They're Not Coming for Your Guns

I have a question for the anti-gun people who are not fascists or insane.

(And sometimes I’m very anti-gun.)

How do you bring in all the firearms?

How do we take them back from those who we consider unfit to own them?

How do we know what’s in the backpack, the gym bag, under the front seat, under the pillow and how do we make those un-indicted, thus far law-abiding individuals give up their weapons?

I don’t approve of unrestrained anger (get help) and I’m anti-stupid (stay in school) but I’ve been guilty of serious anger and stupidity and I’ve acted out while in the grip of both. A lot of stupid and angry people have guns (personal experience) and I’m fairly sure that they should not. Me? I definitely should never own a firearm. Without going into detail, I have no felony convictions, no domestic violence arrests, and my paranoia is within normal limits but I’m self-aware and honest enough to know my own history and tendencies, and neither lends itself to the authorized, safe ownership of a handgun.

(Last Saturday, for no reason, I was talking to people who were not present in my car and I sometimes became angry at them and made threats. I have imaginary enemies.)

There remains the possibility that someone, or myself, could get hurt or killed if I had a Glock in the console.

There are a crazy number of guns in circulation. We’ve seen the stats: one firearm for every U.S. citizen. 318 million people, 300 million guns. I don’t have my gun, so some guy has two. If you don’t have yours, that guy has six guns strewn around his home. Simple math and light research and I reach the conclusion that a crapload of these guns are in the possession of people who shouldn’t have them. Ever. Even with no convictions, no arrests, no traffic tickets, all legal and registered, but:

Road Rage dirtbag can’t tolerate being passed on the freeway.

Methed-out mom shopping at Wal-Mart for a pair of sunglasses.

Quiet recluse with a twisted crush on his landlady’s granddaughter.

How the hell do we figure out who they are, and how do we wrestle away their guns? It’s a big question.

Door to door? I am definitely not volunteering to confront some hungover family on Sunday morning while they’re getting ready for church and ask them if they’d answer a few questions, honestly, and when they don’t score well then I’m authorized to search the house for firepower. Fuck no.

Do we put up a sign on the courthouse lawn asking those who are sad, angry, paranoid, jobless, unhealthy, unstable, marginalized, bullied and unhinged to drop by every Saturday between 11 A.M. and 2 P.M. for a gracious handshake and a big smile as we relieve you of your pistols?

Grant amnesty to everybody and buyback any weapons they may have lying around?

I don’t see it happening without a fascist nanny-state green-party peace and freedom militia takeover. Please, what's the reality? What am I missing? What’s the strategy here? The outrage is mounting along with every mass shooting, and the shooting incidents are getting closer and closer to together. Pretty soon it will be one continuous gunfight; good guys, bad guys, soccer moms, cardiologists, school kids, deer hunters, Mormons, alcoholics, gangbangers, flipouts, nutcases and screwballs blasting away 24/7 coast to coast.

What’s the plan?

Talk is cheap.

Bowie. RIP. However...

I admit it; I didn’t get David Bowie. No hate. Not hating.  I’m not saying that he wasn’t a genius or beautiful or the physical embodiment of art and music and fashion. He was, with his makeup and haircuts and his perfect white-guy Anglo-Saxon body. I just didn’t care. I am put off when Art School, Fashion and music intersect. It’s a little complicated for me.

I mentioned this to a friend and he immediately began quoting Bowie lyrics. I had to stop him. You see, I’m a drummer and I hardly care about lyrics. Yes, I’ve written songs, we all have, but the words are secondary. In my world, rocknroll should make you bleed, make you want to fuck, get drunk and high, fight, it’s supposed to hurt because it’s teenage music, even if you’re an old man, and it spits and shouts anger and frustration and revolt.

It is Rebel Without a Cause, the Fender Stratocaster, and laughing your ass off after you’ve wrecked your car.

The lyrics and costumes and backgrounds come later. Important? Sure. Who doesn’t like cool clothes? Or a decent light show? And truly, Dylan, The Beatles, Jim Morrison, Bowie, everyone, has written amazing lyrics, poems, rants with a beat. Dig it. No question. But drums, bass, guitar, heavy amps and the occasional Hammond B3 are the foundation of everything.

I do not give a shit about Lady Gaga, folkrock whiners, clever verse set to a jangling rhythm. Bowie was all right. So was Michael Jackson, Elvis, Janis, Buddy, Stevie Ray, anyone you want to mourn, personal saints and saviors. Me? I miss Otis Redding and Keith Moon. Shit, man, everyone, everything dies, all heroes and family and pets and celebrities. Gone, gone away forever. But rock remains and I love to listen to the exploding chords, the beat, reverb, echo, ear splitting volume. That’s what I seek and, thankfully, have found. That’s what saved my ass as a young guy who hated school, hated work, hated his friends, his clothes, hated other people, hated himself. I passed on Bowie. Sorry, fans. I guess I wasn’t sensitive enough. He didn’t give me what I needed at the time and what I probably still need.

Have you ever awakened the next morning hung over, lost, confused, can’t find your keys, wonder if your nose is broken and how that happened, need a cigarette, and you can’t hear, there is muffled ringing in your loud-damaged ears, begin to remember the gig, the crowd, the concert, scenes take shape, maybe real, maybe not, and you are glad to be alive? Literally alive and in pain and it’s perfect.

That’s rocknroll and I wouldn’t change it. RIP everyone and Turn It Up.

The Pigeon Story

I waved at a flock of pigeons in my back yard and they flew away. We have a bird feeder and they are voracious, decimating the food before better birds arrive. Greedy fuckers. So, when I see a bunch of them munching uncontrollably, I wave my arms from inside the house and they perceive danger and take wing, panicky, flapping and flailing. It looks kind of cool and funny; I feel powerful.

Today, when I waved them away they all took off except for one.

A normal-looking pigeon, average, nothing special, but it remained behind, pecking as the others split.

I thought: that is one smart pigeon.

He (I’m calling it a “he”) suspects that I’m not a "real" threat so he hangs back and helps himself to more seed than the rest of the birds. Advanced birdbrain.

But wait. It is also possible that he’s the stupidest dude in the flock because when the rest took flight, he stayed around and put himself at risk to eat more than his share. Gluttony on an avian scale. Does he not know about cats, coyotes, foxes? He can’t be so smart that he differentiates me as a harmless harasser from the dangerous predators, can he?

            But seriously, I’m not sure. This is a problem with evolution. Either the most adaptable survive, or the stupidest. Based on recent observations, I’m going with the latter. 

 

I Wish I Knew

Holidays are over, now lets get back to work. Make lists and promises, announce commitments and concerns. Politics and refugees, bullying and terrorism. Give the impression that I care enough, that I know something, I'm involved.

I’m outraged at the way (Fill in the Blank) is behaving and how (Fill in the Blank) is being treated. (Fill in the Blank) must stop. The Government is (Fill in the Blank) and should do something. What is wrong with (Fill in the Blank)? Have they no conscience? No humanity? (Fill in the Blank) is a failure. The real enemy is (Fill in the Blank).

There. All done. All better. Sorted out. A template for outrage that should cover the next 12 months unless there’s an invasion from mars, resurgence of the Black Death or an extinction event (comet, quake, cancellation of Bates Motel). I can get back to writing short stories and novels, maybe even some dopey poetry, without feeling that I’m not participating in the anger and angst required of a modern man. There are very few people I trust enough to consider their opinions and I plan to avoid social media witch-hunts, crucifixions and lynch mobs. I’m an anachronism, unmodern and backwards and I don’t know about anything except:

1.  Late 19^th  and mid-20^th century classic literature

2.  Jazz music between 1945 and 1965 (and some Avant Garde).

3.  How to stop making shit up

Honestly, I don't even know enough about that stuff. The best thing I have is a method to cease creating my own misery (#3). I don’t always begin the moderating process soon enough, but I am convinced that I can reduce unnecessary suffering by 90 percent. Also, epic literature and decent jazz. If I can help with any of those things, let me know.

Meanwhile, I have a filthy pornographic poem running through my head and I have to write it down before it disappears. In my world that would be a great loss. Happy New Year and Stay Involved.