What I think about when I think about guns

That photo of me during what would become the peak of my adolescent geekdom is at the top of the fourth most viewed post on my blog, titled "Let's Talk About the Gun." Approximately 32,000 people have found it since I posted it in 2014 shortly after I posted the photo for the first time and was deluged with inquiries about "the gun." 

Again, it isn't a gun. You can read about it if you click on the link.

People love guns in this country or google the words a lot.

I was reminded of it tonight when I read about a group of Trump-loving fools riding up Ventura Blvd this weekend in some kind of caravan. I believe shots were fired, but who did what is unclear. The POSPOTUS, of course, tweeted  The only way you will stop the violence in the high crime Democrat run cities is through strength!, which I guess means guns. A friend from Michigan reminded me of the Trump-loving gun-toting cowards who stormed their capitol, fully armed, to protest masks or something or other, their foolish faces screaming into the masked soldiers standing at arms outside the legislative body's door. Those dudes didn't blink, their mouths still behind their black masks, even though there was a bunch of Covid 19-laden spittle hovering in the air. Afterward, I guess the White fools went home and ate some terrible food cooked by their wives who had shopped for it, ignorant that it had been picked and packed and slaughtered and quartered by the immigrants they hate and other sufferers of the fake virus. I was thinking about that hateful White 17 year old fool murderer who drove twenty miles to protect some property in Kenosha, Wisconsin, killed a couple of people and then walked right on by a bunch of cops. I was thinking about those two tacky fool lawyers in pink and khaki and stripes who came out of their faux chateau in St. Louis, Missouri, fully armed as peaceful protesters strolled by, eventually lauded by the POSPOTUS himself at his hateful foolish sycophant fest. Good for them! I heard someone say about them. I started thinking about how people I know keep guns in their house to protect myself and my family. I was trying to imagine what it would feel like to get trained using a gun and then to carry one around in anticipation of or just in case you'd need to kill someone. And then I thought of the brilliant quote by writer and deeply Christian thinker, Marilynne Robinson. It's been over there on my sidebar since I plucked it out of an essay some years ago -- an interview she had done with President Barack Obama. She said, 

Normalizing the idea that we should all go around capable of a lethal act at any moment is completely corrupt and crazy. I wouldn't carry a gun. The reason I wouldn't carry a gun is because it is an immoral act walking around imagining you're going to kill someone. It's a recipe for a completely deranged society. It's grotesque.

Tens of thousands of people have viewed that one silly blog post of mine, and I know it's not because of my gingham dress. We're a completely deranged and corrupt society in the big fat ugly year of double twenties in Terrible America. We are grotesque.

Mosh Pit

Do you want to hear the good news first or last? It's not actually news but more of a rehash. SOS. Save Our Ship and Same Old Shit. I got a Christmas greeting card from our new health insurer. It was a snow globe with a cheerful winter scene inside. Despite coverage not beginning until the first of the year, I suppose Anthem Blue Shield is trying to butter me up. You know -- all that thank you for entrusting us to insure your good health and looking forward to a wonderful relationship in the new year. Wouldn't it be awesome if their season's greetings included Happy Hellidays and Looking Forward to Ripping You a New One in 2016! I'm thinking about printing the e-card out and using it for target practice -- oh, wait -- I don't own a gun and have already refused to even acknowledge those who believe it's their right or need to carry one. Maybe, instead, I'll use the card to practice spitting, or maybe blowing marijuana smoke rings. Wait -- I haven't really spit on anything or anyone since my sister and I fought over Parcheesi back in the mid-70s, and I don't smoke marijuana despite my fervent belief in its medicinal powers. May the new year knock some sense into our legislators, persuade them that accepting money from Big Pharma and the NRA enslaves you to drugs, fear and death.

Anyhoo.

Where was I? Christmas greeting cards from your future health insurer (for whom you've already girded your loins in expectation of the Fight Over Formulary and Non-Formulary Drugs) are irksome and seem a waste of the cloud, no?

Here's some good stuff. I spent a few glorious hours in Sophie's school classroom this morning. I brought fresh donuts and about nine Trader Joe's gingerbread houses for the kids to put together and decorate. They're a rowdy, fun bunch of young men and women. They are Asian and Hispanic and African-American and Caucasian and Christian and Orthodox Jewish and Muslim. They sang Christmas carols, danced and laughed and wiped frosting all over themselves. They worked very hard throwing sprinkles over the roofs and piled the little sugar people up by the front door. The teacher declared awesome mosh pit! and they all giggled. If you need a bit of cheer in your life, if you're completely demoralized by all the bullshit -- by the freedom lovers and gun lovers, by the war mongers and terrorists, by the expressions boots on the ground and collateral damage, by the Federal Reserve -- you should visit a class of young adults with disabilities.

You won't feel gratitude for what you have and what they lack. You'll want what they have and what you lack.

My Alto Voice in the Choir

Oh, America...you sad, gunslinging whorehouse...Ah freedom.

                                                    Jeff F.


I have no interest in those of you who like to collect, carry, protect yourself with and otherwise support the narrow interpretation of the Second Amendment.  Your exultation in your conceal and carry status or your photos of your gleaming gun cabinets are nails in the coffins of all the people who've died these last few weeks, culminating in the fourteen deaths yesterday of people who work with the developmentally disabled. Like Sophie. Yes, I'm making an emotional decision. You've made your decision, a decision that I believe is immoral and cowardly and based on nothing but fear and craven impulse. I have no interest in speaking with you nor in living alongside you.

I have nothing to add to this bit that Mary Moon at Bless Our Hearts wrote in her inimitable style and would only add that I refuse to listen to anyone, ever again, justify their lack of support for extremely strict gun laws.

What sort of guns did those gunmen, still on the loose, use today to calmly murder fourteen (at last count) people at a center for developmental disabilities in San Bernardino?
I don't know. But I can tell you this- the guns, whatever kind they were, were manufactured for one purpose and one purpose only and that is for the murder of human beings. Many human beings. As quickly as possible.

At this point, I don't give a shit what these crazy white men (it's always crazy white men, isn't it?) have or had as a motive to make them do what they did. I don't CARE if they needed mental health care that they were unable to get. I don't care what their religion was or their social or non-social lifestyle was. I don't care what video games they played or what their neighbors thought of them.
All I care about is that they were able to get these guns, these weapons of evil intent and the ammunition to go in them and use them to kill innocent people.
And of course it's always "innocent" people. School children, people in church, people in movies, people seeking health care services, people at an awards ceremony at a center for people with developmental disabilities.
Look- anyone who would do what these men do is mentally ill. That's a given. Whether they are teenagers who want to kill their fellow students or grown men who want to gun down abortion providers- they are sick.
That is not at question.
But here's what is- what sort of deep sickness has infected us as a nation which would allow this direct cause and effect to still be legal? What is it about us as a society which makes us hesitate for even a second before outlawing these sorts of weapons? What has happened to us as a species that would allow this to happen over and over again?
I don't even care if the second amendment DOES protect the rights of people to buy these guns (and I don't think for a second that it does). Let's amend the damn amendment. Because our babies are being killed.
And we are the laughing stock of the world.

So how do we do it? How do we, as a nation, say no more? 
Look- I'm at the point where I'd let the government declare martial law and send agents to every house in the nation to collect these guns. Which, of course, would lead to civil war and unbelievable bloodshed because that would prove to the gun insanists (yes, I made that word up) that the very thing they've been yelling about as a defense for owning guns has finally come true.
Nothing is going to happen overnight. It just isn't. This is a problem and a horror that may take decades before we see some results. Is that a reason not to begin the process? To outlaw these guns?
The horror and evil of slavery wasn't solved in a day. Hell, we're still suffering the consequences.
BUT IT HAS TO BEGIN SOMEWHERE!
And this absolutely undeniably psychotic love affair with guns that a certain segment of American society has must be stemmed. The finger has to be stuck in the dike, no matter how huge the force behind it threatens to be. And no jokes allowed- this ain't funny.

I'm preaching to the choir here. I know that. But let me remind you- don't vote for anyone who wavers or waffles on gun control. Just don't. Stand up and let's begin to start the process of getting these guns out of the hands of the insane. And no one in this whole world really believes that background checks really work. We have to just stop selling them. And even, dare I say? Making them?

Fear, Carry and Conceal

Tucson, Arizona, 2011; photograph by Paolo Pellegrin
via The New York Review of Books

I have several friends, particularly in the medical marijuana community, who are ardent Christians and political conservatives or libertarians. Their beliefs in many regards are antithetical to my own, despite the fact that we share much in common, namely our children with seizure disorders. A couple of years ago, I had to disengage from one member of this community when he derided the anguished cries of the father of the UCSB shooter for stricter gun laws. This person then derided me, called me a coward and declared that it was people like himself that had to protect lazy people like me. It's too easy, I think, to call a person like this insane or stupid or even to feel scared as shit that they're carrying guns around.

Lately, I've noticed on Facebook that a number of these people -- my friends -- are posting quite exuberantly about gun shopping, about applying for gun licenses and carry and conceal permits. The comments that follow these status updates are enthusiastic, even down to the emoticons of guns and happy faces. Their reasoning is generally along the lines of protection, that carrying a gun will protect them and their family. The other day, I sat on my front lawn with Sophie and a guy who was going to do a little work on my house. He, too, is an ardent gun enthusiast and spoke openly about the need to protect oneself from bad people, to arm oneself and learn to shoot well, in the event of a home invasion or a threat to my children or myself.

I might just be a dumb-ass, but I am not afraid.

I really don't understand what everyone is so afraid of, why they think concealing a sophisticated piece of killing technology is nifty and what sort of statistics they've seen that I haven't regarding defensive gun use in the home or out at the movie theater or in a grocery store or child's school.

To be frank, the only caveat to my lack of fear is -- well -- you. You with your glib photos of guns, your cocky aims to protect yourself and your children from dark forces, your conceal and carry ardency, your deep cynicism and paradoxical blind faith in -- what? In what lies your faith? Please enlighten me.


I've been mulling these things the last few days, inarticulate and struggling to understand, repelled and repulsed and uncomfortable. I didn't want to resort to sarcasm, to scorn or contempt -- I like these people, feel bonded to them, even devoted. Yet, distance. My brain's wrappings -- they're undone. I don't understand. In one of those amazing instances of synchronicity, tonight I read the brilliant Marilynn Robinson's long essay on faith and guns and fear in The New York Review of Books.  I hope that it will provoke some response, that I will. I'm not afraid and have nothing to carry or conceal.

Tear Down That Wall

Even a peacenik like me is riled up by what's happened in South Carolina. When is that state going to tear down that fucking Confederate Flag? Or when are WE going to tear down that flag?

I am, uncharacteristically, finding solace in rap.

Weekend Recap: A Bit About Guns, Neurology, Meyer Lemons, Books, Food and Burkas

Driving Meyer Lemon

Those are some Meyer lemons that I picked off my friend Jenni's tree yesterday afternoon, after I dropped Oliver off for a birthday party. He finally got to do that airsoft gun thing and, of course, had a blast. He told me that there were some creepy people dressed all in camo running around. Grown men. He said that I would have taken one look and walked out. He knows me well. He asked whether he could go again with Henry, and I said that I wouldn't pay for it or drive them there. Ever. Would I let them go if they paid with their own money? Why, yes, I would, at this point. I figure that if I don't let them do these things, they 'll do them all the time when they get older. They might actually be that grown man in camo running around in Lawndale, California pretending to be a soldier.

Anyhoo.

Later this week, I'm participating in the Epilepsy Foundation of Greater Los Angeles conference/summit. On Friday, I'm sitting on a panel with a few other people to discuss CBD in front of a whole bunch of neurologists and physicians. The other participants include an eminent male neurologist from UCLA, an emergency room physician who is also a father of a child with epilepsy and a woman who has something to do with Realm of Caring, I think. The UCLA neuro is in charge of the show and sent over a suggestion for how the panel discussion should proceed. I am evidently first, and he listed my name like this:

1. Start with strictly parent viewpoint - Elizabeth -- I'm assuming you're not involved in research or healthcare.

And so on. Reader, I had to do it. I had to respond with my characteristic thinly veiled irritation. The veil is, of course, irony and black humor. I'll give a fabulous prize to the first person who guesses why I was irritated and what I might have said. I should add that The Neurologist is a great guy, that he responded to me appropriately and with great humor and that we are all looking forward to the weekend. If you remember, the last time I spoke about CBD, I was told that it was as if a bomb had been let off in the room. Maybe this time I'll wear a leotard and light sparklers. On Saturday's Family Day, I'll be with my peeps, showing the Extreme Parenting Video Project that I made some years ago with Erika and Phil and talking a bit about the journey I've been on with Sophie since she's been diagnosed. I guess I should wear the leotard to that event as well, or maybe a burka to suggest the complete erasure of my identity over the last two decades.

What did you do today, Reader? I did some more purging -- lots and lots of it. Frankly, though, my room still looks like the same, cluttered somewhat bohemian space it looked like before. The Barbie closet is sleeker, though, and I threw out a lot of papers. I flipped through some old journals and had to talk myself out of a deep depression. Suffice it to say that there is nothing new under the sun.

I forgot to tell ya'll about Friday night's Books & Bakes. I think it might have been the best one ever. We talked and laughed about John Lanchester's really great novel The Debt to Pleasure. It'd be hard to describe it, but think travelogue, murder mystery, erudite food criticism, recipes, laugh aloud wittticisms and a creepy serial killer. Here's what I cooked:

Provencal Fish Stew
Toasted Baguette with Aioli
Roasted Tomatoes with Farro
Green Salad
Espresso Creme Brulee

Here's what we drank:

Lillet
Pimm's Cup
Rose Wine
Water

The next book for the salon is Anthony Marra's A Constellation of Vital Phenomena. It's happening on April 17th at 7:00 pm. Please come if you can.

Love,

Strictly Parent Viewpoint Elizabeth

Boy Talk, Part 468: On Inspiration

Quick, take a picture of that! I said to Oliver when we pulled up to a stoplight before entering the Target parking garage.

Why, Mom? he replied, Why do you need a photo of a homeless guy's stuff?

Well, to tell you the truth, I am inspired by the things that I see and then the photos that I take, I replied, I'll often take a photo and then look at it later and write off of it. 

I waxed inspirational, then, the kind of blather that I'm sure my boys tolerate only by the skin of their teeth. I think I mentioned the video of the homeless man that I'd watched last night, like tens of millions of other people -- the one where a homeless man on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles is shot dead while being "subdued" by six LAPD. I can't tell you, Reader, how frenzied I felt while watching that video last night. My heart was literally pounding, and while the boys watched over my shoulder, I might have even screamed how much I hated guns and cops and this whole country. I went on and on, basically freaking out about the fact that thousands of people, many of them mentally ill, live in squalor on the streets even as people drive past in cars that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, blather, blather, blather. I might have cried, openly, I was so upset. But that was last night, and when I saw crap strewn all over the street outside of Target, I immediately thought of the video and knew that I wanted to write about it, somehow, if only to struggle with my own ineffectual place in all of this. Because, really, who am I to hate this situation and have no real power and even, sometimes, inclination, to actually do something about it. To tell you the truth, I feel like an asshole for complaining without a means to really help.

Today, I didn't say any of that -- I just made the comment about inspiration and writing and creativity when Oliver asked me why I wanted a photo.

You're a creative person, I said, what gives you ideas and inspires you? He thought for a moment, and then turned the dial of the radio up nearly all the way as we drove underground into the parking garage. All the Single Ladies was blaring out of the speakers in my sexy white Mazda, and I instinctively turned it down as low as it had been turned up. Let's face it, Reader, I'm not a Beyonce fan.

Mom! Oliver cried out and turned the knob back up. You don't turn DOWN Beyonce, you turn her UP. THAT'S what inspires me! He started dancing and bobbing in the seat next to me, doing his moves, and I was inspired, Reader, to actually join him.

Let's talk about the gun

The other day I posted the above photo and got several inquiries about what looks like a gun pointed directly at the fireplace.

So, that's not a gun. It's a brass telescope, readers. Yes, we lived in what was known as the boonies of Atlanta, Georgia in the mid-1970s. Perhaps there were others in that part of Georgia who would proudly display a gun in their family room, but those people weren't us. We'd moved to what was then the hinterlands of the city proper and lived in a large subdivision whose borders were still being drawn even as I sat there at our faux aged fireplace, dark paneling around me, enveloped by the lustrous sateen browns and rusts of the decade. Just behind me were two sliding glass doors that led to a deck that overlooked a small backyard and the deep, dark woods. The Toll's lived on one side of us in a dark, gloomy Tudor, and the Deal's lived on the other side in a colonial. Why a brass telescope was set up and what, exactly, there was to peer at, is beyond me, but perhaps it just looked good, in the same vein as that fabric on the couch, my red and white checked jumper with the white turtleneck and my curling-ironed hair.

Anywho.

Homeland Security Resolution, The Mad Hatter, Medical Marijuana, Guns, Vanity, Gay Teletubbies and Some Appropriate Cursing

So, it turns out that one of my wonderful readers and commenters works for Homeland Security, and she confessed to scrolling through my blog yesterday on her time off -- hence, the mystery is solved.

Dang nabbit. I was feeling all self-important.

Today, though, I am going to be photographed with Sophie for a newspaper article about medical marijuana in California. Late last night I confessed to another extreme parent who was on the East Coast (up with her child way, way past midnight) that I was terrified to be photographed lest I look bad or horrors upon horrors -- heavy. I hate that word, by the way, and have forced myself to say it. My friend S, despite the grueling nature of her day, her night, her life, actually, sent me the following photo of what I should wear:

That's called The Mad Hatter Costume. I laughed so hard I almost fell out of my chair. My friend also typed that she wished she had the wherewithal to be more publicly outrageous than she is, and that made me laugh hard as well. Given the circumstances, I wish that I were, too. The truth is that while I'm happy to be interviewed, happy to tell our story, fired up to advocate and help others who need this information, there's a certain part of me that's as pissed off as one can imagine -- or maybe not just pissed off but freaked out, overcome by absurdity. I'm angry that it took nineteen years to stop Sophie's seizures despite this plant being available -- with evidence that it might very well help. Let's call off the Jesus stuff and the miracles and the feeling all joyous and happy now that Sophie's seizures are reduced dramatically. I'm angry about the clusterfuckery that is the American healthcare system -- angry that people opposed reforming it, angry that it's still entirely inequitable, angry at the buffoons in my home state of Georgia who think it's oh so American to carry a concealed weapon around wherever you please but good golly miss molly not the evil weed! I'm angry that my friend from Wisconsin had to work her fanny off to get the almighty lawmakers to pass a bill -- last night! -- making it easier to get CBD for children like her daughter who has had seizures for a decade, part of her brain removed and countless meds poured down her throat yet my friends here in Los Angeles can suck on pot lollipops at hipster restaurants. And yes, I thinnk marijuana should be legal for even recreational use.  I'm angry that I'm nervous we might not have a steady supply of Charlotte's Web, that I'll have to grovel for it. I'm angry with Big Pharma, with The Man, with capitalism, with the Tea Bag Party and the damn libertarian ship it floated in on, with The Way Things Work. I'm angry with my anger. And I'm angry that seizures are so vicious, that they've damaged not only my daughter's brain and her quality of life but our family -- my sons, my husband, me.

Hell, I'm angry that I'm not still thin, too.






Well, damn this whole shebang. And my own vanity.

I'm wearing this:

Joan of Arc, Drug Mules, and Guns

Joan of Arc at Prayer, John Everett Millais, 1865

Some say that Joan of Arc, or Saint Joan, received her visions directly from God. Others say that Joan of Arc might have had temporal lobe epilepsy and with it came the intense and revelatory hallucinations that directed and guided her to save her people. I don't know, but I imagine that in every way, Joan of Arc was guided by Love, a godly Love -- something divine and certainly other-directed. I was thinking about Joan of Arc and her visions and her epilepsy while I was taking a shower this morning. I was also thinking about the little card I got in the mail the other day along with the letter to Anthem Blue Cross from The Neurologist. The card was a discount card from the manufacturer of clobazam, the drug that The Friend Who Loves Jane Austen recently ferried across the great Canadian-American border for me. The letter is part of a larger grievance against Anthem to add the drug to Sophie's covered formulary so that it's affordable. The little card gives the user a $50 discount monthly up to a year for the drug, and I wondered whether the drug manufacturer thought itself kindly or cooperative in making this gesture. I thought how the nearly $1,000/month price it charges in the United States compared to the $63/month price it charges in Canada suggested that only the proverbial 1% could afford the drug. The rest of us are supposed to be grateful for the discount. When I stepped out of the shower, the aroma of the gingerbread cake I'd put into the oven wafted through the steam in the bathroom, and as I toweled off, I thought of Joan and her visions and her epilepsy and her zeal. I thought of the families, again, in Newtown, one of whom is dear to me, and I thought of the people who have rushed, with zeal and fear, to buy up guns much like the ones used to slaughter little children, before they are, perhaps, out of reach.

Guns, I thought, for the free and the brave.

Quelle rackette, Joan of Arc might have said, as she climbed on her horse and drew her sword, her eyes directed outward, her brain's marvelous mapping obedient to the Divine.