I HATE GUNS. I hate em!

My mommy makes me carry this stupid gun around with me, even when I go to see Miss Val, my piano teacher. Mom says that people who don't have guns are just pretending to be alive; they're dead and they just don't know it yet.

I remember when they gave us the guns. I was in Mr. Vallejo's science class when the intercom told everybody to meet in the gym for a student meeting. The principal got up on a podium and told us that something very bad had happened up somewhere in Brazil, and that pretty soon there would be dinosaurs everywhere, because the army was all used up. He said that they were giving everybody guns so that when the dinosaurs came maybe we could protect ourselves.

There were some army-soldiers there in the gym, all standing around a bunch of big boxes. After the principal finished talking, one of them opened one of the boxes and pulled something out. It was too small in his hand for us to see it from the bleachers, but he used a slide projector to show us everything.

This is a handgun. It's called a Swab 109. It holds fifteen rounds - fifteen shots...
...hold it like this, with one hand holding your other wrist for support...
...the safety is right here. Never switch the safety off unless an adult you trust tells you to. Your parents or your teachers or maybe a police officer. If you see anything that looks like a dinosaur, you don't have to wait to be told. Flip the switch and shoot...
...never point your gun at anyone else, ever. A gun is an easy way to kill someone on accident. It can kill your friends or your parents, even if you didn't mean to. Guns are funny that way.

After a very long talk, all the kids in the school got in line, and the soldiers gave out the guns. One of the soldiers was writing down our names from our nametags. Then they gave us bullets. I remember thinking how all those guns and bullets seemed so quiet, like they were waiting, keeping some sort of terrible secret. Only, it wasn't much of a secret, because all those guns and bullets smelled like kill. You could feel their power when you held them in your hand.

The first time I ever heard one of those guns go off, I was in the school playground, talking to my girlfriend. Her name was Angela. Anyway, me and her were sitting on the bench, talking about something, I don't remember, and I was thinking maybe that if I could find her after school, maybe I'd ask her if she wanted to go to the movies, and maybe, if the movie wasn't too scary and I wasn't too chicken, I might give her a kiss there in the dark.

Somewhere across the playground, I heard a gun go off -Bang!- and I heard grownups shouting and kids crying. I ran over, curious to see what had happened, but all the teachers were standing crowded in one spot, so I couldn't see. After a little while, an ambulance came and took a kid to the hospital under a white sheet, and that was all.

We had a school meeting the day after that, and the Mr. Hector, the principal, told us that Kitty Yates, a fifth grader, had been playing with her gun and had accidentally shot herself. He said that Kitty was dead.

After that, school was a lot different. We still played in the playground, and we still ran track and played basketball after school, but nobody really seemed to be having as much fun. It was like the metal in our pockets was too heavy for us to forget about, even for a few minutes. My teacher told the class one day that our grades had improved almost twenty percent for the whole class. I think she wasn't really happy, though.

I didn't wind up taking Angela to the movies the day Kitty killed herself, and I really wish I had. There was something about the way we were that only happens one time to somebody, I think. It's not that I wanted to marry her or anything; I'm not that stupid. What happened two weeks later changed everybody, I think. It's too late to see if maybe I can give her a kiss in the dark.

Angie and I were walking home from school on a Friday, and we were kinda cuddled together because it was chilly outside. It was about a mile from the school to her house, I think. That's what she told me. It usually took us half an hour to walk home from school together, because we usually wound up wandering around the park or stopping by the arcade, just to waste some time together.

This time we didn't stop anywhere, because it was cold outside and we really wanted to get to her house so we could get warm again. There was a lot of traffic on the road, so we couldn't really hear the car pulling up behind us.

I remember how Angela's warm hand felt in my hand, and how her blond hair fluttered out the sides of her coat hood and tickled my face. It smelled like some kind of girly soap. If I try really hard, I can almost remember what her hair smelled like... just almost. Like a ghost memory. I think it's the gasoline smell that tromps all over it here in this stupid bunker.

A car pulled up next to us, scratching against the curb. I tried to just keep walking, but when the man inside rolled his window down and hollered, "Hey, kids, could you help me with some directions?", Angie pulled her hand from me and turned around.

"Where are you going, mister?"

"I'm trying to get to the library", said the man. I saw that he was wearing a gray suit. He looked a little older than my dad, maybe 40 years old. I hate him.

"OK, then you just drive up to that light there, sir, and then you turn right. The library is right across from the McDonald's there."

Angela was slowly moving towards the stopped car. I guess I should have stopped her. There was a feeling in my head that something wasn't right, but I didn't do something about it then.

"McDonald's! I love to eat there. Hey, you know what? I really appreciate you helping me with directions. Would you like to go the McDonald's, cutie?"

I remember thinking that he sounded like a really nice guy, and that maybe McDonald's really did sound nice, when the man opened his car door and put his hand over Angela's mouth.

His voice wasn't nice at all now. He said, "Alright, come with me, precious. Don't try to fight me. Get into the car and don't make a sound! Wow, you're really pretty."

I don't know why on earth a kidnapper would care whether she was pretty or not. Maybe pretty kids sell for more money or something. All I know is that right then it didn't matter who he was or what he wanted Angie for. I didn't know anything at all. I was going to stop him from taking her, even if it killed me.

The next thing I remember, I was holding my handgun in both hands, aiming it at the man in the car. Angela was fighting him with all her might. Her feet were wedged against the door of the car, and she was clawing at his face with her fingernails. I saw little bloody marks on the man's face.

"STOP IT! LET GO OF HER RIGHT NOW!" I screamed. He seemed to notice me for the first time. He took one look at me and my weapon and yanked Angela up, holding her in the air between he and myself.

I tried to stop myself from pulling the trigger. Even as the gun exploded in a thunder of noise, I was screaming, "NOOOO!". I saw Angela's white sweater erupt in a blotch of red, and she went limp in his hands.

The man in the fancy car and fresh-pressed suit threw her down with a wet thud, and the car door slammed. He was gone before I had even lowered the gun.

The next several hours were a blur to me. I remember people, lots of people, and cameras, and flashing lights. I remember sitting in a metal chair in a little room, with a bright light shining in my face, a policeman asking me a lot of questions. I remember important-looking people telling me that my story didn't make any sense, and that if I didn't tell the truth I was going to "go away" for a very long time.

They put me in a sort of cell, with a bunk and some sheets and a toilet. A man - he said he was an attorney - visited me a few times, and then there was a day where I was taken to a courtroom and a deathly-serious looking judge told me that I was Found Guilty, and that I was going to be transferred to a Border Defense Camp. There was a long bus ride, and then I was left here.

There's this guy - really just a teenager - that we all call "Seargeant", who says that we're going to be stuck here until the ground crews (all kids, of course) dispose of all the dinosaur eggs. He says that all the big, living dinosaurs died off on their own after a while, but the eggs they laid will still be there, waiting to hatch and start everything over again, until every foot of ground between here and Brazil has been searched over and cleared of eggs.

I spend most of my time pacing the perimeter, so I have a lot of time to spend alone with my thoughts, remembering things, thinking about girlfriends and dinosaurs and kisses in the dark, lost forever. Sometimes I put my hand in my pocket and feel the cold metal of my weapon, and think about the fourteen bullets waiting inside, ready for the next time I pull the trigger. The next time, there won't be any mistakes. I just want to get the killing done and get out of here.

I hate guns.

Brian Eno

There, are you happy now? Are you fucking happy now?!?!?

God dammit!

My Post Election Madness

I posit the American public is lying.

Who voted for Democrats in all those very red areas? If the elections aren't rigged, how did these guys get in?

Probably the same way the Republicans got in. Votes.

Could it be that the public has been lying to the pollsters? Could it be that the very conservative, right-wing base voted Democratic and told the pollsters otherwise?

Could it be the voters are dealing back to Washington the same deception that has been dealt out to the public these past few years?

We can only hope.

There is a line in the movie "Magnolia", where the screwed-up daughter of the child molesting game-show host says to her date, the good-hearted screw-up of a cop, "Now that you've met me, would you object to never seeing me again?"

I watched my DVD of "Magnolia" the other night and it reminded me that there are no coincidences, only acts of will which are reflected back onto us by the universe at large. And it makes me think of the newly elected Democratic congress, and I want to say to them:

Now that we've elected you, would you object to never running again?

I think politics is an awful career. It attracts people who would be politicians.

I think public service is an excellent career. It attracts people who would serve.

The problem is that the phrase "public service in politics" is oxymoronic. Few who would survive a modern campaign are armed with the ability to lead. The skills necessary to win a campaign: an ability to speak without saying anything that will pin you down, the ability to withstand withering personal attacks, the ablility to camoflauge ad hominem arguments, the ability to turn the responsibility to respond into victimization by an interviewer - these things are antithetical to good leadership. Mastering them necessarily takes energy away from performing the acts of a good leader.

All career politicians will disappoint us. We expect it.

This is the iceowl solution: Getting elected to congress should be like going to Antarctica. Once you're through the amazingly tough acceptance process, everything should be centered on the work. Your personal comfort should be irrelevant to the process except to sustain enough health and well-being to enable the work to be performed quickly and accurately. The work must be everything. Once the work is complete, the congressperson must yearn to return home. Life in Washington should be so spartan that no one in their right mind would want to stay.

Somehow we have to get to politics becoming an unprofitable soul-enriching experience for people. It should be like the peace corps. It should be like research in a remote outpost. It should be tough. It should be impossible to lead a lucrative lifestyle doing it. Senators and representatives should have to live in cinder block-walled college freshman dorms. They should have to hot-bunk with other congress people. They should receive a $25 per diem for meals. Taking money from anyone or any corporation during one's term should result in immediate expulsion.

Term limits would be no issue, then. Corruption would be nearly impossible. Enforced poverty would change everything.

There would be rampant sex, of course. But as long as the participants were of the age of consent, nobody would begrudge them these minor human comforts given the minimalistic drudgery of Washington life. There would be no issue with senators sleeping with each other, because we'd know that was the only human comfort they could afford. There would be no issue with elected officials never going back to their constituencies, because they'd be so happy to leave Washington to get back to a soft bed they'd always be home.

This is my proposal: reduce congressional pay to zero. Supply room and board at the taxpayer's expense.

Only idiots and the most dedicated would then want to serve. So while Washington would still be populated by idiots, we'd increase the numbers of the dedicated.

One thing I've found loathsome to do in the past years is to subject myself to Fox News. Yet, I've done it. I will not claim masochism or saintliness. I do believe that if you are to be strong and of clear mind you must understand all sides of an issue. It was always infuriating to me to listen to those with whom I should have been in agreement arguing an ad hominem point based on less than heresay. To my mind, if you want to argue against a particular point, you must have heard (or read) the opposing point being made. Otherwise you're flailing at windmills.

To this end I subjected myself to Fox Abuse. It wrecked my blood pressure and I lost sleep over what I heard. It amazed me that sane people could exist in its continuous distortion field.

But taking a step upward and out of the impact of the argument - one could understand how people of the opposing view could feel the "mainstream" news was one gigantic distortion field of the left. Whether that's true or not, to have a clear and certain position, one should be ready to answer to the validity of his sources.

That's what I think, anyway. So to not be hypocritical to my own philosophy, and because I have a hard time being self-inconsistent, I watched Fox News prior to the election.

Ok, I admit I couldn't take it for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time. And I was thrilled to find there was an equally left-leaning show in Countdown with Keith Olbermann.

In the hours since the election, I've noticed a change in the tone of the reporting at Fox News, both in print on the web and in their broadcast. They have toned down the Republican rhetoric, and doesn't this make sense? And I have noticed a similar ratcheting up of the rhetoric by Keith Olbermann. Could it be ratings?

Olbermann's numbers have doubled again. He's close to surpassing his Fox News punditry counterparts.

Maybe the issue isn't that the right-wing press are all nuts, or that the left-wing press are weenies - but rather, that we the viewers are being spoonfed what they have determined will keep us in our seats through the commercials.

A majority voted in the Democratic congress, and that means many of Fox's own regular viewers voted Democratic. As they are not the President of the United States, to come out and suggest the American people are stupid for voting Democratic would precipitate a ratings debacle. Fox is feeding its viewers what they will sit through commercials for. If the viewing public has voted Democratic, they can't come out and blast them and expect them to sit for it. Not in this age when you only have to twitch a fingertip to change the channel.

And oddly enough, I suspect that with a left-leaning government in power, Fox News may have no choice but to move further to the center in its reporting. And dare I say - if it is true that the rest of the media supports a left-leaning government - it may actually become true that Fox News is fair and balanced.

We'll wait and see if that happens. I am buoyed by the possibility of it.

I am similarly buoyed by the possibility of the return of my creativity. Politics in 2006 sucked the life-force out of me. Now that the result I yearned for was achieved, I ache to go back to writing creatively.