Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Who needs to be Catholic to feel guilty? Even Druids get the blues.
Being a first-year school teacher has insulated me from the news. I'm not home in time to watch CBS, and I don't have time to read the newspaper. Usually I sleep through "Countdown with Keith," which is fine by me. He's kind of snobby.
Last night I was awake for "Countdown." Keith trotted out the photos of oil-coated shore birds and marshes mired in crude. I knew this was happening, but you know what they say about a picture painting a thousand words.
Keith was pointing fingers. Who's to blame for this catastrophe? For catastrophe it is, my friends. Here on the East Coast, I expect next winter's snowfalls will contain oil from this spill.
It's a disaster. Can't blame any deity. So, where do we really point the finger?
It's me. I did it. I am at least partly to blame for this mammoth catastrophe, for those dead birds and reeking marshes. It's my fault.
I consume the oil that is pumped from those wells. I drive a car, air condition my house, use electricity to run appliances -- even this computer. I make useless trips to stores, drive long distances for leisure activities, and buy stuff that's encased in layers of plastic. This is my lifestyle, and is it BP's fault that they are profiting from it?
I wish I could say that I'm going to change my ways, but I can't remember a time when the places I lived had no electricity (even our farm in Appalachia had electricity by the time I was born). I can't remember a time without cars. Everything I do is based on the oil/coal economy. Granted, my drive to work is short, but it's just far enough that I can't bike it. My house has 38 windows and no cross-ventilation. Even if each and every window is open, no air blows in. Only light. Which is great in the winter, but today it's 92 degrees outside.
I'm sorry, birds. I'm sorry, marshes. I'm sorry, fishermen.
There's no need to apologize to Gaia, however. She has seen worse. Stupid schlubs like me pale in comparison to massive meteors, supervolcanoes, and Ice Ages.
That doesn't make me happy about being a stupid schlub, though. It just means I won't be driving my car to BP headquarters to protest their profit-making. If I want to point a finger at who's to blame for this oil spill, I only need to walk to a mirror. Turn on the light first, so I can see my polluting self all the better.