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.