape. Please, explain to me why this is okay.
 
 
Here is the abridged and edited version as The Journal Times thought my first letter was too honest and descriptive  I guess…it probably still won’t be published LOL
 

Writing will come slowly to me today as I am as close to speechless as I can get. In hearing the latest reports about the windfall profits made by Exxon this past quarter, I am appalled. Yes, certainly companies are supposed to make a profit. That is the whole point of consumerism and the basis of this dollar sign emblemed country. I get it. But when these profits are inflating (more like exploding) the pockets of a slight few while the remaining 99% of the country are digging for pennies under their car seats…something is terribly wrong.

It is becoming more and more clear to me the motives of our current administration in regards to the war in Iraq as well as their apparent blindness to the problems their oil comrades are creating. The war is making money for all of them. While soldiers are dying and citizens are going broke paying their gas bills, they are quietly reaping the benefits. I was not against this war in the beginning. Of course I am in favor of fighting terrorism. I am not however in favor of sending people to die to line the pockets of the elite minority.

Right now I am imagining HW Bush, GW Bush, Cheney, Lee Raymond (CEO Exxon), Jeroen van der Veer (Shell CEO) all attending a Halloween Ball. They are dressed appropriately of course as Chandler, Joey, Rachel, Phoebe, and Ross. Isn’t it clear what is happening here? This is nothing short of economic rape. Please explain to me why this is okay.

Here is a link to what was published in The Journal Times as a Letter to the Editor November 2005: http://www.journaltimes.com/articles/2005/11/01/letters_to_editor/iq_3746423.txt

 

 

 
 
 
 

Daddy

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He was born in 1952 to an alcoholic mother and father.  He lived in Wisconsin for a while and then moved to Alaska with his family including 2 brothers and 2 sisters, though he was the oldest. His father died when he was only in his teens. When he was a young man, about 16 or so he hitchhiked his way back to Wisconsin to live with his aunt. A futile attempt at escape. In his young life he lived through family addiction, repeated surgeries (one of which leaving him in a body cast for months), the death of his father, and running away as far as he knew he could.
 
He married my mother at the age of 20. She was 18. I was born in 1974 and my brother in 1976. Back in Wisconsin, they did their best to create a family and a sense of normalcy.   But my father’s issues simply would not allow that to happen. He was anxiety ridden, depressed, a perpetual child. He hated work and would do almost anything to avoid it. He was a complete narcasist, self centered to the core. Though he loved his children and his wife, his own incapacity to grow kept him from what he wanted most. They divorced when I was about 7.
 
He remarried a few years later. We would see him off and on through the years. Sometimes entire years would go by with no word from him what so ever. Not a birthday card. Not a phone call. Then he’d pop back in for a while. And the whole time I would defend him to the tee. I would cry tears of joy when I finally saw him. And cry my eyes out when he’d drop us back off because I never knew if I’d see him again. There were nights waiting by the window. Sweating in my warn hooded winter coat. Watching the clock, watching the street, with a knot in my stomach everytime I heard a car approach. To this day, I hate waiting. Cannot tolerate it in the slightest. By the time I was about 16 I had had enough. I wasn’t going to be yo-yo’d any longer. I avoided talking to him. I wouldn’t see him, even on the holidays. Once in a while I’d answer a call or go for a visit, but not very often. After all, it took a long time to build that wall. Alot of energy went into protecting myself. There was no way I would allow anyone to infiltrate my shield, especially the person who made me build it in the first place.
 
My father always had an illness or injury of some sort. Countless surgeries for back problems, knee pain, heart blockages, diabetic amputations. You name it. This went on his entire life. It is almost as though he wanted to be saved.  It was almost like he created his own illnesses. He certainly didn’t take care of himself. He didn’t take the doctor’s advice.  So he wasn’t the one to save himself.  Maybe he wanted to be rescued. Taken care of because he had never been taken care of as a child.  To me, he seemed wounded yet coated in armor. He always thought he was dying, yet he never did. So obviously, in my mind,  he never would. Until the day he actually did.  
 
My stepmother called and told us he wasn’t doing well. That perhaps we should come up to the hospital where he had been for the prior week or so. My brother, his girlfriend, and I decided to go. I hadn;t seen him in a long time and was very nervous. Not because I thought he was dying, but because of my guilt. It was 2 days after his 46th birthday. I had sent him a rose and a couple balloons. Not sure why, I hadn’t sent anything previous years. They were still in his room when we arrived. He was certainly not well. He looked ghostly and he was not thinking completely clearly. He was able to eat his dinner and even complained there wasn’t more. He and I were in the room alone as he drank his coffee and sat in the chair. A nurse or tech of some sort came in just to check his IV or something when I noticed he was breathing very strangly. I asked her, "Is something wrong?" She looked as confused as I was. I said kind of loudly, "Dad…Dad…" Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. Fear and calm at the same time…is there such a thing? The next thing I knew I was wisked into the adjacent room. His nurse came in and told us that the doctors were doing their "final check".  My step mom asked through tears, "Is he gone?"  And the nurse simply said yes. I just remember repeating the word ‘No’ and crying. How did this happen? I want answers. I want reasons. But they are to never be heard.
 
This was 8 years ago. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish so much that I would have taken those phone calls. That I would have visited him, even when it seemed he didn’t want me to. Though the guilt has faded in time, I doubt it will ever cease. I should have been the one to give him a reason to live. I should have tried to help him. I should have been the one to rescue him. Instead I was stubborn, angry, and full of self pity.
 
I would love so much to call my dad today. To introduce him to his wonderful granddaughter. To ask him about cooking secrets. To watch The Sopranos with him. So much lost. So many moments that could have been shared. He didn’t even know me.
 
I am sorry Dad. I am sorry I wasn’t there for you. I am sorry you were in so much pain for so long.
 
I forgive you Dad. I forgive you for abandoning me. I forgive you for thinking only of yourself. I forgive you for making me feel guilty when I was only a kid doing the best I knew how. I forgive you for leaving before I had a chance to really know you. I forgive you for leaving before you could know me. I forgive you for leaving a mess in my head. I forgive you for dying, Dad. I love you. Good bye.