Friction and Harmony

So it’s 2010.  Now what?

Not sure where this year will take me.  So far as resolutions go, I’m setting the bar pretty low.  To borrow from an old classmate, my New Year Resolutions are:  “1.) to get another year older,  2.) to accumulate more gray hair, and 3.) to work out less.”

Okay, so that last one is impossible for me…  Divide by zero error: System halted.

Right now, my outlook for the year is grim.  I’m just out of an active “police action” (we won’t call it a war) with Mrs. Who, and now active fighting has broken out on the parent-kid front.  In the meantime, I still find myself living mostly alone in my late MamaBear’s house (blame the suck-ass weather) and getting more and more used to it.  Don’t know what that means.  But getting back to the active front…

My dumbass son “Goob” has chosen his path – one that doesn’t seem to have any room at all for stupid ass parents who lay “guilt trips” instead of pandering to his selfish whims  (i.e., enforce responsible behavior).  He’s determined he’s an adult, but acting like an overgrown four-year-old.  Had the gall (not to be confused in any way with testicular fortitude) to ask me to turn over the keys and alarm code for his late grandma’s house so he could play house with his wounded-bird girlfriend.

It frikkin’ hurts to be a parent when you want to see them do the right thing and they are so caught up in hedonism and rebellion…    I was rebellious, but I wasn’t THAT stupid.  Shit.  Okay, so maybe I was, but I was truly hoping to impart some of the wisdom I gained from my mistakes.  Not much success in that, however, least of all when parental wisdom clashes with rutting teenager.  Hell, in the few years since he discovered his “special purpose“, he’s already surpassed my own notch-count.  It’s disappointing, but not entirely unexpected, I guess.  Not that i can excuse his choices, however… since he’s choosing to be a little prick.

Case in point: he chooses to hook-up with a little tart that drops her panties on their first date – while he’s still in the process of “breaking up” with his previous g/f after providing her with a “morning after” abortion pill.  Oh – she was under the age of 18, so that’s a case of illegal dispensing – and her parents were more than furious, wanting to swipe a chunk of his ass for the piece that he got from their daughter.  He was more or less oblivious, leaving Mrs. Who and I to mop up while he went about his cavorting.  In the midst of it all, he tried to demand that I “meet” his new piece of tail with him.  Lacking a grain of respect for his little “Tragic Doll”, I declined.

Flash forward about eight or nine months, we get wind that Tragic Doll is claiming to have given birth to a baby boy – our grandson.  Right away, I’m skeptical, since just a month before, she claimed to have had an inoperable brain tumor and lay dying in the hospital, only wanting to talk to Goob one more time.  Dozens of times a day.  Oops, she died.  No, she didn’t.  Maybe the brain tumor made her forget she was dead.  Or that she was pregnant, since miraculously, she never had a brain tumor but suddenly she has a baby.  Who has “a lung disease”.  And some hell of an insurance plan, since he’s been in NICU for nearly three weeks and “all his bills are paid for and will be paid for until he’s 18.”  She just wanted him to come see her to take a paternity test, even though such tests can be done with oceans and continents between the subjects.  When we demanded to see proof of the child’s birth – of the certificate which bore my son’s name as the father, of the child’s illness…  OOPS!  He suddenly died.  Oh, and she didn’t really have a baby because she was in Coast Guard Boot Camp the whole time.  It must have been her cousin who was spoofing the whole ordeal because she wanted to make my son see how “special”  Tragic Doll has become since he left her, and that “he would take one look at her and want her, but she’s not available to him any more.”  Funny how Tragic Doll’s cousin sounds exactly like Tragic Doll in the telephone call recordings.

All the while we were uncovering Tragic Doll’s psychotic, hysterical claims and manipulative lies, Goob was getting on with Wounded Bird, who was evidently okay with the fact that his previous relationship was playing itself out with us in the middle, leaving him free to slip her some between the sheets.  All evidence points to her being totally willing to betray her own self-respect by letting him poke her.  But she’s learned sooo much from her life of hard knocks that all her decisions are intelligently and morally sound.  Because she’s…  you know…  An 18 year old “adult”.  And an admitted runaway.  Rumored to have been fired for blowing a guy in a back room at Wendy’s.  Pathetic and sad.  Tragic, really.  I feel so sorry for her.  But there’s not a damn thing I can do.

The two of them are feeding on their past histories of abuse and claiming it “makes them strong” against the world.  In reality, they’re indulging in that abuse, but they don’t see it that way.  Of course, how would WE or anybody else know their lives?  THEY are superior in their conjoined response to this terrible world – their tragedies having steeled them against the “false morality” of others…  especially parents!

Yes indeed, if there’s one thing that heals the wounds of sexual abuse, it’s a good, guilt-free fuck!

Of course, Wounded Bird has no parents to speak of.  She and Goob met in grade-school, and were trouble from the start.  The gravity of sexual abuse trapped them in a violent orbit – nearly causing them both to be expelled at one point or another.  Thank god for a tough little Irish nun who stood between them.  I admit I always felt sorry for the girl, of course for the tragedy of her abuse, the absence of loving parents, and all…  But also for the way my son had treated her back then.  She was a year behind him, and in front of classmates, he had accused her of “wanting to suck your stepdad’s cock.”  (Hence the near expulsion from parochial school.)  I was mortified and ashamed of his actions then, but I understood where he was coming from.  Then, she was a threat – she was a living totem of the abuse and the abused.  No doubt there was a physical attraction – she pursued him from the get-go, and she was a cute girl.  I know Goob isn’t blind…  So to Goob, she was no doubt a bundle of desire, guilt and shame -  and represented perhaps the part that “let the abuse happen”, and likely even the part that may have “felt good”.  He responded with venom then.

Now, having come to terms with many of those feelings, I’m not surprised to see the abuse continue to play itself out as lust and nurturing for that part that is “accepted” or even “forgiven”.  That part was evident in Goob’s indignant defense of his recent behavior, stating:

It is the past events in a person’s life that makes them who they are today, and honestly however FUBAR of a past, I am happy with who I am today, so I may not like the events, but I accept the past, I would not change a thing in it, even if that means getting abused by [ex-con felon scum].. it is something I have come to terms with and do not hide.

Jackpot!  Going through all that got me all this (i.e., laid + kindred understanding + acceptance) today!

What worries me most about this is not the acceptance, but the evident embracing of this past.  And I believe that has a lot everything to do with the sexual relationship he has cultivated with Wounded Bird.  They simply have no clue of the dangers they are flirting with.  Perhaps both are doing some rescuing, but WB is BAD needy – it’s written all over her.  Her posture, body language, facial expressions, submissive glances and clinginess.  (The unsettling way she hugged ME longer than necessary on two occasions screams her need for a “daddy” figure and goes that much further to my argument for her desperation for male attention and approval.)  Most telling of all was her defensiveness when I tweaked her by telling her I pitied her.  (And I truly do.)  But I knew, and I was right; she came out swinging at the very notion and wouldn’t let it drop.  They are both feeding on age-old hurts and new manipulations, and they’re too stupid-young to see any of it.  They “love” each other out of need and pity, but don’t recognize that, either.

It’s a Catch-22.  The more I say about it, the more Goob digs in his heels.  Yet if I bite my tongue, he infers my tacit approval.  Worse, it’s causing a rift between my son and myself that may never heal.  On FaceBook, he commented on a picture of us at his Army BCT graduation:

lol, back when he was proud… seems like those days are gone, and so is he. Fuck it. dont need family, as far as im concerned they are all dead now to me, because obviously to them I might as well just be KIA.

I don’t know what to feel but sadness at that statement.  Obviously it’s not true, but the alternative to him feeling this way is for me to accept the damage he’s doing to himself by allowing his stupid ass behavior to go un-reprimanded.  Further, doing so would be my sacrificing someone else for my own benefit; WB may or may not be a hopeless case, but allowing them to recklessly indulge their shattered pasts is a recipe for a lifetime of failed and abusive relationships for both of them.  It endangers not only them, but any children that might come about, as well as those who look up to them as role models for their own behavior (namely Buck).  Call it “Tough Love” , but it would be irresponsible of me as a parent to do otherwise.  Wouldn’t it?

I just don’t know anymore.  The thing that often scares me most is my own anger – something of which I have an abundant supply.  AT&T has “rollover minutes”, I have “rollover anger”.  It just keeps stacking up.  Of course I realize that my anger makes the things I say and do that much more difficult afterward.  But my pressure relief is faulty.  Plus, I seem to possess a flowing, predatory skill – of narrowing in almost effortlessly on the tenderest spot to land my blows.  I read body language naturally, and within minutes of observing someone can pick the two or three of the most self-consciously guarded physical or psychological aspects of an individual to launch my attack.  Heaven help you if I’ve known you longer.

I’ve had to check myself constantly in this battle of wills with Goob and his Wounded Bird mistress.  I let it slip briefly once, and the damage was instant.  It escalated into the position we find ourselves in now: after weeks of what can best be described as a “Cold War truce” since he left for Korea, we’ve recently broken-off negotiations and the hostility level has risen.

Where it goes from here, I have no idea.

*** UPDATE 12/21 *** :  See comments.

First of all, I love you Sweetheart, and I am so, so, so sorry.

Wow.  Two and a half years.  That’s some well documented misery.

For days, I’ve been stuck with the stifling, chest-ripping sensation that this is the end for us.  After reading your “Lurker” posts, I now realize that it’s true.  Even if I thought I knew how I could fix this, I don’t feel I have the right to even try.  It’s clear I owe you your freedom.

I’m so sad.  And I am so very lonely.  I wish there was a damn soul I could talk to, but I’m lost.

And I know I have nobody at all to blame but myself.

So here I sit at “The Shrine”, just as you predicted over a year ago.  And you and the kids are relieved I’m gone.  Y’all can finally get on with your lives and breathe easy for the first time in years…  The chandelier has fallen and there’s nothing left for us – our injuries are too great to survive.

Ironically, I found your “Lurker” invitation in my spam filter after I had finished ordering something for your tree…  A trifling “peace offering” that I had hoped might be something to break this icy chill.  Maybe it will get there by Christmas.

Fuck My Life, indeed.

Somewhere on Facebook, I attempted to contribute this short story of my experience with Colon Cancer – the disease that took someone dear from me.  I don’t know if it made it or not.  When I pressed “Submit,” everything disappeared, and Farce-book crashed.  I don’t know even where I found the Colon Cancer survivors group, but I figure if it was meant to get out there, it will.  If not, that’s fine too.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to Cut-Copy my text to a document before sending it off to the bit-ocean of the Internet.  Here it is, mostly for me, but if someone needs to read my words, I figure the Holy Spirit knows how to direct a Google search: 

(I’m sticking it below the fold — )

More »

Holy crap, this guy scares the hell out of me… Because I can see it all happening if we stay the course we’re currently running:

This started out as a follow-up comment to my previous post here. Since I didn’t want to hijack my own blog comments, as I’m so prone to doing – I decided to follow-up here, instead.

So…

TO EVERYONE: Thanks! Your kind words and prayers are so very appreciated. Y’all are a great bunch of folks to offer such encouragement and support…

And no – the television has not been replaced… exactly. There is a smaller TV with NO aerial reception that filled that void as the “gaming” screen. As for satellite, cable, etc… We haven’t done any of that since we moved in 2002. From the start of our marriage, I insisted on ***NO*** television in the Master Bedroom. That is our “escape zone,” where we can talk, hide from the kids, and just be with one-another.

The television that suffered its violent demise was the *former* gaming TV, and it was sick anyway. Besides being a point of bitter contention in the household, it was positioned right behind where I sit at my desk. (They’ve since been moved into another more remote location in the house.) So if the aggravation of kids whining “I’ll do it in a minute, I need to saaave…[and under their breath] right after I finish these next three levels…” wasn’t enough, the CLACKITTY-CLACKITTY-CLACKITTY of the damned controllers would set my tension level soaring.

But then it got worse… Because the television had so many different gaming systems to contend with, there was constant connecting-disconnecting of wires at the back of the set, which led to a deterioration of the signal quality – which would sometimes fritz-out in a sudden blaring of loud static and “snow” on the screen. (Yeah, I know they make switch boxes. They had already killed one of those, too.) The kids developed a solution for the static problem though. They discovered that instead of quickly pausing the game, reaching around and quietly jiggling the wire, they could just rap on the side of the TV with a stout blow and it would immediately jump back into sync. After being scolded several times, “DON’T POUND ON THE TV!” (I know… ironic, isn’t it?) they quickly discovered that they didn’t have to hit the TV. Hitting the television stand instead would accomplish the same thing. But what if they were seated on the sofa or chair just out of reach? What then? Would they actually get up to do something about it? Hell no. They’re ingenious teenagers for chrissakes!

HOW ABOUT STOMPING OR JUMPING ON THE FLOOR HARD ENOUGH TO SHAKE THE WHOLE DAMN HOUSE? Yeah, that worked just a well, and it was quick – especially if they were already on their feet and didn’t want to take their hands off the farookin’ Guitar Hero controller…

Now… I’m prone to panic attacks. I also commonly suffer “inappropriate adrenalin response” to situations where I’m startled or surprised; I get a super-adrenaline “flush” that makes me immediately sweat and then feel nauseous. That’s usually followed by me either “blowing it off” physically  (usually the better solution)  or the onset of a full-blown panic attack. Mrs. Who once had a bad dream in which she let out a yelp in her sleep – which woke me up immediately in a state of reaction. When I realized there was nothing to do – the house wasn’t burning (thank God) and there was nobody burgling our house that I could beat to a pulp – I had nowhere to channel the adrenaline that flooded my system. I ended up screaming/crying into a pillow next to a very worried and pitiful Mrs. Who.

That shit sucks. There’s no rational release or take-down from it. It’s a tsunami of inappropriate psycho-physiological reaction that you either have to surf or let engulf you as it passes.

So to be engrossed in reading or working through something on my computer screen only to be ripped from my skull by…

clackitty-clackitty-BSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ – B O O M!

…was enough to send me over the top and around the bend at once – several times in an evening.

Yeah, I hated that damn TV. It was time for it to die – and on my terms.

Heh.

Well, my blog is no longer R.I.P.

I recovered more than I thought I could, but there’s still a lot of cleanup to do around this place. My sidebars are seriously screwed up, and I’m thinking I may have to lose the look. Maybe a fresh coat of e-Paint and some new drapes. Maybe I’ll ditch WordPress altogether for a new CMS. I dunno. Something different.

I lost a post or two – not many, I’m afraid – but I’ll get over it. I moved in here at HostMonster.com back in November and had a helluva time trying to get everything straightened out. For the record, I love HostMonster. But I hate Fantastico. (More on that later.)

THEN… The “Holidays” hit. Like an effin ton of manure, they hit. I felt buried alive. And since I suck at VERBALIZING what I feel, I DEMONSTRATED it instead.

I. Freaked. Out.

The loss of my blog was the least of it all… I was sure it was gone for good, but through pieces and parts, I managed to find most of it so long after my e-Tantrum®.

To my beautiful, loving and blessedly patient wife, and to those of you who witnessed my unraveling on Mrs. Who’s blog, I sincerely apologize. I really wasn’t myself. I don’t know that I can say I’m 100%, since I really f#cK3d up big… I’m still trying to recover.

For anyone who has been reading my blog and Mrs. Who’s, it should come as no surprise that I am dealing with Post Traumatic Stress, Depression, and for the triple-play… OCD. Throw-in some pretty raw worries about MamaBear’s prognosis (she’s doing well, actually… Thank you, Lord!) during a trip to MD Anderson that I had to miss because of my new job… Oh, and the New JOB – fitting in, finding my niche, worrying about the “stress days” that I had already needed to take, etc. Then of course, a house full of obnoxious teenagers, an EX (hers, not mine) who can’t seem to get his ass off his shoulders and throw-in a little “Holiday Cheer” (no, not in the alcohol or pharmacological sense. Think steeping in sarcasm, “Merry Fuck You Too” pushing crowds and rotten drivers, short tempers and pissheads with no manners running all over ’cause you HAVE to finish shopping with money you don’t have so you *think* you can make everyone happy for, like, five whole SECONDS… Yeah, I think you get it), and before you know it, the family is huddled in the Family Troop Mover looking for a place to hide from my raging freakout.

Yeah, the face on the doc in the emergency room was priceless when I told him how good it felt to smash that effin TV with an axe. It did. It really, really did. I hated that TV.

(Tell me you never even wondered what it would be like… Liar.)

Fortunately, I was the only witness to that television set’s tragic demise. The family had already given me my much-needed space – but they did walk-in on the techno-gory aftermath. It was scary for them AND me. I still feel ashamed of myself and my behavior, even though I know I wasn’t exactly behind the wheel, so to speak.

So… I don’t know what direction I’ll take my blog from here. Right now, there’s still more Friction than Harmony, but it’s getting better. There are a lot of things I never felt I could talk about on my blog. Like, for instance, depression.

Screw that!

In spite of everything… everything that we’ve had fall on our shoulders these past years… All the tragedy, conniving asshats and EX-family, health issues, financial woes, teeth fractured in my sleep due to stress, and even more missed days from work for subsequent dental repair… I’m still here!

Hey, Lemon Stand… Can I borrow a cup of sugar? I got a whole lot of lemons that I’ve let stack up on me. It’s time to do some squeezin’!

I’ve been having nightmares lately, usually waking me up in the wee hours of the morning, and nearly all centered in or around the same place: LOT 13, Evergreen Heights.

It is where I grew up. At the time, it was an upper-middle class all-brick home, built in the post WWII Salt Lake City suburbs. My parents paid $27,000 for it, then remodeled it to add a new master bedroom. They knocked-down the wall to the old master bedroom to create a full-width living room for entertaining, and then my father added an “Olympic sized” swimming pool (it wasn’t but that’s how he always described it), complete with changing rooms and a covered patio, again for entertaining.

In late 2003, just after my adoptive mother passed away, I drove past that old house. It was for sale. Called “quaint” and “cozy” in a declining, “well-established” (i.e., OLD) neighborhood, it was listed for $229,000.

I haven’t thought too much about that house (though I can still remember our old phone number), but lately, it’s invaded my subconscious.

It’s not surprising – a lot of Hell came down on us there, ultimately ending in the near destruction of our family and our losing the house out from under us.

In that large-ish living room, I met a future governor of the state, and members of a Chicago “mafia” crime family — though not at the same time.

There was a lot I remember about that place…

I remember just blocks away from that house, a warm gun held to my head – presumably by one of those Chicago kin – late on a freezing cold January night, and being given a “message” for my father, who was in prison at the time.

I remember police and more guns, and unwittingly giving high-speed chase through town after what turned out to be a deputy district attorney in the wee hours of the morning, after I saw a suspicious car driving slowly past our house. A few days later, that same car was back – when they arrested my father. I stepped out of the shower to hear the commotion in our large-ish living room. As I peeked around the corner, wearing only a towel around me, Mr. Deputy Attorney sneered and threatened to arrest me for reckless driving and intimidation of a court official or some such. Dad, already in handcuffs, said, “what makes you think it was my son driving that car?”

I remember using my budding intelligence and ingenuity to create a hardwire-tap on the home phones for my mother, to monitor my father’s telephone calls to his “clients.” Those tapes were later reviewed by the FBI and US Marshals in their investigation of an illegal pornography ring that my father had become involved with. I think I was about eight at the time. Those conversations were remarkably graphic.

I remember the pool stained red with blood and shattered glass everywhere when my cousin and Dad got into a fight, went together through the huge master bedroom portrait window, came back out, broke a redwood patio table, then went into the pool – both bleeding profusely from large gashes – where they took turns trying to drown each other. My cousing was high on cocaine. Dad was just rip-roaring drunk. I think it was the Fourth of July.

I remember drowning in that pool with my hands and legs tied with rope by my father, and then being revived as Dad stood cussing at the neighbor who saved me. For perhaps a few moments, everything was warm and very peaceful. The only difficult thing about drowning is the initial panic – otherwise, it’s more or less painless.

I remember pink formica with gold speckle and salt-and-pepper linoleum floors, a pink built-in-oven and range. I remember falling off the counter in slow-motion when I was a baby, and falling down the steel-edged linoleum-covered stairway onto the concrete floor in the basement when I was four or five. I remember the old refrigerator in the basement – how we would stand, dripping wet from the swimming pool, daring each-other to touch the handle to open it, because we knew it would shock us every time, but we were thirsty, and that’s where my family stockpiled the sodas (and beer!).

I remember the pungent smell of garlic and wine, as lamb marinated in that refrigerator every summer for my Russian Grandma’s (and later my father’s) open-pit shish kebab feast. My father used to joke that Grandma’s three-foot-long skewers once roasted bits of yak in Siberia. At least I think he was joking.

I remember discovering alcohol at one such summer party when I was very young – perhaps five or six years old – delighting at the taste of minty grasshoppers… And not just getting sips, but having my own made for me, and then the adults – even Mom – laughing at me staggering drunk and saying, “well, that’s one way to keep him quiet!” Then I remember puking minty bile and half-digested colorful party foods swimming in green foam. Mmmmm, holiday parties and family gatherings. Sweet.

I remember sleep outs and late-night dares to go skinny dipping in the pool, and thusly seeing my first real-life nekkid girl (and wishing I had much better night vision). There were neighborhood feuds that issued forth from the presence of floating turds and my father subsequently flooding the neighbor’s yard as he emptied the pool to “flush the toilet where it belongs,” since it was one of their children who defiled his sparkling blue waters. Even more trouble ensued when he caught the same neighbor kids peeing in the non-plumbed changing rooms rather than go back to their house (they were forbidden in ours).

I remember the shock and dismay on three ladies’ faces when the Women’s Relief Society came to our house to collect for a remembrance gift for Mrs. Miller, whose husband had passed away the previous day. My father answered the door wearing only his boxer shorts, probably gaping open, and bellowed in laughter, “So the old bastard finally kicked the bucket, eh? Sure! Sure, I’d be happy to donate to the cause! Let me get my wallet, I’ll give big for that sonofabitch’s funeral!” Torn between the promise of a large donation and wanting to flee in terror, the ladies huddled closely together in our large-ish living room as they waited for my father to return. I stood wide-eyed, wondering what kept them there, knowing what was about to happen… He returned as noisily as he had left the room, waving his fat wallet in the air. “Here it is, here it is! I’ve got a BIG donation for you – everything that old bastard deserves!” whereupon he produced a single dollar bill.

I remember a nightmare I had when I was perhaps three – of demented Disney characters and a disembodied, laughing yellow skull chasing me from behind the bushes near the front porch. No wait. Yeah, it was a nightmare all right… Cable TV hadn’t yet been born (that would have been 1968 or 1969) and Disney programs were still wholesome and broadcast only on Sunday nights, after Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.

I remember playing (and getting the wits scared out of me) in the cemetery behind the neighborhood to the west, and building an “underground fort” in the neighboring farmer’s field to the east. I remember that neighbor’s red tractor with it’s nose in the air, sideways in the ground – having nearly been swallowed-up as it drove across the “camouflaged” covered plywood roof of our geo-maze. The farmer was taken to the hospital – nearly crushed in the fall from his tractor, but thankfully only bruised and very, very angry. I remember getting caught sneaking in to feed his chickens, and the terrible smell of that chicken coop on any given hot summer’s day.

I remember holding a loaded .22 rifle – safety off – on my brother-in-law after he attacked me in my bedroom for playing my music too loudly when I was sixteen. I remembered then how I had before seen him viciously blow-up at his own mother – throwing hot coffee at her – and how he had often physically abused my sister. As he was choking me and hissing his threats, I “saw red” and “stepped outside myself.” When he finished, I calmly retrieved and loaded my rifle, stepped into the family room where he was reading, cocked the rifle, pointed it directly at his head and clicked the safety off. I told him, “you’re leaving our house now, and you’re not coming back unless it’s to get your shit outta here.” As he turned to look at me, his eye met mine along the sights of that little Ruger 10/22. He had an apartment rented by the next afternoon. Mom was very upset about my sister’s divorce from a doctor. I later learned that he had been having a homosexual affair at about that same time. Gah!

I remember the weird “haunted” goings-on in that house, and studying the occult to try to find answers. I remember worrying that I was suffering some sort of psychosis or schizophrenia – and feeling only somewhat relieved when I realized that other people saw and heard things too. I still don’t know what caused the sounds of voices and footsteps, or things to move or fly or turn on or off. I remember flying up eleven stairs in one bound after coming face to face with what seemed like pure evil. To this day, I won’t touch a Ouija board or even allow one in my house.

I remember the silent, sideways glances and scared looks I got after openly “cursing” one of my high school foes – only to have him shatter his hip and femur in a serious fall the following weekend. He never returned to our school. Talk about coincidence establishing credibility – not to mention screwing with my own mind.

I remember having only one or two friends from school ever visit me at my house, because I was always terrified of what my father would say or do to embarrass and humiliate me. (He went on a drunken tirade at my sister’s Sweet Sixteen pool party, calling her a “f*cking s1ut” and a “c0ck$*cking wh0re” in front of all her friends and their dates, and even some parents.)

I remember my mother holding a 10″ butcher knife to my father’s bare abdomen, threatening to kill him if he ever hit me again. To his credit, he never did – at least not physically. A few years later, Dad tried to turn the tables on her. After we got home from my mother’s birthday dinner on the town, he stepped outside and in a moment returned with a can of turpentine from the garage. He marched into the living room, uncapped the can and shook it over her, covering her and the couch in flammable liquid. As I stood watching in horror just a few feet away, he struck a match and said, “goodbye, bitch!” and flung the match at her… Thankfully, it went out in mid-air. His moment was over. Mom leaped-up as he was tearing another match from the book, grabbed the turpentine can from him and she swung – connecting with his temple. He staggered back. She swung again. Turpentine was splashing everywhere. The odor was sickening. He held-up his arms and drunkenly staggered backward into a glass-topped coffee table, fell… and broke his leg. He lay there moaning and crying all night long. She finally called an ambulance to come pick his sorry ass up in the morning.

I remember even my dog trying on numerous occasions to maim him – and cheering and praising her privately every time. She managed to break his shoulder. Dad had a thing for falling and breaking appendages… He broke his leg another time when the neighbor’s car horn went off in the middle of the night. Thinking it was his Cadillac, he raced out, hit a patch of ice on the concrete stairs, and *snap*.

For obvious reasons, he seldom found sympathy.

Most of all, I remember raging at my father. And him raging at me. We seldom encountered each other without some bitterness or ugly exchange. I remember the terrible things we said to each-other as I packed my car and left our home after graduating high school. I left Utah, determined to never set foot in that house again.

I should have held my convictions. My father was arrested again, just days after I left. I wouldn’t see him for over three years, refusing to visit him in jail or talk to him on the phone. But I went back to LOT 13, Evergreen Heights, because I felt guilty. Mom and my handicapped brother needed me.

I abandoned my hopes of going to school for the time being, and focused on a full-time job to earn money to support my family. Then I bought a motorcycle. Then a car. Then courted a girl disaster. We broke-up, and I got married “on the rebound,” had kids, moved away, got divorced, got in even deeper with child support and new debt. Then got married again and bought a house and TWO vehicles. Next, we waged everything in a battle for custody of my children. After that, it was bankruptcy. (I’d do it again.) Then more court battles.

Somewhere in all this, I started my own business, which was successful for a while – but over time, my certifications became outdated. Then hurricanes slammed our area and skewed my business to hell and back, forcing me into obsolescence.

And now here I sit, (all brokenhearted… ) business finally closed, and looking for something new. Something without a 100-mile daily commute, and that pays well enough to feed a family of six and pay the notes.

Further, I don’t smoke, I can’t drink, and I’ve cut-out almost all caffeine. Harsh language is all it seems I have left – and in that I indulge myself perhaps way too much.

I haven’t been blogging lately, ’cause there’s so much of this depressing shit that I haven’t wanted to post. And I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want people to stumble into my rambling psycho-vomitus, or because I know it’s useless to wallow in it myself. Maybe both. Of course heaping doses of guilt will sour just about anything.

Funny has been hard to come by lately…

It’s no wonder I’m having nightmares.

I know I haven’t been doing much on my little geek-blog lately to garner much attention, but I saw a comment here that I feel warrants some face-time far and wide.

But before I delve further, first let me offer something of a sidebar:

For those of you who are familiar with Rachel Lucas – no explanation is necessary. For those who might not have heard of Rachel, her original blog lived by a declared standard of three words: Piquance. Impudence. Ordnance.

Rachel has absolutely no idea who I am (I was never more than a mere lurker), but she may as well be my true blogmother… Hers was the first blog I ever read, which led me to others; IMAO and Harvey, then the rest of the Bad Example Family and beyond. She had closed her original blog some time ago, but not before inspiring Mrs. Who and I to venture further into the blogosphere to read, lurk, comment, and eventually blog on our own. (I’m taking credit for first introducing Mrs. Who and convincing her to blog, btw. Now I can’t even begin to keep up with her, so y’all are welcome!)

Anyway, Rachel is back, along with Digger and Sunny. (Woot!) She’s definitely worth putting on your regular “To-Read” list. In this post, a friend challenged her to watch a M.M. shlockumentary, in the hopes of swaying her to like the fat sonofabitch, even just a little. Uh, fat effing chance. Her post title says it all.

What really got my attention, however, was a comment left in response to M.M.’s recent celluloid-vomitus, “Sicko,” where the fat fuck touts Cuban health care as being somehow superior to the health care delivery system here in the U.S. The comment in question appears to be an un-credited cross-post from another blog, but I’m uncertain of the source…

Now, having a parent with cancer and making routine trips to the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, and having personally witnessed insanely rich foreigners also partaking of the treatment options here, I have a strong personal opinion about Moore’s sicko claims. However, nothing says it clearer or more movingly than this:

Michael Moore, Sicko, Cuba, Filmmaking, Deceit

This post I found a long time ago is now again relevant in light of Michael Moore’s, um, er, shit, uh… ‘techniques’

There is an eMail I recently received from a friend. It contained a link to the Babalublog about someone who was waxing philosophic about the greatness that is the worker’s paradise known as Cuba. I had something to say right away, but I held off for a few dasy in order to take care of some other things, and get a few minutes set aside to write about Cuba.

First, unlike about 99.99% of the population in America, I have actually been to Cuba. I didn’t go there as part of some bullshit potemkin village tour, or to betray the US by deliberately badmouthing these United States like Noam Chomsky.

No, I was there for other reasons. I was a sentry on the fenceline which seperates the US Naval Base at Guantanamo bay from Communist Cuba. I loved the character of Col. Nathan Jessup in “A few good men,” btw.

Now, I am a medical student, and I worked for a while as an EMT on an ambulance. One question I get sometimes from those who do not work in medicine is the dreaded “So, what’s the worst thing you have ever seen?”

btw, We generally hate that question. The bad stuff we have seen has broken our hearts, and asking us about it is like asking us about an ex-girlfriend who ripped our heart out and did a Mexican hat dance on it. It’s something we would prefer not to remember, but we cannot forget.

Anyway, they ask me what the worst thing I have ever seen is. I have a fair selection to choose from. I have seen soccer moms torn apart in MVAs. I have seen children who had fallen out the window of a moving vehicle. I have seen 15 year old girls in labor. I have seen the second of premature twins desperately trying to live against all odds gasping for air like a golddfish out of water, while his dead brother is beside him. I have seen a lot of stuff which I really could have lived for the rest of my life without seeing, and I wouldn’t miss it.

But the worst thing I ever saw was in Cuba.

There was, at the time of this, the policy of the Clinton administration to deny access to the US Naval base by refugees. One day, while I was serving as part of a reactionary force, a group of refugees were spotted heading towards the base. As the reactionary force, it was our duty to react to whatever came up. We did so in this case as well.

We deployed in the vicinity of the fenceline. We met the refugees as they approached, and with weapns in hand, denied them entry to the base. They had managed to traverse a kilometer deep minefield covered by towers with machine guns to get to this point. They had left everything they had ever known in order to get out of there. And we stopped them. We had orders. We had our orders, so we followed them. After enough shouting and threatening, the refugees eventualy gave up and headed back. Back into Cuba. While I was sweating my balls off under the hot sun, these refugees made a mistake. They had gotten through the minefield the first time, but they had not followed in their own footsteps going back. While I was thinking to myself how I wish these people would hurry up and go back so that I could head back to someplace with air-conditioning, one of them stepped on a landmine.

That explosion touched my world.

Then, I witnessed the worst thing I ever saw in my life.

As the dust cloud wafted away from those refugees, nobody ran. Nobody screamed. Nobody said anything.

They just laid down to die in the middle of a minefield that was the sun’s anvil.
Think of how badly you would not want to die like that. Think about that real hard. Think about slowly dying of exposure in a minefield. Think about what would make you risk such an outcome. Think about it real hard, and then remember that as bad as that was, it was better than going back.

Despair was once described to me by a college english professor as “the death throes of hope.” That day in the minefield was despair incarnate, and it was the worst thing I have ever seen with mine own eyes.

Make a fucking documentary of that.

Posted by FightClub™ | July 11, 2007 6:33 PM

Indeed. Thank you, sir – for your words, and most of all, for your standing watch over me and mine. Thank you.

Encouraged by some of the comments and notes I have received, I wanted to add something more to my earlier tribute.:

Pop was a dynamic and distinguished southern gentleman – and he certainly had a heart of gold. My fondest (and most touching) memory of the short time we had was of visiting him at the VA hospital in Biloxi, MS while he was undergoing some extreme chemotherapy. He would fight to stay conscious, though the drugs were potent. Mom and I told him to go ahead and drift off for a short nap; we were going to go find something to drink. He looked like a startled kid, and asked, “you wouldn’t leave me without saying goodbye, would you? If you have to go, please wake me up first!” He made us promise.

Mom and I walked outside – it was a pleasant autumn day, and the grounds of the hospital were well-groomed and beautiful – bordered in waterfront, with a dock that stretched out onto the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. We found a Coke machine and sat on a bench overlooking the dock, talking about Pop, and life and death in general. When we went back upstairs some 25-30 minutes later, the nurse greeted us with an expression of great relief, then led us quickly around a corner, where we found Pop desperately hunting us. He had been scooting through the halls in a hijacked wheelchair, and looked to be on the brink of panic. When he couldn’t find us in the rec-room or on the main hallway, he was certain we had left him without our goodbyes and I-love-yous…

As if we could have.

I’ve never liked hospitals or nursing homes. Pop, however, said he wanted to spend his final days at the VA Hospital, so his dying “wouldn’t be such a daggum downer on everyone around.” He positively hated being an imposition on anybody. Fortunately, his family wouldn’t hear of it. His step-daughter remodeled her house to accommodate him and his 24-hour care hospice nurses. Thankfully, they dropped any thoughts of jealousy or perceived emotional threat and opened their house to Mom and me as well… mostly for Pop, but it was clear – they were there for me too.

I hated watching him die. It was merely a matter of weeks, from August to the eve of November 14, 2004 that I was able get to know my Pop. On that dark November night, the family was gathering, as it was clear that the end was rapidly approaching. He was barely able to speak at all, but at the mere sight of Mom and me, he mustered all the strength he could, forced a smile, and rasped, “See, I’m getting better and better!”

Pop’s comment wasn’t a denial of his predicament. He was actually looking forward to “crossing over.” He was eager and ready for this new adventure. His only regrets were the lives and saddened faces that cancer was forcing him to leave behind. Ours was perhaps the most tragic and bitter loss, but in the minuscule amount of time we had, we treasured every moment. As we imparted our goodbyes, he looked troubled and terribly sad – for me. I hugged him and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay, Pop. It’s okay for you to go now. We did it! We’re okay, you and I – and I love you…”

With tears in his eyes, he was visibly more relaxed and at-peace than when I first walked into the room. Through his labored breathing, his smile was genuine and peaceful. “I love you too, son. Thank you for… thank you.”

“I know, Pop. You too. I’m going to miss you, ya know… Goodbye for now, Pop. I will be seeing you later.” We hugged one last time and I kissed him on the forehead.

A few short hours later, he was gone. I’m told his passing was quiet and more peaceful than they had anticipated. After Mom and I left, he was relaxed and quiet, drifting in and out of sleep. Around two a.m., the hospice nurse detected his breathing had signaled he was ready. She woke his family to gather in the room, and he just… went quietly.

I think of him frequently. Every time I see a new Mustang in the classic green with racing stripes, I picture him, about my age now, maybe even a little younger, with the second love of his life – his ’67 Shelby GT500 Mustang. It’s the car he was driving when he saved Mom, and the car in which he “blew a Corvette right off the road,” (the ‘vette blew it’s engine trying to catch him) running wide-open on the causeway near Cape Canaveral. I’m looking forward to making a similar run with him one day.

Maybe he’ll even let me drive.

I’ve written a more than a few times about my Dad. While it turned out that he and I came to understand, respect and even love each-other, this Father’s Day post isn’t about him.

Many of you know by now that I was adopted. If you’ve been reading the HoZ from its early days just over a year ago, you know I’m also very close to my birthmother, whom I call MamaBear both on the blogs and in real-life. I found her in late 1994, and life reunited us permanently shortly thereafter.

I learned at that time that my birthfather was the immediate cause for my adoption – he and my Mom had been dating for around a year, with plans to marry… when suddenly the young woman who couldn’t possibly get pregnant – did. My birthfather was a young divorced man with four children already. He had been to Vietnam. He wasn’t interested in expanding his family. Mom was from a strict Catholic upbringing, and dare not confess to her strict father that she had come up pregnant in the family and social atmosphere that existed circa 1965. Though she wanted desperately to keep me, she relented to the pressures and influences of her circumstances and the people around her – including my father. He left her, then agreed to see her through her pregnancy with me when she moved temporarily to the West Coast until I was born. When she went into labor on her own birthday, he drove her to the hospital and said, “goodbye,” driving himself back to New Orleans, where they both had been living. He left her without even so much as bus fare to get home. She was in labor with me for three days – neither of us wanted to let go, but it was inevitable.

This part of my story was crushing and painful. I was enraged at the man who would hurt my mother.

Then I learned that he did love her, in his own misguided way. And he was the only one that she could turn to about her terrible secret – me. He was the only other person who knew about her only child – the child she wasn’t supposed to have. “On a dare,” they married some three years after I was born, and were married for some nine years after that, until his other four children were raised. Somewhere during all these years, I also learned of the time that he had saved my mother’s life by wielding a Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum revolver. I couldn’t help but feel thankful and a little proud of him for his actions.

Nevertheless, after meeting him the first time in the bar at a Holiday Inn in Mobile, Alabama, I wanted little more to do with the man. Over the course of nearly a decade, I saw him perhaps twice more before I learned that he had terminal cancer and wanted to see me. Of the previous times I saw him, one was at his daughter’s (my half-sister’s) wedding. Though he was also invited, I was chosen to give my sister away. I was bitterly-cold to him that day, even though he tried to talk to me. Because of my own misgivings, I had bought-into my sisters’ anger and unrequited issues with the man that had nothing at all to do with me. Her anger was all the fuel I needed to sell myself the reasoning I had for not wanting a relationship with him. However…

I reluctantly agreed to meet with him again, thinking to myself, “sure, it’s only because he has cancer that he wants to see me.” In my own arrogance, I didn’t see that I was only pitying myself – and taking out my anger on him. Not that any anger spent on him was totally undeserved… But I never even gave him the chance to apologize to me, when all along, perhaps I needed to do some soul-searching for an apology for my own behavior.

He was just a man, though he had grown frighteningly frail since I saw him last. Tall, distinguished looking, with thick gray hair and a moustache, he resembled the actor, Hal Holbrook in his present and earlier days. We sat in uncomfortable silence as he winced in pain, trying to make small-talk. The visits were dreadfully uncomfortable, and usually quite brief – much shorter than the time it took to drive the eighty or so miles to his home in Mississippi. Was it even worth it? As a Christian, I had to feel sorry for the man and his suffering, but geez, we just had nothing at all in common…

Then it happened. A chink in my armor had failed as I saw it in his eyes – an expression he wore on his face that was so intimately familiar, it was one of my own. In the following moments it struck me how similar and familiar this man was to me – his habits, his gestures – his brand of wit and delicate mix of sometimes dry, sometimes campy, goofy humor…

A dam was beginning to break. I could feel the crumbling in the dark recesses of my pride. Startled, scared, and with the sudden sick realization of what I had done, what I was about to lose, and all that I had already, in all my foolish pride thrown away, I bolted for the door.

It was after that uncomfortable, tragic visit that I penned this letter:

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

L.P.,

I wanted to write this down for two reasons; I write far better than I can speak, and I want you to be able to remember my words as your concentration falters while you let go of this world for the next. Perhaps even for myself, I want to remember after you’re gone.

On our last visit, we talked a little about your readiness to go. You talked with a tear in your eye of the regrets you have in your life. I tried to tell you, as best I could; please don’t let me be one of those regrets.

I won’t deny that my life has been hard – but who is to say that it would have been any harder or easier if things had been different. I wouldn’t change my life as I know it. Growing up adopted was a thrilling and terrifying experience. I was always on a discovery of who I am. Every time I think I know, every time I believe I have discovered the last piece of the puzzle, a new facet emerges. Even now, in the short time I have been able to spend with you, I have gotten to know another me – I am your son.

Our visit on Monday afternoon was one I was wholly unprepared for, yet I knew I needed to spend time with you. Since that visit, I have been torn so deeply that I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling inside. I have such regret also, that I was so stubborn and unyielding during the eight years that have passed in which I could have gotten to know you better. For even through our previous meetings and the short visits we spent together, you were simply “L.,” or “L.P.” I held you at a distance because of my own fears and pains, for the losses and guilt of the many scars I bear for being left behind, for leaving my parents, and especially for my (adoptive) Mom’s pain on my leaving for what some term my “real” mother. Even for not being there for my own children when they needed me most – right after my divorce. I didn’t know you, and therefore you were an easy target to blame for my own inadequacies and fears. Please forgive me my bitterness and reluctance.

I came Monday because I knew you are dying. Because I knew that if I didn’t, I may later regret at least not making an effort, after you’re gone. I came because I knew you wanted me to, and because Mom told me I really needed to get to know you while I still have the chance. Then, as I watched you grimacing through the pain and bouncing back with a forced smile that I knew was wholly for my benefit, to make me comfortable…I wanted to cry. For suddenly, it finally struck me. At the core of a walled-off part of me, it crept in, and the realization pinned my heart to the floor: This dying man sitting across from me is not an outsider, not a neighbor or even a “family friend”.

You’re my father.

We sit in awkward silence, not knowing what to say to one another, both blaming ourselves for mistakes we’ve made and regretting that we have almost no time left. I want to thank you again for giving me your Ruger Blackhawk – it’s a beautiful gun, and I will indeed treasure it. But I would give it up gladly now for more time.

You said that the gun was all you had to give me. You were wrong. The greatest gift of all was my life. Simply put, without you, I wouldn’t be here today. I do firmly believe that my life is a part of God’s plan. The fact that Mom wasn’t supposed to be able to have children and along I came is enough for me. But then there’s more. I have felt the Hand of God move in my life all throughout my years. I have withstood unusual turmoil and had great burdens placed upon me – all with God’s trust that I can handle them.

Through you, God gave me to Mom. When His plan took me temporarily away, she turned to you as the only person who knew of her loss, and you protected her, loved her, and comforted her when she needed it most. For that, I am also thankful. And when it was time for me to find her again, it was by the name [Bitterroot] that I found myself, so that I could find her.

I have to believe that our circumstances, our stubbornness, and even our failures have played into God’s will, for so much as I would still like to know you and spend time with you… Knowing that you love me is enough. It would be enough even if we had had the opportunity to go on long drives together, go shooting, eat catfish, or to just sit and talk about life with a whole lot of it left to live.

Sometimes, I see in the way you look at me a picture of myself, as I sense you see yourself in me. Between the pains that rack your body, you display a wit and spirit I want to carry with me. Mom has told me often that I do this or that like you, or even look like you when I gesture or talk. Even when I was angry and stubbornly held you out, hearing about some likeness to you secretly thrilled me, because for so many years I didn’t look like anybody that was family. I definitely belong to you, but how do we fit?

Know that I already have a “Dad.” His title is well earned – for both him and for myself. We both struggled, fought, suffered and finally together we rejoiced. It took more than thirty years for us to be able to say “I love you.” I can neither take that title away from him, nor even loan it out.

But after nearly 39 years separation and enough turmoil overcome to warrant our own rejoicing, I would be honored for you to be my “Pop”. I love you, and I’m so sorry to see you go so soon after finally discovering each other. My prayers are with you now, as they will be many, many years from now when thinking of and calling on you will be as much for my own comfort.

Pop, I love you, and I’m going to miss you – but I know we’ll see each other again one day. It is true that we’ve missed out on a lifetime together, but I hope that as we say goodbye, knowing that I do love you will be enough.

For now I pray, Peace of the Lord be always with you.

Your son, Bitterroot
Born, C.P.M.,
December 1, 1965

The dam – the tremendous wall that had separated us and held our emotions in reserve had been ruptured permanently and completely. We were desperate to know each other, to spend more time, but time was a luxury we had let slip through our fingers. I realize I wasn’t entirely to blame, nor was he – our shares were pretty equal, overall. He had a new family to hold together, and my presence brought one painful reality to bear – he was still deeply, passionately in love with my mother, and he always had been. The fact that he made stupid choices throughout his life only complicated things – and drove my mother away from him. Pop’s widow is a dear, sweet Christian lady who did what my mother never could – she got him to Church. He became so involved and so well loved that he seemed a local celebrity in his congregation. His baptist minister – an awesome and holy man – was counted among his many “best friends,” and visited him nearly every day.

From the day I started visiting, Pop promised he would treat me to “the best catfish dinner you’ll ever have.” There was a restaurant near his neck of the woods that he claimed had the best catfish to be found anywhere – and the hushpuppies were to die for…

Pop’s health deteriorated too rapidly for us to make that catfish dinner a reality, but I’m still gonna hold him to it. No doubt he’s staked out the perfect place by now… I look forward to that dinner every time the thought of him crosses my mind. (Maybe that’s why it seems like I’m always hungry!)

Happy Father’s Day, Pop. I look forward to it all, one day…

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UPDATE: For those visiting via link, I’ve also posted an epilogue to this tribute. Thanks for stopping by!