2nd Trip To The Red Light

The first time I went to the Red Light, it was completely uneventful.

I stayed sober, which was a mistake, and was so freaked out about the idea of paying women money for sex that I didn't even bother going into a room my first Night Jump. The only thing that happened on the first Night Jump, was one kid, a spoiled rich kid who would manage to get kicked out of the army for dope before The Big Show (Invasion of Iraq) kicked off made out with and may have fucked a tranny. Which pleases me now, in hindsight. Guess he had that coming, dirtbag.

The second time I went to the Red Light though, I did manage to go into a room.

She was younger than I was, and absolutely beautiful. In that Aryan goddess, shield-maiden kinda way. She was a young man's dream, in oh so many ways.

I was drunk, this time.

Just not drunk enough.

Still not really sure what the boggle was.

Needing to get over whatever chivalrous notions I still held, probably.

I don't know.

Whatever.

It doesn't matter now.

Anyway, this girl, this beautiful, seemingly intelligent (she spoke better English than I did) girl freaked out at my inability. She started bawling.

She had just started, and I was the first 'nice guy' she'd met, and she felt horrible because I had stage fright.

So we laid there in bed for over an hour.

Me in my jeans and socks, her in her lingerie.

And I held her and she cried on my shoulder.

When I finally got dressed and went to leave, she tried to give me my money back.

I refused.

I gave her the standard plus some extra and gave her a hug and she thanked me and asked me to come back and see her.

When I went down stairs, my friends were all sitting on the curb out front, eating doners and smiling at me.

When they asked how it was, all I said was, “Man, I beat that cootchie up.”

Baby Steps, Death Therapy, and Little Victories 4.20.15

Baby Steps, Death Therapy, and Little Victories-

Sitting here, bumblefucking around on the interweb, drinking a Dr Pepper 10 and getting ready to go drop my fatass in the pool I'm --- well, I don't want to disgust you too greatly with the visual image and TMI, but, I'm playing with the fatness. Trying to gauge it, so to speak. And I can pinch enough on the sides, and press in enough, I can actually feel something that's not fat. So, my current state- I seem to be losing enough weight for the fat to be soft and squishy, but the bowling ball of gut in the sack of skin droops lower- so that I somehow need fatter clothes than I did before (part of that might be water weight fluctuation; I didn't think about it at the time but the family ring was a little tighter than usual Saturday), but- for the first time, in a very long time, I can feel something beneath the whiskey flab.

There are times, when I sit, and marvel at the ridiculousness of it. What I've done to myself. I tried my best not to make it to 30, and in less than 2 months I'll be 36. At the time it seemed like I didn't have a choice. That it was the way it was, and that was that. One of the things the tough love advocates never seem to understand, is the resoluteness of despair. To feel like a circus grotesque, locked away in your cave, drinking 100 proof like breathing air, lost inside the worlds in your head to escape the one outside it. And here I am. Every new day is strange and wonderful, and I yearn for booze less and less. I don't deny myself it. It simply has no control over me. And that's the best gift I think I've ever given myself.

No, You're Not Crazy. I Know Crazy.

Sanity is not something I take for granted.
Whenever I hear some spoiled tart giggle, and excuse their bad behavior as 'I'm crazy, lol,' I want to give them a glimpse inside my head. No, you're a stupid spoiled douche. Shut the fuck up and be decent.

Background- Several years ago, say about 2007-10, when I was at my worst, at the bottom of my darkness, I was drinking between 1- 2 gallons of cheap vodka a day, and sleeping for any extended period only once every 3-5 days, depending on factors I can't name. My days would consist of writing and drinking all night long, driving around the corner to Taco Bell about 10am, getting a bunch of shitty food, eating, and then sort of sleeping but not really in my recliner thru the afternoon, before getting up, maybe having dinner with my brother (though, unfortunately he could stand to be around me less and less, my madness on display), if not making a booze run and maybe getting some more shitty cheap food (Taco Bell was close, and cheap), and doing it all over again.

Most of the time I was writing. Especially when I couldn't afford internet.

I can remember being scared to go to sleep.
My dreams held frightening things.
Monsters. Demons. Unnameable macabre oddities I wish I could forget.

I had been fucking around with lucid dreaming for years, and then astral projection (I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to decide for yourself if that is a real phenomenon or awesome dreams or just more madness and mind fuckery).
Now shit was getting weird. Bad weird.
Also, fyi, this was before I discovered the genius that is the tv show Supernatural. So, for those who follow my ramblings, don't think it stems from falling asleep to that while the tv is on.

Once or sometimes twice a week, if I was lucky, I would crash for 10-15 hours. Once, I think when I driving a cab (I drove a cab thru the fall and winter of '08-thru early spring of '09), I slept damn near a full 24 hours.

I can remember, as scared as I was of sleep, I was more scared of sleeping at night. And I was most scared of sleeping between the hours of 3-5 am.

Because 'that's when the veil between this plane and the next is thinnest.'

I'm not sure where I picked up that tidbit, but in my state, it proved to be very true.

I can remember arguing with, fighting with, things that weren't there. I would wake, with strange scratches on my body. I remember one night I thought something reached into my chest and squeezed the shit out of my heart, pumping it twice. It hurt like hell, and my chest was sore for a week. I never got it checked out, though I've always been curious what the fuck the medical diagnosis for that would have been. I can remember sex with a succubus on the astral plane. On different occasions.

Worse, things would happen while I was awake. At least, they would happen in my head. Thoughts would appear like voices, their contents too horrible to relate. They're certainly not the thoughts you want someone who lives in home filled with weapons to have. Though, in all honesty, the only reason I speak about this is because I think deep down the responsibility of arms was itself what kept me from going completely over.

It was such a long, slow process back from that. It's hard to say what kept me from teetering over the edge. Publishing my first book, for sure. And Murph, of course. Not being a full blown, manic depressive alcoholic that drinks two big handles of Taaka a day probably helped. Maybe just a little. Going to the doc at the VA, finally getting some pain meds, because that was an initial source of my constant boozing. Though even that wasn't instantaneous. The three years I spent taking care of my grandmother were certainly beneficial. Exercise, losing weight, even though it goes up and down. I really am so fucking tired of being in constant pain it's not even close to funny.

The damnest thing about the darkness, is once it is in you, it's always there. It never fully leaves, shrinking into the rough edges of your mind, waiting to pounce when you're weak. Almost a year ago, I had a really strange, surreal couple of weeks that resulted in me taking up prayer. Every day, to a God I have claimed for years not to believe in, and placebo or not, I 'feel' like it helps. Last week, after I'd laid down to bed, I felt the cold hand of a hag touch my shoulder and felt her sensual, icy touch reach down my spine. Heard her whisper in ear, ask me, why not? Why had I forsaken her? Didn't we used to have such fun? And then total psycho-sexual abandon, right there. And I dreamed I turned and faced her, and strangled her, and watched her face contort thru her different masks. And then she/ it was gone, and I lay in bed wondering what the fuck was wrong with my brain, and I don't believe I slept anymore that night. Now, in the light of day, at 2 in the afternoon, I can tell you it was just a strange dream. In all probability that's exactly what it was. But then and there, in that moment, and for the moments after? I wouldn't have been able to answer.

I still hear voices, sometimes. Feint, as if from a distance deep inside my head. I do my best to ignore them. In the small alone hours, when I think about them, I worry they're just wayward ghosts who need a favor, a message passed on, something. Other times, I worry they're something much more sinister. I can tell you they're probably just echos in my head, an occupational hazard of a writer. Sometimes it just takes more work convincing myself to 'feel' the truth of that.

I've studied religion, and spirituality, demonology, and all all manner of fruit loopy New Agey bullshit, trying to make sense of it. My problem with a lot of assorted pagans, and wiccans, and New Agers, is the same problem I have with those in every other religion. They're all so convinced, not only that they're right, but that everyone else is wrong. And I really don't think it's necessarily that kind of thing. I have a lot of thoughts, on a lot of it, and I continue to study and try to evolve and figure things out. What I finally came to terms with, is, I think, is that whatever your belief system, once you close your eyes and drift off, I'm not sure it matters.


At the end of the day, what I believe are three things.
1. This is not the only plane of existence.
2. There is evil in this world. Not just bad acts, bad decisions, but evil.
3. Beyond these things, the only thing I'm certain of, is that I am profoundly uncertain.



Mainly though, the point of this, is that sobriety, and sanity are not things I take for granted. So when I hear some moron, excusing their shitty behavior as 'crazy,' I want to give them a spin in my head. Maybe then they'll shut the fuck up. These are not things anyone takes for granted if they've ever had to fight for them.

Excerpt from book 3, end of act 2

We were sitting in my truck, nestled in a low spot at the bottom of a railroad grade, watching the back of a trailer park in the nether region of industrial buildings and extremely low income housing, where Dallas sort of bleeds into Duncanville. Close to the old Frito Lay plant, not terribly far from where what was left of my mother's people lived.

There was a line of tall but scraggly bushes separating the railroad grade from the back of the trailer park. My truck was just tall enough for us to hide right there and scope out the trailer.

There wasn't much to the trailer park. From what I could see it looked mostly empty and dilapidated, long headed toward ruin. The air smelled of lost hope and desperation.

It was the kind of place people stayed when they paid by cash in weekly and monthly increments.

Home only to permanent transience.

The rain had picked up some, but not much. Just a soft, steady beat against the windshield.

“It's dark as shit in here.” He held his watch closer to his face. The engine was off, the lights killed by custom installed switch. I checked the Maratac on my wrist, the hands and numbers on it's face a subdued glow.

“What are you packing?” I asked.

Monster smiled, picked up his nylon bag off the floor and sat it in his lap. From it he pulled a black Ruger P90 DAO, and then double barrel that had been cut way, way, way down on both ends.

“Leave that shit.” I nodded toward the cut down shotgun. It was useless tonight. He looked at me like the thought gave him a bad taste in his mouth, but tossed it and the bag in the floor.

Assuming the intell was good, there were three inside with Chris and Tonya, which gave us a total of five. Not including the guy giving it to us.

His phone beeped in his hand, and he looked at it, touched his finger on the screen to scroll, before handing it to me.

The pictures were dim, taken without a flash. They showed three men lounging in the first room, on sofa and recliner.

I debated heavily what weapons to use. Long years at war, my time on the Task Force and after, had shaped my way of thinking. Very much a man of my generation and work, if I had suppressors available, which I did, my instinct was to use them by default.

The trailer was a 1970's era single wide. It one big open room split into a den and a kitchen/ dining room, and a short, narrow hallway with a tiny bathroom off it before the back bedroom. There would be another, smaller bedroom/ office off the main room, just to the right of the door.

I'd been in and out of more of them than I cared to think about.

The problem was that suppressors gave your enemy leverage to use against you when things got close and wet. There was nothing I had with a suppressor, immediately available,that I wanted to use in those narrow spaces. I'd fought in caves and tunnels and hovels with more room to move.

Actually, looking at the trailer park, it probably wasn't a fair comparison to the caves, tunnels, and hovels.

“When we're going to do this, man? What are we waiting on?”

“When we go in, I'm going to go fast. I'm going to move straight across the room. Hard. I need you to come in behind me, and peel right. I need you to check that little room at the end? We need to make sure we don't have anyone behind us.”

“Now, see, I could brace 'em with the shottie.”

“No. We need the girl alive.”

“Shit. That bitch is a bad guy to me. And you better have your head on straight 'bout that. She done lost her whiteness. She's pure nigger now. Straight up Oak Cliff. Trying to get over on her folks. She's gone worse than your girlfriend ever did.”

I took a deep breath, tried to will away the rage inside.

I knew there was truth in his words.

There were other things as well, but I didn't have time to dwell.

“Shit, you the big bag gunfighter, Johnny Reb. You say we don't need the shottie, fine. I'll leave it.” He racked the slide on his Ruger, chambering a round.

“Text your guy, tell him walk outside ten minutes from the time he responds to the text.”

I slipped out of the truck and quietly shut the door. The first thing I did was take a piss. I always pissed before an action. Next I opened the rear door, slipped my shirt off and dropped it on seat, and then pulled the heavy armor off the floor, and slid it on over my undershirt.

We might have been going in light and fast, but they still had AK-47s and who knew what else.

I pulled my Browning from it's holster, and exchanged the flush magazine for an extended 20 rounder. I slid it back in it's holster, and checked my blades before softly closing the rear door.

Monster climbed out.

“He send the text yet?”

“No.”

“I'm gonna move up to the bushes, peek thru. When you get the text, come on up. Stay low, whisper.”

Monster didn't say anything, just waved his hand in the air, the big Ruger in it.

I moved up the grade, going lower with each step, so that by the time I came to the edge of the property marked with the bushes I was on a knee.

There was a broken streetlight, illuminating nothing. A narrow, crumbling, potholed blacktop that might have bene poured the year I was born. Maybe. I didn't see cameras, or sentries.

Thankfully, I didn't see any dogs. I hated having to kill guard dogs.

I didn't like it, but it didn't mean I they were or weren't there.

Everything I'd seen, coupled with instinct told me Chris, much like the man he'd been hired to kill, had been given a chance to play at a level out of his league. Being an amateur, he'd tried to get more and more elaborate and just made a bigger and bigger mess.

Now he was on the run, playing it by ear. I doubted this were something he'd set up before hand, properly equipped. This was the lay low of lore.

I heard the beep of monsters phone, and I looked back at him looking at his phone as he stepped toward me.

I moved the bezel on my watch, and finalized the approach in my head.

Monster trudged up the grade behind me, not bothering to stay low.

“Single file, stay behind me. We won't to make as small a signature as possible.”

“Man, are we gonna get bloody, or what?”

I turned back, and took a deep breath.

I said a prayer to the Old Gods, and then one to the God of my father. I believed in one about as much as the other, bastard though I was.

We moved calmly, but briskly, across the open expanse of the narrow blacktop and used a thick oak behind a wrecked, inhabitable trailer to cover our movement.

We paused at the tree, and I peered around it, looking for trash, fallen limbs, any sort of holes or debris that could trip us or make noise. Cataloging it in my mind, along with the feint light through the door on the side which I noted did not bleed through the dark curtains in the one window that could scope our advance. I moved again, staying within the envelope of shadows provided by the tree and trashed trailer.

At the end of the shadowed wreck, I crouched down and leaned out just far enough to confirm the emptiness, before finishing the last leg of the trip, moving briskly but not fast enough to raise the noise level across a small yard and another crumbling lane of black top.

I crouched at the end of the trailer, and grimaced as Monster fell in behind me with heavy stomping footfalls.

Short minutes dragged slowly past. I checked my watch twice in three minutes, just for something to do.

In books and movies the hero is always fucking perfect, always calm, cool, and collected. Zen'd out and zoned out on his own awesome, too cool to care. In the real world, your mind is in overdrive. Your senses are heightened, some animal part of your brain is collecting every sight, smell, and sound, the taste and color of the fucking air, and processing it at lightning speed. Your intuition is the alarm that goes off when there's something array.

You expect things to go bad, because there's no such thing as a perfect op. It doesn't exist. So when nothing pings you check your watch to measure.

Which is why you never look as cool as they do in the movies.

Inside the trailer dim words were exchanged, and I heard the front door open. I drew my pistol, and held it in tight, at a compressed high ready, left hand on the blade in my belt.

Heavy footfalls toward the cars in the drive way beside us. He was about 16, hard eyed but not nearly as hard as some I'd seen at that age. He walked between the cars and made a show of lighting cigarette. He stopped behind the sedan, the nearest one to us.

“So how's this going to work?” He asked in hush, facing away from the front door so that I was looking at his profile.

“Anyone in this room right here on the end?”

“Naw, man.”

“You strapped?”

“'Course.” His voice was less than enthusiastic. Traitors very rarely can stand seeing owning themselves.

“You finish that cigarette, we're gonna fall in behind you. Once you go thru that door, move hard to the left. I'm going across it. Monster is going right.”

“OK, man.” He took a long pull of his cigarette, and blew smoke rings in the air.

“Let's get to it.” He tossed the butt on the ground, and turned around.

Monster following I turned the corner, staying low, and moved between the car and trailer, falling in behind the turncoat as he started up the stairs. He opened the door, and stepped left and I rushed thru.

I moved quick and hard and I had I brought the arm holding the gun to full extension as the big man started to rise off the couch.

“Stop right there.” I spoke low, held a finger to my mouth. “Do you want to live?” I asked. I could kill them all and sleep soundly, but it'd be faster, easier, and much more quiet if they'd just turn on Chris and give me the girl.

“Oh, no, Johnny Reb. No sir. That wasn't the deal at all. They got to die,” Monster Maupin came just behind me, and to the left. His tone was normal, conversational, but there was something wrong.

He's not in his corner.

And then, gunfire.

Pistol shots, to be precise. Screaming between each shot.

I dropped the hammer on the big one and spun, dropping down, and trying to move on the lateral as I did so.

There was someone I didn't recognize, a kid, firing a Tokerev.

Monster's turncoat was falling, a line of bullets stitching his spine.

I snapped thru shots with barely a flash sight picture and the boy's head exploded.

A shotgun erupted from the hallway, and punched Monster hard, his arm and side visibly damaged as he fell.

And then more screaming, and the third guy was on top of my back, and my arm was a strange combination of burning numbness and then I was tasting dirty shag carpet.

I know well how it works. I even kind of love it. It's an addiction like no other. But I don't know if I'll ever get used to being so in tune. I could feel every strand of 40 year old shag carpet on face in the split second it took me to realize my gun was no longer in my hand and didn't have much use of my primary arm and I had an asshole coming down on top of me.

I managed to roll onto my side and get my good arm up and put a boot in his thigh as he came back down with what appeared to be a crow bar. This blow hit my collarbone, but between the heavy armor and the boot to the thigh, I managed to keep from it from doing any real damage, though it hurt like a motherfucker.

I managed to grab the crowbar before he could re-cock it, and pulled him closer, bringing him into a headbutt, and then another. I saw stars with the second one, but they were dim and I could feel his enthusiasm for the endeavor wane.

I pulled the Boker Tuff from my belt, and buried it as deep as it would go into his sub-clavicle.

Blood sprayed like a lawn sprinkler on the back spring, and I pushed his dying body away from me.

There was a moment, then.

A long, slow, meandering moment.

Tonya was standing just inside the kitchen, a cut down shotgun in her hands.

Monster Maupin was leaning against the wall, his right arm limp, useless, blood pouring from the side of his chest as if it were a quickly filling spring.

Tonya stood there, mouth open as she tried to breath, her eyes filling with wet as she took her new understanding. The room itself, that old familiar Pollack of red and black death tones, each of us included. Her hands, holding the shotgun, a little more loose each micro-moment.

I picked up my pistol with my weak hand.

“Drop it, Tonya.” I told her. She looked at me. “Please.” It clattered on the floor.

“Man, fuck this bitch!” Monster brought his left hand up, a second pistol, a small revolver, in his hand.

I put the front sight on his ear and fired twice.

Monster fell, streaking blood down the wall as he did so.

I stood.

Tonya was staring at me when Chris emerged, wrapping an arm around Tonya's head and pulling her close.

He sneered at me as I shifted, arm out at full extension, gun canted slightly for better visual reference with my right eye since I was firing with my non dominant hand. He sneered at me as I lined everything up.

He opened his mouth to speak.

I shot him twice, fast. The bullets punched through his upper lip at the bottom of his ocular cavity.

He dropped, Tonya scrambling as he fell away.

She stared at him a second, and then turned around the room, taking it all in again before her eyes settled on me. There was a chaos of emotion in here eyes, but the overriding one was fear. Fear of me.

I set the safety and slipped the gun beneath my belt.

“Tonya, we need to go. Now. I need to take you home.”

“You're not gonna hurt me?” she asked, meekly.

“No.”

“But-”

“We're figure out what to tell your mother on the way. We need to go. Now.”

“I need to get my purse.”

“Please do. Phone and wallet, to.”

I watched her step around dead bodies as I moved the arm, feeling the dull, burning ache spread. Nothing felt torn or ruptured, but I'd still need to get it check out.

A second later she came out of the hallway, stuffing her wallet and thin cell phone into her purse.

“You're do gonna exactly what I say, and not give me any trouble?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

“You're really not gonna tell my momma?”

“Not if you hold up your end and do what I say, no.”

“OK.”

And then we left.

My Ever Evolving Spirituality, Today

If nothing else, being agnostic means being open. There was a period of my life when I was probably too open, and that opened the door to darkness that will always be there, at least in part. But I'm learning to be more open to other things, good things, positive things.

I tell my intellectual friends I've started praying, they look at me like maybe I'm an imposter. It doesn't matter how long I considered prayer and meditation the same thing, or the view I held for so long that, since, if there was a God, and he was omnipotent, and that prayer was essentially a conversation with God, because of his omnipotence, then every thought and conversation you have throughout the day is, technically, a conversation with God. And when I tell them, not only am I praying, but that it seems to work marvelously. That not only are several things finally seeming to come to fruition, but I feel better, lighter, happier, that my various and sundry addictions are, seemingly, non existent, they shake their heads. That the voices in my head, the shadows moving within shadows at night, the chills and bad feelings and dreams I won't talk about, these things are the products of a vivid imagination, long term depression, alcoholism, self loathing, angst over obesity and a lifelong obsession with violence. Manifestations of my subconscious trying to figure out how to unfuck itself. That if there is anything to it, it's psychosomatic. All the little ubermensch motherfuckers that are confident they know everything. In so many ways, in their utter certainty, they share more in common with those I normally call 'Bible Nazis' than not.

The only thing I know for sure is that I don't know. I am profoundly uncertain. I still doubt very seriously I'll ever again call myself a Christian. There are still, and always will be more about it, or at least what is taught, that I can say, without a doubt, that I don't believe in, that I refuse to believe, that I will fight tooth and nail against, than otherwise. People who take the Bible word for word still baffle me.

But it is insane, and perhaps a bit ridiculous, to invest so much in believing in man's fallibility, in the dark nature of the world, to not put just as much into the positive. To be an otherwise good person consumed by the darkness, shirking from the light of the world.

So, here I am.
Praying.
Often multiple times a day.
But most especially, before bed.
And I'm getting the best sleep I've ever gotten in my entire life.

Matrix Re-Evaluation

I was recently asked to help one of my mom's besties, my "Other Mother," find a gun suitable to her for self defense. She has little to no experience with guns, and except for me taking her out to shoot whatever I find for her, she's probably never going to shoot it again, unless, Gods forbid, she has to defend herself with it. It may get carried in the car- occasionally, but mostly it will probably be for home defense.

 I'm looking to get her into a budget .38. Scouring the used market so we can afford some lasergrips to go with it. I feel this should meet her needs, given she has no history of shooting, and is not going to invest herself in the lifestyle or hobby of training, rather nicely.

I keep finding people who lament putting new shooters into revolvers. They cry about this being some thoughtless, antiquated technique with old technology. The tone I hear from some of these people, certain "instructors" in particular, is rather troublesome. The idea that anyone who doesn't have an interest in making training a part of their life doesn't deserve their life, I find distasteful, to say the least. I suspect their own financial remuneration, vindication, and insane narcissism are the real culprits here.

By far and away the biggest malfunction issue I saw was limp-wristing. With untrained women shooters, this x infinity. I'm exponentially more worried about bad things happening because the gun jams than I am her running out of ammo and needing to speed reload.I keep hearing people complain about revolvers and how semi-autos are always superior. I think an awful lot of motherfuckers need to re-evaluate their threat assessment, mission statement, and equipment matrix.

What are the most likely threats to this person?
What are their needs and capabilities?

We're not storming fucking Fallujah.
Training does not automatically equate mindset. It also doesn't even always equate skill. I can think of a couple of well known trainers and in some cases their acolytes, or franchisees, who I want abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with.
On personal, moral, and tactical bases.
I'm not going to name names, engage in that sort of thing, but I hate these people and everyone like them.
Deep down in the bone, soul saturating hate.
You can starch your 5.11's, and bluster and condescend to everyone less ninja than you, but none of these things actually mean you have skill, common sense, or balls.

I would rather spend my time teaching old widows and single mothers how to use tools they can actually manipulate than I would get rich stroking the egos of tiny dicked, macho douchefucks who wear stupid clothes.
Fuck you.
I hate you.

Dear Tactical Ninja Douchefuck,

If you're going to put yourself out there as a weapons expert, quantifiable expertise in weapons is an important consideration. If you're going to put yourself out there as a expert in combat, quantifiable expertise in combat, might also be important.

You don't have to be a veteran to teach or share opinions on the mechanics of running a gun. That shouldn't have to be said.
But if you're going to talk specifically about violence and combat, then candor, decency, and knowing when not to run your brash, illiterate cumguzzler are all things a decent human being would take into consideration. If you're going to use the tool box analogy, it helps to have a solid working knowledge of the tools themselves, and what each one is for.
If you ridicule people for the pocket gun they will EDC, instead of the Tactical Ninja Douchefuck 9000 back home in the safe, instead of making sure they know how to use the gun they'll actually have with them when they need it, you are wrong.
No, don't say it.
Shut up.
Stop it.
You are wrong.
We're not assaulting fucking Fallujah.
I don't have belt feds, air support, and a radio.
 I'm as upset about this as anyone, but that's just the way it is.
You don't like my pearl grips on my nickeled snubbie?
I don't give a fuck.
 If you haven't at least been where I've been, seen and done and lived through the things I have, then your opinion on the gun I choose for self defense is literally not worth knowing.
If I catch you ridiculing people who want to learn, instead of imparting sound knowledge that is useful to them, I will call you out on it. If you force my hand, I will be rude about it.
I hate bullies.
More than anything on this planet.
To put oneself in a position of mentor and authority and to abuse that is unthinkable and unforgivable.
I don't care if you're trying to make money.
I don't care if you're trying to set a certain tone or make a certain brand.
I give not a single solitary fuck.

Almost Middle Aged

Yesterday I turned 34.
I fucking hate it.
Not the raw number, so much. I long ago stopped giving a fuck about that. At least I tell myself that.
But the fact that, in my eyes, I don't have a whole lot to show for it.
I have a couple of books not very many people have read, obesity, a fucked up back, knees, and ankles, and intermittent alcoholism.
I take care of my grandmother, but really, I don't do much. I make sure she gets her meds, feed her, and try to keep her company.
Her dementia is getting worse and worse.
Most of the time, I'm not sure she knows exactly who I am, she's running on instinct and the fact that I'm always here.
I ask her who I am, and she'll tell me her nephew. Or her neighbor. Or whoever.
She may or may not remember my name.
At her worst, she's borderline violent. She has slapped me, and hit me with her cane. She had a grand time one afternoon stomping on my feet.
Usually I know this is coming, because it's after long hours of verbal abuse, argument, and crying.

Why am I doing this to her?
Why won't I let her go home?
Who the hell do I think I am?

And when she's lucid, it's worse, because we both know just how far she's gone.
And then we're crying, and she's apologizing, and insistent that I shouldn't be the one carrying this weight.
And what do you say to that?

While my family is not as close as we once were, things could be a lot worse.
Everyone is just busy with their lives, with their work.
And I volunteered for this.
So I can't cry about it.
But I'm going slightly nuts.
I had a daydream, not long ago, where I had a nervous breakdown.
I dreamed I snapped, went outside, and fell to my knees in the front yard wailing away.
Full on Russell Crowe, spittle flying, Gladiator breakdown mode.
When I woke up in my recliner, it took a few seconds for me to remember where I was.
My grandmother was sitting in her chair, crying, asking me over and over again to open the door so she could go home.

Honestly, I'm about as far gone as I can remember being since I came out of the worst of my depression.
I'm not suicidal.
I'd really like to think I'll never get as close to that edge as I once did, ever again.

But, I'm going slightly nuts.
Just fucking batshit.

The truth is, the inside of my head is already a macabre tapestry of self loathing and hatred.
In my head, no one actually respects me. In my head, the concept of that is insane. In my head, the best I can think of myself is that people either feel sorry for me, or see an opportunity to use me for something.
Whether or not this is true, it's what I fight. Everyday.
On one hand, I'm trying so hard to get my shit together.
Trying to start a business teaching gun stuff, trying to get book two finished, and fully realized, hoping I can get some traction with it. Trying to figure out a plan of action for the websites and blogs, and the blog/ e-zine I'm going to try to do with some friends. The youtube channel to go with it.
And so much of it right now is just spinning my wheels.
Because I have to rely on other people. Proofers and editors, bureaucrats, family members, possible writing and business partners.
Because the only income I have coming in is disability from the VA, I've got to be careful. I wanted to have hung my shingle by now, so income from teaching CHL and basic marksmanship could be put back in the business. I could use it to take more classes, which would go in the blog/ ezine/ youtube/ whatever, while learning more and further developing martial skills.
But right now it's just one more thing that should be that isn't.
And what I want more than anything, what I need to do before I can fully realize that, is reclaim some sort of physical fitness.
At the very least, I need to get much further toward that goal than I am now.
If for no other reason than my mental health.
I'm 34, and still fat.
Every time I've started to make some real headway, I've found some excuse to let the doubt and self loathing take over.
The Army shit still creeps up sometimes.
Not war stuff, but Germany shit. Fucked up spine and people thinking I was faking shit.
Father shit, holy fuck, do I have some daddy issues. I don't really know why. We had our differences, we had our issues, we nearly came to blows a couple of times, but it was never really movie of the week shit. We were always close.
And fuck, broken heart shit still comes back.
Why I should give thoughts of a woman who doesn't love me, and for all I know never really did any of my time is absolutely beyond me.
I go months without thinking about her and what we had, at least what I thought we had, not giving two fucks, and then bam. I'm a wretched mess.
I don't know why I carry this bullshit with me, but I do.
All my faults and failures.
And I don't know if writing about it helps.
I thought I did at one time.
Now, now I'm not so sure.
No doubt there will be people who read this and send me messages of support.
Which I will answer politefully.
But this isn't a cry for help.
I don't want an intervention.
I'm thinking very seriously about my online presence.
What I put out there, and how much.
If it helps or hurts.
Both professionally and personally.
We become who we train ourselves to be.
I need to unfuck myself.

What Is Love, Baby Don't Hurt Me/ My Happy Fat Caveat

Being fat is a miserable existence marked largely by self loathing, depression, and binging. As much as I despise the blustering bullshit of the tough love types, I dislike the sugary feel good coos of the love yourself anyway crowd. Despite whatever shallow pretense they may offer of accountability, that never really feels sincere to me.
Maybe they're just more worried about the mental health aspect, which, believe me, I'm sensitive to. I just see them both as one more example of the childish, bipolar nature of modern America.
The entire matrix of the dynamic is all fucked up, insane, and psychotic. On one hand, you have people who don't believe you can be honest without being a giant, raging dick, and on the other, you have people using what they think of as positive reinforcement for negative reinforcement, by making it easier for people to not hold themselves accountable.
Love yourself.
You deserve to love yourself.
 Respect yourself.
You deserve to respect yourself.
Well, fucking why?
 That shit is earned. If you don't respect yourself, start earning it.
As far as loving yourself, color me an asshole, but I've never understood what the fuck that means.
I'm positive my perspective is horribly skewed due to the years of heavy depression and self loathing, but this is still a serious question.
What does loving yourself mean?
What if you don't deserve to love yourself?
Why wouldn't someone deserve to love themselves?
Fuck if I know, that's not for me to decide.
Maybe, like respect, love has to be earned as well.
And if you're going to attempt to help someone, stop and ask yourself if what you're really doing is stroking your ego. In fact, I'd go even further and say that both tacts are mostly the stroking of ego. Either you're beating your dick at the thought of how awesome, tough, and Alpha you were putting that fattie in their place, or you're stroking your dick over how awesome, sensitive, and Beta/ Alpha (yes, because real men are sensitive and don't feel the need to be retro and dominant) funny how men can never escape their inner ubermensch, ain't it?
Furthermore, I'll say it perpetuates some bullshit myths people should probably get over. Some simple economics might be involved, so I'll probably get burned at the stake for mentioning them.

Without a doubt, physical attraction is hugely important.
I'm not saying big girls can't be beautiful and sexy, because they can. But they're going to have to bring something to the table if they're lacking in the physical beauty department. Intelligence, charm, humor, a giant trust fund, epic tits, these are all things other than physical beauty that can make one beautiful. All these things are net pluses, and they all work for men as well as women (save maybe the epic tits).

What I'm saying is, we've all seen physically stunning people with mates who should, by all accounts, be nowhere near their league. And they're there because whatever deficit they had in the looks department, they made up for elsewhere.

Which brings us to confidence.
Confidence is important. Everyone knows this. We're told it constantly. We're told how important an ingredient it is in attraction.
How does one gain confidence?
Does one gain confidence through self respect, or through the shallow nurturing of false self esteem?
How does one get to fuck the homecoming queen?
By working hard and busting ass and knocking player's dicks in the dirt and winning the big game?
Or by hoisting the trophy he got for simply participating?

I know, by now you assume I'm just some angry, fat, rambling asshole. And you're probably right.

BUT DO YOU SEE WHERE THE FUCK I'M GOING WITH THIS?

Embrace love. Zen up. Carry a gun.

Dreamscape, Leaving Dallas With My Brother

Insane, trippy, drunken, redneck gun nut dream - I dream I'm in the bedroom in the house I grew up in. My father is there, sitting in his underwear, like usual, at my desk. The room is filled with smoke. We're talking about something. My mom comes in with her book club, and they sit around the coffee table, either in chairs that materialize or on the big, blue comfy couch we had growing up, of dark blue number in Cape Cod plaid. They start giving me a hard time about when the next book is going to be out. My mom starts bitching at my dad about smoking. He starts bitching at me about my weight. I start bitching back about that time he bitched at me for losing weight, because high school football was so important. Shit gets real. My mom and her friends fade away. My dad comes back in the room, and tells me a secret to getting away with smoking in the house without catching a bitch for it. He stands beside my bed, and reaches to adjust the vent on the wall. I remember this guy has been dead for years. I reach out to touch him. He scowls and fades away.

Flash to my pickup. My brother and I are driving on east Loop 12 Ledbetter Dr. I think we're headed to back to East Texas from grandma's house, as that's the only thing I can think of. It's one of the routes we used to take when we lived with her and worked in the city, but would go home on weekends.

Only it's real time, not the summer of '99, and we're talking real shit. We're talking about his marriage and my move back to Athens and how I hope my fatass finally gets my shit together. Like I said, real talk.

We come to a roadblock, warning signs and flashing lights. There's a sign that says "VIOLENCE", only it's misspelled. We laugh, joking about only in Dallas would they cordon an area off and let the gangsters inside finish each other off. We follow the detour around. At some point, a car starts following us. It is a 70 Camaro, in Bondo gray, with  blue ground effects and interior light. There is carpet on the dash, and a Crown air freshener, and beads hanging off the rearview mirror. It looks like a taxi in the Middle East.

My brother points to a dirt road into some woods. We take it, thinking we'll leave the Camaro in the dust. We have fun, driving through the woods like we did when we were kids. Bouncing  around, crashing through the brush. The Camaro catches up. I have a Kahr K9 on my belt, and a spare mag in my pocket next to my .380. I pull the .30-.30 Marlin from behind the seat, and pistol bag with the Glock and the spare ammo.

The dirt road takes us to some nice homes, hidden alongside a river or elongated lake/ pond. I'm pushing the truck too hard, and I have to hit the brakes and make a hard turn as we come to a small cul-de-sac at the end. We laugh like maniacs. The Camaro is nowhere to be scene. We drive back down the dirt road celebrating our victory.

Our victory is short lived.
The truck runs out of gas.
We debate what to do.

The Bondo gray '79 Camaro pulls to a stop up the hill, revving its engine.

My brother jumps out of the truck with the .30-.30, and I grab the Glock, with it's extended mag, and the ammo bag, and take position behind the engine. My brother is out front, ready to meet them. Strong and brave and ignorant of combat. I yell at him to get behind the engine block with me, but he doesn't hear me. I "Martin Riggs" the Glock on the hood of the truck, and make eye contact with the driver of the Camaro. He makes the wrong move, I'm filling his face full of 147 grain hollow pointed BBs.

 Straight up.
No fucking about.
The Camaro backs away.

We can still hear it though, rumbling through the trees.
My brother takes off, into the woods.
I follow, moving slowly. Hindered by disability and obesity.
Out of nowhere, Murphy shows up.
There's gunfire, and then my brother comes back through the woods, the rifle smoking in his hands.
We don't say anything.
There's a some gas in a can in the back of the truck, left over from mowing the yard, and I put what's left in the tank.

The next thing I know, we're at gas station, on the edge of the city.
Still headed home.
I set the pump, and look in the can at the Murph Monster cuddled up with my brother, who still isn't speaking. His eyes are watery, but he's stoic.

A kid, about 13, walks up. Baggy clothes, gang colors, etc. Wants some money. I don't have any money.
We do the MUC (Managing Unknown Contacts) dance.

He pulls a gun, a cheap High Point, and sticks it in my face. Gunfire erupts from a nearby nightclub, and I bash him with a coin sap.

There are different versions of what happens next. I was already replaying the scenes and doing AARs of them before I realized I was dreaming.

Version One, we haul ass out of there. The cops get my fingerprint off a .30-.30 shell, and I take the fall for my brother.

Version Two, the Camaro shows back up as I replace the pump and start to get back behind the wheel. People file out of it, with guns. We open up on them from the truck, just hose them down, and haul ass the fuck out of town.

Version Three, I replace the pump, and when I go to climb in the truck, my brother is dead. A hole in the head from the gunfire from the nearby club. A victim of random violence.


Sometimes our dreams tell us things. Sometimes they don't mean shit. I don't know which category this falls into. All I know, is I have a wicked, pneumonitic cough, despite the fact that I haven't smoked in over 2.5 years, and am going to unload all of my guns and wipe each bullet free of fingerprints. Just in case. No shit.

Needing Meditation

Another sleepless night.
I'd go to the gym if I wasn't afraid of something happening while I was gone.
Sometimes I think I'm going nuts.
It's good though. Mostly.

I'm still waiting on the NRA to get my instructor certs to me, so I can send Austin, so I can take the CHL instructor class. Everything always moves so slowly.

 I had to fork over a few hundred bucks for a piece of paper to send people so I can get another piece of paper so I can teach something I already know. Well, that's not entirely true. I'm sure I'll learn a lot of things I don't know at the class. Once I finally take the fucking thing.

I'm trying to so hard to be smart, to set up everything I do to work for me.
And everything is moving so, painfully fucking slow.

I don't know how much time I have left. I doubt it will be long. I'm afraid she already needs care that is beyond my capacity. We had a real rough couple of weeks, capped by an exceptionally rough weekend, and this week has been surprisingly not bad at all.

And I'm trying to look forward. To what's next, to where I want to be.
I'd be lying if I said that wasn't particularly hard at the moment.

Right now, it feels just like one more thing I failed at.
And it's not so much that I've failed at everything, it just feels that way.
And you just feel doomed. Destined to fail.

And I know I'm not.
The only destiny we have is what we make for ourselves.
But, sometimes it's harder than normal to not revel in the Great Mind Fuck.

I need to meditate.
Clear my head, focus on what I can affect and effect right now.

I'm looking forward to what's ahead.
A small apartment in my hometown.
Focusing on fitness and writing. Shooting, and teaching.
Getting back to the woods.
I miss the woods something fierce, holy fuck.

So, anyway.

Guess I'll go meditate now.

Promoting Scorn and Martiality.

We need to fight fight with fire.
We need to stop being nice to prententious, antigun, twatwaffling douchefucks.
We waste time arguing about how to stop anomalies like Adam Lanza. Anomalies exist because they can't be predicted. At best we can predict who will turn into an anomaly.
The best thing we can do, is start nurturing a culture of adulthood. For people to be mature, grown up adults, and realize that bad people do bad things to good people for no reason, and prepared for that possibility. Nurture and encourage individual martiality.
 If the antigunners are going to treat us with scorn and ridicule, do the same to them. Any man who chooses fear instead of preparation, who turns his nose up, believing, somehow, he is more of a man because he lacks the tools and ability to defend himself, is not a man, and should not be treated as such.
He deserves no less than to be looked down upon.
 To be scoffed at.
To be ridiculed.
To be shamed.
 Some reading these words will recoil in horror, their minds filling with images of would be Alpha males strutting around with big irons on their hips, intimidating passerby.
 Yet they fail to understand, that's the world they already live in. They simply can't perceive the truth. They live in self-assured bubbles purpose built to confirm their bias.
 A hundred years ago, in even the largest, most progressive, libertine, dandy filled cities in America, a gentleman was expected to have a small gun about his person to protect himself and his date.
It was expected.
It should be again.

Quick Thoughts on Choosing A Firearms Trainer

There's also a lot of talk about how to choose firearms instructors. Most will go through the gunnie version of the old martial arts school lineage. I'm gonna go slightly against the grain. While this is wonderful knowledge, it doesn't take into account certain factors. How much do you know? Do they know more than you? So what if they come from X school, did they fully absorb the material and are they capable of transferring that knowledge? Are they fucking idiots? Is X school full of fucking idiots, and morons, well known for douchebaggery, and possibly dangerous? Does it resemble, at a deep, instinctive level, a personality cult instead of an endeavor focused on giving you the tools you need to survive a hostile encounter? How much do they charge? Are they teaching skills you need, at your current level, applicable to your life? Do they use science, or myth, lore, and false oral history to back up their points?

Avoid anyone who says the following-
"That's all you need!"
"All you gotta do is rack that dang ol thang, and they'll shit their pants and run away!"
"Hip shootin' is all you got time for!"
"A woman cain't handle no more 'n that!"
"If you don't chew Big Red, then fuck you."

Be wary of personality cults and egomaniacal douchebags. Sometimes I think the industry is saturated with them. There is not one way, but many. Anyone that tells you their way is the best, instead of the best for them, might be someone to avoid. Or not necessarily. You might be able to learn a lot from them, but as you progress and build upon your foundations, your eyes will open wider. I can learn from anyone. I might not want to promote everyone's business model. Keep in mind, a lot of this stuff is just different flavors of the same. Some teachers, personalities, teaching styles, click more for some students than others.

Acknowledgements

This was a long work in progress. It started before my first book, And The Rain Came Down, was even published. It's been said that every book is a labor of love. I'm finding that to be true. I owe the following people immeasurable gratitude.
My dear friend and editor Noel Daley, for sticking it out despite my madness, and the long slow march. I can't say enough good things, or thank you enough. If people knew how hard your job is, no one would mistake me for a writer. I hope one day I'll be able to pay you what you're worth. The next one won't take so long, promise. 

Ryan Lavoie, good friend, scholar, Peace Corps vet, card shark, martial artist, and brother from another mother. One of the things I truly cherish most in this life is our long going (decade plus some now) conversation on politics, philosophy, and life.

Lucas Bailey, for inspiration, and being the good brother. Someone had to.

Rocky Clapp, for picking up his slack.

Curtis Watson, for rounding us out, and always managing to anchor us firmly in reality. I couldn't ask for better brothers than you four. Thanks for the inspiration, motivation, and support.

Marcus Wynne, warrior poet and Jedi knight, for early insight, motivation, friendship and support. Because of him, I met a great many people I now call friend, and am most grateful. Thanks.

Rob Krott, warrior poet of some renown. An old school war dog, adventurer, and writer like no other. He went above and beyond the call, of his own accord. There is no telling how much red ink he used on my rough draft. His notes were not only helpful, but hilarious.

Dan Kemp, another warrior-scholar of the first order. A Screaming Eagle with a mind like a steel trap, he may know more about military history and weaponry than anyone I know. That is a tall, tall order. Like Rob, he went above and beyond, of his own accord, and the two of them managed to help unfuck the manuscript in places where my addled mind just wasn't firing on all cylinders.
Lori Pudliner, for also going out of her way, and providing me with an extra set of eyes and some late process proofing, as well as insight on the perceptions someone not from here might have certain local colloquialisms. I hope there's not so much local flavor people can't keep up.

To Laurie Zieber, of She Speaks to Inspire radio show, and for friendship, and encouragement. It is much appreciated.

Dellani Oakes, writer and radio show host, for the same. I feel like I've learned a lot about the craft, industry, and promotion of writing the past couple of years, and much of it came from here. I can't thank you enough.

I have to thank my good friend Caleb Causey, EMT and combat medic par excellent, whose company Lone Star Medics provides first class emergency, tactical, and basic medical training. I can assure you, any and all mistakes are my own.

Jack Clemons, the “Dubstep Viking” his own damn self. Got some real good advice on a couple of points I wasn't sure about. It's nice having friends who keep the same vampire hours I do. It is much appreciated.

Greg Ellifritz, “Beefcake,” police officer, tactical trainer, and voracious reader. For encouragement, and checking my six. I was afraid I was stepping way out of my tactical depth, and it was comforting knowing the things I was worried about didn't set off any bells and whistles from someone more knowledgeable than myself.

Jerry Hossom, master knife maker, for support, and honesty. I appreciate that.

Christian D. Orr, for friendship, and unparallelled support. I can't thank you enough.

Montie Guthrie, for friendship, support, and saving my bacon on some of the finer points of the law and police work. Your nitpicking helped add depth I wouldn't have been able to achieve. I hope I put it to good use.

Sherman House, Morgan Atwood, Taylor Mock, Chris Sanchez, and Aaron Little, for, each in their way, inspiration, support, and motivation. Super special thanks to Aaron, for a term coined, and stolen; and to Chris for hard advice and honesty on something, and not being afraid to go against the grain. I appreciate that to no end.

Eric Cashion of Confederate Forge, for the same. And for forging the fine rebel steel, and being his own damn self. Too few live unreconstructed.

Mike Blackgrave, SEAMOK founder and master, for wielding it, and passing on the knowledge.

Ed Lawrence, for being himself.

Brian Tindle, good friend, boon docking companion on countless nights, and walking encyclopedia of DFW, trains, Texas Country music, and terminal ballistics. My most reliable sounding board, and occasional thorn in my side. Thank you so much, for everything.

Ellen Fagala, for friendship, motivation, and maybe a little insight. I hope you know it's appreciated.

The late, great Paul Gomez. Friend and mentor, the nicest compliment I ever got was a look that said I should know better. There is a Bowie fight in this book that plagued me for years. Rewrite, after rewrite after rewrite. “Uncle Paul” fixed that.

Uncle Paul fixed a lot of things. It's what he did. I know of no person more dedicated to advancing the art and science of self defense, in a responsible, methodical, well thought out manner, than Paul Gomez. I met nothing but quality people through him, most of whom I now consider to be good friends. The world is a far lesser place without his presence, and he is missed dearly. 

To Birdshot, With Love

I'm have to take a moment and brag. Just got off the phone with my broham Caleb Causey, of Lone Star Medics (that's right, you saw him in SWAT magazine. I'm friends with famous people). Had an excellent conversation listening to a story of how he managed to get a couple of oblivious people, neither with any knowledge, or training about guns, self defense, or personal safety to speak of, to open their eyes.

The story he told was not of bumper stickers and snark.
The story he told was not of taking the tough guy approach.
It was not of bluster, ego stroking, and wholly unwarranted chest beating.
It was a story of gentle guidance.
Of logic, and reason.
Of a firm, steady hand as they walked along what for so many people is a harsh road of self discovery. There is nothing on this earth as harrowing as a mother's recognition of the fact that she ill-prepared to save her children.

Hearing herself, in frustration, say the words,
 "Well, I guess then I'll just die."
 "And what about your son?"
 "I guess he'll just go to heaven with me."

The shock, the embarrassment, sheer horror of the price of her obliviousness.
The look on her husband's face, the great weight of his complete impotence crushing.

The cold realization that high ideals, sensitive natures, true hearts, and the very best of intentions are not enough to keep evil men from doing what they wish with your family.

That whatever platitudes people argue about picking up whatever household item their tactically ignorant, incompetent minds prefer, out of the irrational fear of a gun, is never anything but complete bullshit.

That whatever idiocy they draped over them about pacifism being a strong, or even noble virtue was never anything but a lie they told themselves. That the people who taught her this did her no favors.

The sober discussion after.
After they've gathered themselves.
After they've come to grips with who they are.
After they've glimpsed the path ahead.
The sober discussion of where to go, and how to get there.

To change, at a very fundamental level, who they are.

This is the story of a golden moment.
All too often we forget ourselves.
We withdraw into echo chambers and listen to people who think and act and view the world just like we do.
We stop viewing people as individuals.
We tell them the way it is, and when they disagree, we either berate them, or we shut off.

We forget that if someone asks us our opinion, it's because they want to hear it, and why.
If we can show them, instead of tell them. Help them along their path, instead of regaling them with tales of glory along our own. Use logic and reason instead of snark, shock, and dark humor.

And view them as individuals who are seeking knowledge, then I believe we make a difference.

Well done, Caleb.
 Much love, and great respect.

The Gnome would be proud.

Fuck You, Fuck Grossman, Fuck Everyone Like You

Laid down, couldn't sleep. Got back up. Caught a bit of Grossman hawking his idiocy on Fox News. I can't fucking stand it. The world we wake up to this morning is the current pinnacle of human evolution. The time live in is the most peaceful time in the history of mankind. This is so, despite a bewildering array of violent media. Books, comics, cartoons, and his personal favorite, video games. The most peaceful time in the history of all humanity, yet we are constantly "desensitized" to violence. It's a goddamn cultural epidemic, right? The fact is, we're much safer in decadent First World countries with schoolhouses full of spoiled, snotty kids who play first person shooters 8 hours a goddamn day than probably anywhere you can find on a map where that is not common place. The cognitive dissonance here is a hunchback swinging from the rope of a church bell. Stop parroting this idiotic drivel. It does nothing but feed the hysteria and fuel the fire. It does not add to the discourse. It does not help. If you identify yourself as a sheepdog, you're probably a fucking sheep. Your shepard is Grossman. He's going to fleece you, and then maybe sell you to the butcher.

I wasn't going to say anything else on the subject today. In fact, as soon as my jeans get done on the dryer, I'm out the door on some quick errands. So, before I say what I'm about to say, which might possibly offend, alienate, or shock who knows how many people, you might want to check my earlier status and the lengthy discussion there. You know, the one about Grossman being a douche, video games not being a problem, and this being the least violent time in the history of the world? Yeah, go look at that, because if you argue a point that has already been covered I will ignore you. Just sayin'. Not, on to what I have to say at the moment.

Has it ever occurred to any of you mush brained anti-gun morons that if and when you get your way, if it were to actually happen, what that will mean? You fuckers who froth at the mouths like a bunch of jacked off, rabid dogs at the thought of government enforcing your will. You silly fucks couldn't even stomach the conversation of secession a few weeks ago. You wailed, and moaned, criticized and belittled, the mere discussion of it! Holy fuck, how I hate you sniveling little wretches. And here you are, after an event, that while tragic and horrifying, is still a pretty rare event. I do not call it a rare event to try to lesson the gravity of it. But to highlight the short sighted, narrow minded callousness of those who just can't "let this tragedy go to waste." Violent crime decreases. Violence world wide decreases. Violence in areas where people are disarmed increases, despite these general decrease. Noticeable uptick in school shootings since the Federal Law declaring schools Gun Free Zones. Just how fucking stubborn, useless, stupid, and narrow minded must you be? 

We ask government to tell us what we can and can't do with our bodies, with disastrous consequences. We ask government to tell us who we can and can't marry, with disastrous consequences. We follow these laws to the degree each of us can live with ourselves doing. We know it's wrong. We know it nurtures the worst of our nature, and stunts the best. 

But we do it anyway. We get along, to get along. Or whatever. As far as I'm concerned, this is over. As far as I'm concerned, any attempt to ban guns or disarm the American people should be considered what it is. An act of war. Fuck you. Fuck your bully state. Fuck your delicate sensibilities. Stop telling me to be reasonable, when you are anything but. Go fuck yourself.

 I'm going to say this again, for maybe the 900th time in the past three days. I don't want anyone to ever touch a gun that does not choose to do so for themselves. The simplest and best, most immediate way to effectively protect children in schools from a madman, is to do away with Gun Free Zones. Allow those teachers who have licenses to carry at work just like they do everywhere else. 

That's it. 

Some Quick Thoughts On Secession

I don't necessarily think secession is a good idea, but that it is a conversation that needs to happen. Do not make whiny, twatwafflingly snide remarks about this, that, or the other. I have honestly never before in my life seen such blatant, unhinged, narrow minded behavior by people who seem don't seem to fully understand the concept of a democratic republic, just the club of democracy, as I have in response to the proposition of a discussion. The Democrats move further to the left, and the Republicans keep moving to the center. The Republicans nominate someone who might as well be a Democrat, two elections in a row, and that's not enough. That, in essence, is the problem with the left. It's not so much that they're tolerant, because if they were, they wouldn't insist that the right keep moving to the left. I'm not even a Republican and I see this. Anyway, I'm passing this along for the following reasons -
1. Because it is a discussion that needs to be had. I think the reaction to it is telling.
2. I think it should always be a possibility. What I want out of the discussion, is that the Republican part resets itself more Libertarian, so much so that Libertarians come into the fold instead of sitting in dark corners masturbating to texts on Austrian economics. I want America to be more of the Republic is was intended to be. And I would love for the discussion to cause the Democratic party to reflect and reset. Except for some places in the south where there might be some hold out, old school Blue Dogs, I have less hope of this happening than I do the Republican party bringing more Libertarians in.
3. The left has this real hypocritical, "My Country Right or Wrong But Only When We're in Power" streak I find loathsome on many levels. Preach about coming together, still blame and hate Bush for everything. Fuck you.
4. Why shouldn't the people of a state be able to discuss, vote, and leave the union if they see fit. "It's not going to happen," is not an answer. Neither is, "You're racist." Or, "You'll be at the mercy of Mexico, Russian, China, whoever." Would that be any worse than being at the mercy of our own out of control government? Or those who would disarm a people? Maybe we can deal with them. Maybe they'll honor the arrangements better  than our current government.

If the government fails to hold up it's end of the bargain. If it becomes tyrannical, ruins our money, becomes so infested with corruption that it is taken for granted, wages war on it's own citizens, systematically disarms them and uses government agencies to set the stage for the vindication of doing so, and grows in size, scope, and power to the point that the very system of government morphs and mutates to the point that one cannot tell where the corporations end and the government begins, why not?

Where I'm at, where I'm looking to go

It won't be much longer now.

I was hoping to give my grandmother another Christmas in her home.

Two, if we were really lucky.

It's almost Thanksgiving, and it's obvious she needs more than I can give her.

If Christmas is even possible, it will take work and coordination that may be out of our grasps.

Truth be told, she should be somewhere now.

And I hate this.

Words alone will never be able to adequately describe just exactly how much I hate this.

She's lived here since 1959. My mother's family spent a year in Chicago and came running back.

She does better when one of her children, my mother, her sister or brother, are here.

Me, I'm just a punk kid at 33.

The family fuck up.

The nutty vet not right with the world.

I'm in a real strange place.

For those who care, yes, I'm still waiting on cover art for book 2. If I don't have something in the next few days, I'll figure something else out. So, there's that.

Anyway, other than writing, and in some ways in conjunction with writing, I have some opportunities and possibilities on the horizon.

I don't really want to give too much away right now.

I'm trying to figure out best how to synthesize and synergize, and maybe stream line.

I'm still waiting on Austin to get back to me with a class date to get licensed to teach CHL.

I still need to take the NRA instructor's courses. Mostly this is formality, and paying dues, and having a piece of paper to show people who don't know much about guns.

I also have a list of people I want to train to actually learn from. People I want to seek out for skills and knowledge and perspective. A lot of this shit, despite what people will tell you, isn't really that goddamn difficult. People have been cracking each other over the head with rocks since fire was considered magical. What interests me isn't just the pursuit of knowledge, but the ability to relate that information to others in the most economical way possible.

That's one of the things I despise the most about the training and self defense industry. It's filled with faux macho would be Alpha males who live to do little more than assuage their own personal egos.

I know what I want to offer as a teacher. What I feel comfortable in both skill and knowledge being able to charge for, and where I want to be able to grow as a teacher.

I should say something about figuring out my brand, but the truth is, I don't give any more of a fuck about that than I ever have.

I'm out there. I'm me. I'm as open as can be. For better or worse. Good or bad. Love me or hate me.

I am just exactly who I am

I know I'm ready.

I'm excited.

I'm ashamed of all the time I wasted being a sad sack drunk.

When I published my first book, and first entered the world of social media, I was in many ways a different person. I was certainly in a much different place.

Believe it or not, I have reservations about just how much I put out there.

Sometimes living without filters feels like reality tv, only it's not as lucrative, and somehow maybe more sad, pathetic, and melancholy.

I know a lot of the readers I first collected read my writing because of that. The depression, the addiction, the struggle. All that drama.

So, I don't know.

I don't know exactly what's next.

I don't know where I'll be in a year's time.

I do know, when I'm 35, I want to be exponentially further from here than I am from where I was at 30.

I'm tired of wasting time.

I'm tired of wasting life.

And potential.

Maybe watching my grandmother's decline has sharpened my focus.

I don't know.

I barely even drink anymore, and when I do, it's rarely very much. When I drink and stay up, I feel sluggish and wish I hadn't.

When I go days without drink, it is no longer cause for celebration.

It's notice is but an after thought.

It's strange.

To go so long feeling like you're on the precipice.

A few years ago, I had one of the top agents in the country.

I was meeting famous people.

I thought I was a contenda, as it were.

But my book didn't get picked up.

I didn't get famous, or rich, or even really make any money to speak of.

I'm sure, the place I was then, the hope of greatness probably meant more to me than greatness itself.

Coming out of that dark place. Still shy of the light.

I'll always write.

I don't have a choice in that matter.

But I can't any promises.

I'm trying to organize my life, and schedule, and to instill discipline to my work.

Please understand, I beg you, I despise ritualized discipline.

I knew too many people in the army who worshiped it.

Also, that I do real well not to hate myself.

Those who have never dealt with severe depression will never understand.

I am not inserting this to use as an excuse.

Simply stating a fact.

And that I deal with it everyday the best I can.

Some days are better than others.

And even at my worst now, is so much better than my best then.

The other night, I lay in bed. I was sober, and staring in the darkness, and just thinking.

Before the bottle, this had been my favorite time.

When I realized the moment, something hard to describe washed over me.

That I can enjoy it once again seems like a foreign idea.

I actually prefer being sober to drunk, and am no longer surprised by it.

You don't know that when you're there, in that dark place.

You can only see it looking back.

Tough love doesn't work.

And all the hope and possibility I can see forming on the horizon, I would trade for a few good months for my grandmother.

I would trade my soul, fester in mud spackled obscurity forever, to give her back her mind.

The ravages of dementia are no gentle thing.

The madness I enjoyed before was itself self obsessed, frivolous, and childish. 

It was trifling twatwafflery. 

I guess that's what I get for trying to end this on a positive note.