A Solution to Gun Violence

Another school shooting. Second or third this week. Lost count. We care. People like us, the victims, the targets, the irrelevant; we care. Shoppers, students, working people, families. We care because we may be next. We’re the people who get shot. It’s a terrible thing, right?

But no one else actually gives a shit, not the lawmakers, congress, senators, the Supreme Court, gun owners (lots and lots), cops. No one who can actually do anything about crazy assholes with firearms cares about gun deaths until they get maimed, their kids get killed, or their favorite lobbyist is shot and shuts off the cashflow. Nope. Every time one of these public massacres happens we still have to listen to the same old dumbassed give-and-take dialogue about gun control.

Take them away from everyone

Register the shit out of them, like cars

Screen all potential owners for mental issues

Arm everyone

Self defense

Criminals

Bad guys with guns, good guys with guns

NRA evil

Cecil the lion.

On the pro-gun side, the argument usually boils down to that old chestnut:

“Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.”

Right? That is so specious and small-minded. Screwballs shout that line, “Guns don’t kill, people do,” whenever they get a chance, and now it’s become a kind of right wing dickless stupid-guy joke. If a kid dies in a car wreck, you can bet your ass that a boring, dropout, stay-at-home porn-addict will comment, “Well perhaps we should outlaw all cars because someone died in one. Huh? Huh?”

Fuck you.

The whole, “Guns don’t kill people because they are inanimate objects like a hammer and need a person to operate them,” is so thoughtless and old and worn out that anyone who uses that argument should automatically be prohibited from owning anything more dangerous than a donut because they are way too stupid to own a weapon.

I have an idea.

Since we’re on the way to decriminalizing/legalizing weed (really, trust me, it’s coming soon everywhere) I expect there will be a lot more empty prison cells. Once we stop arresting and prosecuting citizens for non-violent drug possession we can free up entire cellblocks.

But wait, won’t this be a threat to America’s giant prison industry? Staff will be redundant and laid off, budgets reduced, and then what? Should out of work prison employees, many who are armed, just lay back in their recliners and smoke weed? How do we keep them employed and productive?

We retrain the DEA and all law enforcement agencies, prosecutors, and prison personnel to shift their failed “War on Drugs” programs to a brand new, helpful, functional “War on Guns”.

We’ll never get rid of all guns, too much money and whored-out congressmen for that, but if an individual is apprehended with an illegal firearm, if he or she has a gun that is not properly registered, if they use a gun in the commission of a crime, if they threaten with, brag about, brandish or wave a gun, if they have a firearm in a place where it can be found by a kid, if a gun owner is drunk, high, has a domestic abuse record or has been in trouble for road rage or has used a cell phone in a movie theater, then we arrest them and put them in jail with the same sentence that would have been given to a marijuana user fifty years ago. Life in prison in some Texas jurisdictions. And god help any fool who is caught with a stolen weapon. Sounds fair. A lot of slammers could be re-stocked with dorks who have stepped over the line and misplaced or misused their precious and the incarceration business could retain its employees, offering benefits and uniforms and security and Christmas parties and company picnics and finally doing something to promote safety in the community while prison workers will still be able support their families, buy big trucks and eat at Taco Bell.

I know, I know, the NRA and the Washington money will never allow it. It’s a dream; but if they oppose this idea, an idea that could get stupid-assed gun owners off the streets, if the NRA or their Congressional puppies protest with typical shit-for-brains arguments, we shoot them in the face.

Trip Report with Dangerous Video: California 2015

Driving. Driving. What do you do after hours of driving, thinking, worrying, planning, listening to the radio and trying to stay awake? I whipped out the camera and made little movies, completely unfocused on my driving, on other cars and upcoming hazards. Holding still and editing on the run, I had to spin the wheel a few times, correct my trajectory in order to stay in one piece while on a 12 day trip through Northern California to see old friends and family. I was in the world that raised me and it was all familiar and sometimes a little sad. Things change. We're supposed to be happy about that, adjust to change, be flexible. I am, for the most part, fine with change, I've experienced the best of it,  but memory is a tricky bastard and can really fuck you up. I felt as if I was being crushed by memory a few times and other times I was wallowing in it, overjoyed and outloud.

There were fires unlike anything anyone has ever seen in the foothills of the Sierras, near Yosemite, Clear Lake and in the Trinity Alps. Catastrophic. A few mornings I awoke to a smoky landscape and nervous homeowners. Friends were evacuated and didn't know if they'd have a home when they returned. California is bone dry, desiccated and unwatered by rain or snow for several years. Rivers that have crashed through the famed gold country for centuries are now simply large rocks resting in a few puddles. A fire can wipe out an entire community in a half hour. There are those who believe in climate change, global warming, drought, and there are those who deny that these are problems and they dismiss the science. None of that matters when the fire starts. Everyone's home burns.

I knew I was going to be on the road for a long time and I knew that I'd be driving 6, 7, 8 hours a day through crazy mountains, long stretches of nothing doing, along the coast and deep in city traffic, so I rented a brand new, big assed, black, comfortable American car with V8 engine and top of the line tech. The frigging seat could be both heated and cooled for driving comfort. It was 109 degrees in Cloverdale, California and I hit the wrong button and was warming myself to an uncomfortable degree. There can be drawbacks to too much tech, but once I got the hang of the controls, the badassed Satellite radio and all the stupid sensors that report every bump and insect, I had a damn fine time.

Highway 5, straight up the spine of California, infinite nothingness, flat, hot, dry and dull with the odd rest stop that was usually closed for repairs. Fortunately I had thought ahead and rented a big American car, Buick Lacrosse, fully loaded for a long drive, comfortable except for the goddamn moon roof that lowered the ceiling by a few inches and made sitting upright difficult. Still, it was fast and the AC more than fulfilled expectations. The best part? Satellite Radio. Good Jazz, Blues, Soul.

More of goddamn Highway 5, long and boring and after a few hours of motoring though the ennui I like to take some risks and see what I can get away with. How long can I drive at 75 mph with my eyes closed? How long can I keep my hands off of the wheel and how far will I drift? Let's pass some trucks. Those guys are loaded on several drugs, sleep deprived and boozed, I'm exhausted, feeling morbid and edgy. Coltrane has just popped up on the Sat Radio station. Go for it.

Possibly Freddy Hubbard wailing as I leave Arcata, California. There was a blazing heatwave and much of the mid-state was pushing well above 100 degrees, and a lot of the places I traveled to were soon to be on fire and experiencing the nervousness that comes with impending doom, but driving through the northern forests and nearing the coast it was cool, pleasant and empty. Pretty sweet places: Arcata, Eureka, McKinleyville, Trinidad. Coffee shops, artists, music, good restaurants, the ocean. Hung with my friend Ernie. We met when we were 15, started a band and we still play our songs, sing and have fifty years worth of fun. Laughed our asses off, remembered, regretted, renewed. Lots to think about for a few hours on the road from McKinleyville to Leggett, where I look forward to Highway 1 along the coast. These places were my backyard for most of my life.

First view of the coast from Westport, above Fort Bragg, after a long drive through hazardous mountains, followed closely by aggressive logging trucks while I was thinking a little too much about the past and digging the Chi-lites. An almost perfect formula for dreaded sentiment and unreliable memory.

Fog; good, clean, mysterious Pacific fog north of Mendocino. Fog is perfect for concealing the future and confusing the present. I didn't really need to be drawn much more into myself, but a dense fog, a decent road and no appointments are rare pleasures and encourage wild thinking. A hypnotic component overtakes the driver who is wheeling though memories and vague landscapes, wondering when, or if, he will ever return. Dazed and foggy from hours on the road, staring into the cloud.

In the Anderson Valley, in the Sierras near Placerville, along the coast, there used to be grocery stores, bait shops, car repair and towing services, diners and bars. Those businesses are still around, but most of the towns are now becoming over-built with wineries and tasting rooms and galleries that are part of a new culture industry, where the illusion of sophistication and refinement are for sale to daytrippers from cities. There are plenty of places where a traveler can find lovely eggs Florentine and a pastel landscape. The problem is, once you've tasted the wine and browsed the gallery it's time to go and why would you come back? More landscapes? The locals who are my friends are confused and a bit resentful.

The return. A couple thousand miles on the road, stopping to visit, to record and recall, seeing familiar places, some altered, others the same, enjoying family and friends and back into The City from the north, from where I grew up, grew old, became despondent and eventually bounced into contentment. All places are good if I'm OK. A bittersweet trip, but what a great way to end. In the past I drove across this bridge to see great music at the Filmore Auditorium, The Carousel Ballroom, the Avalon, drink at the Bit o' Paradise, the M&M, the Lucky 7,  and have many of the experiences that I can call up today, experiences that I either enjoy remembering or fail at forgetting. San Francisco has been criticized heavily for the homeless problems, the filth, expensive and impossible housing, the entitled populace, crime and a failed government. I'm from here; while a lot of that is true, you can also have Burmese and Chinese food all the time, buy books at Green Apple and City Lights, see the Turner exhibit at the De Young, get tickets for Wayne Shorter and Merle Haggard. Everyone I met was friendly, pleasant and accommodating. City living is more than I want to manage these days, but San Francisco and Northern California are part of my DNA. That Buick was pretty sweet, too.

Rehearsing for The End of the World

     
     I've just spent a couple of days in Arnold, California with Armando Silva and Roland Langlois. We've been the best of friends for almost 40 years and the stories that we've generated are epic. There are no words with which to truly define the depth of our relationships. Primarily, we laugh. A lot. There have been times when we had to lie on the floor and curl into fetal positions and beg the others to stop laughing so that we could breathe. We are still able to do that and I couldn't be more delighted. We have listened to music, watched baseball, gone camping, lost friends, been married and divorced,  drunk and sober, worked, retired, become ill and recovered. There are children and wives and houses and all of the stuff that life is composed of but mostly, every time we see each other, we laugh like madmen. These men are immensely smart and funny but the level of humor varies widely. We are crude occasionally, and also sad and stupid and silly but there have been astonishing romantic episodes, deep heartbreak and innumerable late night conversations that border on the profound, the philosophical and, often, the seriously insane. We tried to duplicate the above photo that Armando pulled out of a drawer. None of us (not one of us) can remember where and when it was made. We calculate it was taken between 25 and thirty years ago. We analyzed haircuts, eyeglasses, dentition, but we were completely at a loss. In those days alcohol and drugs were generally a part of every gathering and the only thing we can conclude is that we may have been loaded. Or not. Forgetting is part of getting old. I'm completely happy that we are lifelong friends. Fuck age, fuck sickness and death and forgetting. Just Fuck It. We laugh at death. We laugh at everything. We should be more adult, I guess, but that bell has been rung, that ship has sailed, the horse has left the barn. I'm sure I can think of other metaphors to indicate that I no longer give a crap, or have time for guilt, fear, the feelings of other people.
     I'll post more as this road trip unrolls and I slip into the past, drive around California, confront the present and run from the future. By the way, isn't the quality of the picture from the unremembered photo booth  a lot better than the one taken with the iPad? 

Gun Violence: Get Real

Here’s the common post on today’s social media, news organizations, and tweets:

“How many more people have to die of senseless gun violence for this country to enact commonsense gun reform?”

The answer? Lots. Way lots more. Hundreds of thousands. Where the hell do you think we live? France? Japan? We live in America where bacon is considered a dietary staple, where the old testament god is worshiped and we love our death penalty, where ignorant dogbrains interpret the constitution so that it suits their own uneducated, heavily armed agendas and where all you have to do to become monstrously wealthy is to have a big ass. Do you think we live in a magical place where politicians and representatives aren’t human toilets? Some mythical island where women are treated equally and with respect by everyone, including fratboys, rap and rock stars? An alternate universe where human life is valuable and everyone has the same rights regardless of race, sex, sexual preference, wealth? Please. Get a clue. This is what we own. It’s fucked up, but we still have Netflix, Google and our fine-assed new phones. Moms Demand Action, Stop the NRA, Coalition to Stop Gun Violence. Those organizations really exist. Which of them am I supporting? Uhm…. none. At least no one’s killed a lion this week. If I sound discouraged, I am.

Addendum: An hour later: Jesus Christ, I just sent a small donation to one of the above groups because I can’t stand myself when I blather away without doing anything. I don’t care about the upcoming shitshow that will be the second half of the 21st century because I’ll be gone, but I’d like to reduce and assuage my guilt while I’m still here. I know: Lame.

Life Coaching - Part 3 (Chapter 2)

I don’t see  as well at night as I used to. Bummer. My (many) old injuries are lighting up several times a week. I take pills for dumb stuff like pain, blood pressure, cholesterol, thyroid. I feel pretty good (seriously), I'm still in the game, but every once in a while some aging, raging busybody who is facing another hard-earned birthday shouts out, “But sixty is the new forty, sixty is the new forty. And seventy is the new fifty and…”. Please. Shut up.

It may be true that sixty is the new forty unless:

We’ve ever smoked cigarettes  (guilty) or

Used illegal drugs for a significant period of our history (guilty)

If we currently now or ever have drink, drank, drunk to excess (guilty)

Have Hep C or STDs from stupid life choices when we were twenty, (...)

If we

Breathe the shitty air in most cities (yep) and

Drink chem-laced water (probably) and

Have had lots and lots of x-rays (dentist) or

Eat foods loaded with preservatives and additives (I guess), if we

Are overweight (goddamnit) and depressed sometimes (like the rest of us) or

Are angry (at the government, your ex, other drivers) or misguidedly

Trust that god, prayer and good works will keep anyone healthy/alive (nope), if

We read the news or

Watch more than two hours of TV every day, (sometimes) and

Are worried about not getting enough (or too much) sleep, (yeah, I admit)

Or we are anxious about global warming, cancer and trouble in the Mideast (sure).

And mainly, if I think that because I'm Me and I'm still amazing (or ever have been)  even though I'm getting older, that life is full of possibilities and I can do whatever I want and I can live like I did when I was forty and old people matter and I'm relevant and as vital as ever and I'm  an “active senior” (or have ever used the words “active” or “senior” in reference to myself), or if I think I'm  still desirable to people under forty (male or female) or if I have cataracts, vertigo, joint pain, headaches, thinning hair?

Then sixty is not the new forty.

It’s the new eighty.

Sorry, tough shit, but most of us (old) only have another ten, twenty, slim-chance thirty, max-crazy forty years. Only .0173% of us will live to be 100. Ha. So, nope, sixty is not the new fucking forty. You are _____ years of age. Are you currently alive? (I’ll wait while you check). Isn’t that enough? I for one am going to face reality and have fun and stop bitching and moaning and fantasizing about age, life, health and longevity.

And take it easy driving for Chrissakes. You’re pissing me off.

Life Coaching - Part 3

In my career as one of America’s most influential and respected Life Coaches I get messages every day from clients and friends, seekers and strivers, urging:

Live for today, forget about the past

Be here now, live life in the moment

You only live once

Today is the first day of the rest of your life

Live today as if you’ll die tomorrow

Life is precious and each moment is a blessing

I take offense because these “writers” know perfectly well where I am when I read this sage advice, this helpful encouragement to live fully, create, do things and go into the world and experience nature and love everyone so that I have no regrets. They know goddamn well that I’m seeing it on the frigging Internet, sitting in front of my computer where I spend hours every day. They are trying to make me feel guilty. Bastards.

Here are some of my own AFFIRMATIONS for a happy life:

Cancel your next appointment and stay home

Read a book and don’t answer the phone

Check out the news, read the comments

Watch a little pornography

Have a sandwich, take a nap

You only have one life to waste; waste it well

Guilt is for suckers

You are welcome.

J. De Patta, SCLC (Self Certified Life Coach)

The Last Haircut

I got my Last Haircut today. I usually imagine I’ll die within the next two to four months (the average between haircuts). Eventually I’ll be right. The last (fill in the blank) is coming up for everyone. Perhaps my fantasizing that this will be my last haircut is a way to trick the universe, realign my genes, fool the impossible powers, the mystic cesspit from which all life arises, the hamster wheel, the magical unicorn that controls the world? Fool myself? I do this with everything. A way to batter my anxiety into chilling out and giving me another cycle. If I keep saying, “This is my last haircut, breakfast, sexual interlude (wink), argument, bowl of ice cream, bath, vacation, pointless phone conversation with my insurance company, dentist appointment,” it feels like I am poking my finger in Death’s eye. When I say, “I will die today,” and if I don’t die, I feel pretty cocky.

So, today was my last haircut. Until October.

R, the artist, the beauty, who cuts my hair, has a new puppy and she brought it to work. Cute, miniature dachshund or schnauzer, black, bubbly, sniffing and tripping. She also has three kids (3).

I asked her, “What the fuck did you get a dog for? Aren’t having three kids who take up all of your non-haircutting time enough?”

I don’t have kids. Thank Christ. I travel and relax and don’t have to take any late night phone calls from some needy thirty or forty year old who wants money or comfort or a place to stay. I don’t buy presents for grandkids or babysit or worry about when the children and grandchildren are going to need rehab or surgery or driver’s licenses. Nope. I’m out of that game, free and clear; it’s all about me, self-determination and serenity.

I also do not have a dog. Can’t imagine. Feeding, walking, cleaning up. Grooming and training and veterinarians. Wow. I get itchy just thinking about it. Sounds like hell. I’ve heard all about the Unconditional Love, but I don’t really need Unconditional Love. I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I wonder about people who need Unconditional Love. Something missing there? Need a little worship or devotion, do you? Something to lick your hand, divert your attention from your scary thoughts, give you a purpose when you get home from work? Good luck. Dogs die and kids move and all that’s left is the refrigerator and the mirror. Eat your veggies.

R was about three minutes late for our appointment, no problem, but she explained how everyone woke up late and she was running around, feeding her children (3), dressing them, trying to get them out the door because she had to drive them across town to her sister’s place so her sister could entertain them all day while R cut hair and made money to pay for school books and clothing and gymnastic lessons and guitar lessons and riding lessons and swimming lessons, every kind of lesson and pastime, to which she also had to drive them.

“How the fuck,” I asked, “can someone who does all that, who does it well, who doesn’t seem insane, has a mild temperament and who cuts good hair, who looks great and is fashionable and clean, how can someone who does all of that STILL want to own a goddamn dog? I mean, holy shit.”

“The kids love the dog and it’s not a problem.”

Oh yes it is. It’s a problem. At least, it looks like a problem to me. Too many living creatures under one roof, demanding, barking, crying, eating, talking, needing, sleeping, waking.

Then I thought: It’s a slippery slope and I suppose once you allow yourself to care for others, to give life and time and comfort, and you actually have that gene where you want to have kids, breed, nurse and love and nurture, why not get a dog? What the hell, you’re already tied up with all those kids. Get a pet. Get a few. One for each kid. Who needs sleep?

As we were winding down our haircut, R asked, in professional barber-like fashion, “So, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

Silence.

“What?”

“What are you going to do today? Do you have plans?”

“I got a haircut. That’s what I’m doing today.”

“Oh, I thought you might have something else going on.”

Getting nervous.

“Uh, no, haircut, that’s enough. I’ll probably do some reading. I like to read.”

I like to read. What a fucking slacking, reclusive, isolating selfish dick. I like to read. I didn’t have the balls to ask R what she was going to do for the rest of the day. I mean, the rest of the day after she works eight hours cutting, coloring, highlighting, trimming, tidying up people and talking to them about their lives and their kids. I couldn’t stand to hear how much more she was planning. What her children (3) needed, where they had to go, what to do, cooking, eating, reading bedtime stories. Plus she has a boyfriend, which is another whole frigging planet.

I couldn’t follow the thought, “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I was lost and embarrassed.

I read, I write, I shower and shave and shop and cook. I watch videos and talk to one or two people on the phone a few times a week. I make my bed, do the dishes, read the news, worry, workout, plan trips, shop online. It’s wonderful. I like my life; childless, petless.

What am I planning for the rest of the day? What am I PLANNING?

Holy shit, how much more do they have to squeeze out of me? How much more do you want from me, universe? You know what, universe? Fuck you. I got a haircut.

Besides, this is my last haircut and I need to catch up on some reading.