Guns, Guns, Guns

Guns don't kill people, people kill people. At least that's what the gun lobby tells me. I do think that it would be disingenuous to state that guns don't make killing exponentially easier, especially for multiple murders in one sitting.. They are less personal and quicker than any hand-to-hand method. To kill by firearm is cowardly, all one need do is point the barrel and squeeze the trigger. One need not soil their shirt with blood by thrusting a weapon into their victim.

No other legal weapon is as effective when committing mass murder. How many people in a crowd could be killed with a knife before the killer was overtaken by his potential victims? With two guns in hand, the shear fear injected into the masses would be enough to keep the crowds at bay. The ease of killing any who approached or tried to escape defines a scale of power projection unmatched by any other personal weapon. The number of mass murderers who committed their crimes in one sitting using hand to hand weapons attests to this fact: zero.

You may believe the NRA is right. You may believe in the Second Amendment. But beware: to allow firearms to be unrestricted in the U.S. will lead to continued disaster on scales of Columbine, Austin, and now Blacksburg. It's just naive to believe that situations can be easily controlled when a mentally unstable person gets ahold of firearms. Guns don't kill people, people kill people. But people with guns can kill lots of people. Unfortunately, they can kill lots of people pretty quickly.

Audio Tourist

Sometimes a song hits you. It may be one you know, or a new tune that hooks your ears and leads you to new pastures. The pull is often strongest when it is a familiar one heard unexpectedly in a place or time you hadn't experienced before.

I have just heard one. It jolts me awake and changes the evening's paradigm through its slow melody and haunting progression. Listening to it at home would not have been the same. The context of the background voices and conversations, the kitchen noises and footfalls create a reality that stands apart from my abode; livelier, surrounding, isolating.

The song invades my psyche and slowly lowers the tone of the action. It separates itself from chatter of the those around and visually emerges as a shiny monolith in my head. It remains there throughout its play and I ride the wavelength through. As it begins to fade, the sounds of the patrons and staff rise again like the tide washing away a sand castle. It sinks my heart briefly as it dies, but brings a smile to my face, knowing that I am but an IPod button away from reliving the moment at another place and time of my choosing.

Sub-Five

I stood tall, waiting at the line, waiting for the starter. I was always nervous at beginning, tense for those first few moments before the sound of the gun set us all in motion. My racing spikes dug in, my arms set back as they made contact with the adjacent racers on either side. We were packed along the line that was curved to even the playing field a little by allowing those of us on the outside of the curve to start a little farther ahead. It was common in all track races; the fastest runners started on the inside lanes.

I had always been a capable runner, faster than most other kids and able to keep running too. In middle school gym class, I was able to run long distances faster than most anyone else. My gym teacher suggested that I try running distance when I entered high school.

Bang! The starter’s gun fired its blank shell, and the nervous system of each runner jolted in response. A mass of thinly clad athletes set off, stampeding in organized fashion as one entity like a flood of river water released from a dam. We started on a curve of the limestone gravel track and the battle for pole position began immediately. I was not one of the fastest in the race. I was only a freshman, and we had a number of juniors and seniors on the team who were positioned ahead of me, along with our competition. I would have to weave and pass my way through the light nylon uniforms, avoiding the half-inch spikes on the front of their track shoes. It was rare for another runner to step on your feet but spikes grazing calves were common injuries, especially at the beginning of a race.

We had an excellent coaches at Poland HS; Don Smaltz headed up the distance runners and Dave DiRenzo the sprinters and field athletes. Coach Smaltz taught us how to train in the off-season, how to pace ourselves, and how much energy to save for the final sprint to the end. He taught us through running but also through mental exercise, particularly how to fight through those tough moments of a race when we feel alone on the track, when our bodies are fatigued and our mind is telling us to give in to the pain. He taught us how to win that personal battle, how each of us must think of the team during that pain, and that our performance counted for more than just our own goals.

The first lap is an easy one, as my energy is good and my mind is occupied by finding my position among all of the racers around me. It seems like a blip in time and it’s over. I pass our assistant coach who is providing splits for us and he reads off the times as we pass; “65, 66, 67.” There is a change in the second lap as the adrenaline rush tapers off and my pace becomes established. I am gliding now, and it feels good though my fear begins to build. I pass a few runners along the way but as I make it down the stretch, I am dreading the third lap. This is the hardest stage. This is where racers may hit the wall; the place where running is no longer easy and their legs get heavy and their tanks empty. I need to fight through this one, to keep my pace, to hang around enough to give myself a chance. This is where the voice will visit.

The hardest part about running distance is the time spent alone on the track or course. Each runner must occupy his mind while maintaining his racing pace. There are no teammates to help you out, and your coaches can only yell as you pass them by. You become your own cheerleader; some runners talk to themselves, others allow their thoughts to do their cheering. Friends or teammates that stand along other parts of the track to cheer and encourage can provide powerful lifts to the spirit, but it is all too often an unknown or forgotten part of high school track. You are left with the repetition of each stride, the sweat pouring down your face, and the pain that builds in your quadriceps, your hamstrings, and your gut. It’s the last one that is the hardest; it tears away at your strength and stamina, but it strikes right at your soul. All you need to do to end it is to slow down or stop and admit defeat.

As I turn into the first curve of the final 440-yard oval, the cheers of the crowd, my coaches, parents, and friends dissipate and I am left to tackle the far straightaway on my own. The runners are fairly spread out now, though there are a few ahead of me, in range of my stride. I gear myself up for passing them on the front straightaway, avoiding the turn. We had been taught not to make any moves on the curves; passing on them requires that you run a longer distance to get around someone when using those outside lanes. I’ll wait for the crowd’s cheers to lift me up, to refill my spiritual tanks for the final stage. No voice visits, no wall emerges, no stopping me now. The weather is a perfect Ohio spring day, warm and sunny. The smell of blooming flowers from the lowlands of Yellow Creek that runs just below the outside fence surrounding the track filled the air. I had been trying all season to do it, to break the barrier that kept eluding me. There were no meets left for me after this one. Summer would be here soon, and the track season would end. But not yet. Not for about another 67 seconds.

I quicken my pace, just a little, and pass an opponent or two before entering the turn again. I am feeling good; I’ve made it. Now I just need to pick it up, catch a couple more runners. As I enter the back stretch I realize that this is the day, this is when it will happen. My stride lengthens, and I can feel my spirit rise with each footfall. As I go into the final turn, I pass a senior who squeezes out encouragement for me with all the breath he has left in him. I don’t care about overtaking him on the turn, I have energy left. A few more steps and the afterburners will be lit.

About half way around the turn, I let loose. My legs are churning now, moving as fast I can lift them. This is a tricky maneuver to perform sprinting the last 100 yards or so. Bodies are tired, and extremities are flailing. Distance runners lack the great form that sprinters employ, so there is always the danger of a collision or fall during this stage.. As I approach the finish line, my ears perk up for the sound of my time. I cross the white strip, and hear the magic words from the time caller. I had done it – 4:56, a sub-five minute mile.

Ethereal Neighborhood Games

The aerial view descended upon the twisting river and the lights of small hamlets that appeared on its shore. The rocky outcrops were many, increasing the difficulty of building a settlement here that could be reached by water. The view closed on one such settlement, the scale of vision dropping as if attached to the nosecone of an incoming rocket.

Flash Forward

We walked towards the group of buildings closest to the river. They were set off from the water by about 50 yards of open floodplain that was dotted with basaltic rocks; clearly the river rose over its banks regularly here. The town seemed unoccupied at first, but soon we could here voices. A group of men approached us, but all was not well. They took an antagonistic stance and shouted a few insults. One raised a rifle.

I yelled at Goldilocks to run, run quick into town. Find a place to hide while I dealt with all this. Off she went at full sprint. An old Winchester rifle lay against the tree beside me. I picked it up and took aim at the shooter, who had by now taken cover. We exchanged a few shots old-west style, with our bullets ricocheting off of the tree bark that protected each of us. Soon my rifle stopped functioning, though whether or not it was empty of shells or just old I cannot say. I dropped it and ran after her.

*Flash Forward*

Goldilocks was now running through yards and even house to throw off the trail of her chasers. Somehow my vision became hers though our bodies remained separate. The homes were very blue collar, and had been transformed from the small river hamlet to a more suburban neighborhood similar to my hometown area in Ohio, yet unfamiliar to me. She dashed around trees, over fences and through houses. They showed obvious signs of being occupied - lights on, kettles boiling, doors unlocked - though for the most part no one was home. The chasers had spread out and were now closing in on her.

She stepped upstairs in one of the ramshackle homes found a window that provided access to the slanted roof and climbed onto it. Strangely, a chicken-wire fence about two or three feet high rose from the edge of the roof enclosing it as if to contain kids or animals and prevent them from falling off. Goldilocks found a spot along the fence, laid down, and curled her body against it. A young pale-face boy appeared at the window she had crawled through. He had short bangs that could have him pass for a medieval monk if not for his age. He stared at her briefly with a sullen but silent face that was interrupted by the sound of mens voices. The chasers' voices. Voices that were looking for her. Voices who intended to harm her. He raised his index finger to his lips, and turned back inside, away from her view.

A woman's voice, one that would seem to be the boy's mother, spoke to the men. No woman had been seen here today, she told them. As Goldilocks stared down, she could see about five men standing at the side door of the house, facing the woman whose body was just in view over the edge of the gutter, her small son standing next to her. The next house was about fifteen yards away. The yard between the two homes contained at least one mature tree whose root structure raised the level of the adjacent soil significantly, creating an uneven walking surface.

As the men turned away, one of them looked up at the roof, scanning it for anything unusual. He stared directly at her position now, holding his eyes for a few seconds. It seemed he had spotted her. Sweat began to pour from her face as she processed the terror of the moment. She met his eyes, but suppressed her instinct to act, and she lay still. The man's eyes soon drifted on and soon he appeared satisfied that there was nothing to investigate up there. It was like she had been covered in camouflage, and his gaze could not penetrate through it.

The men dispersed, though she could still hear them talking to each other as they moved among the houses across the street, farther and farther away but still audible. She turned to find a man, an unfamiliar man whose face was somewhat similar to the boy who had stood there just ten minutes ago. As he took notice of her, his expression changed to one of distress. He turned his head toward the street, and called out. Goldilocks rose and moved quickly to the window. In one smooth desperate motion, she kick the man. Her boot heel caught him square in the mouth, and he fell back onto the floor of his son’s room. His head impacted with a dull thud and he appeared unconscious. She ran down the stairs and out the side door at full speed. She could hear the voice of the mother behind her calling out to her husband. She was sure the woman had not seen her, but she wasn’t staying around to give her a chance. She opened her stride, ran through some fence gates, and towards the street that ran behind the previous one. She continued running, running until the voices of men had all but disappeared, and then some. She was away from them and away from the danger. She found a place to hide among some trees, and she remained there for some time.

*Flash Forward*

We walked out of the neighborhood where I had found Goldilocks, across a small bridge and into an urban area that I did not recognize. The bridge spanned a canal that resembled one in Bangkok, full of sewage. Beyond to our left was a construction site. We made our way to it and walked inside the I-beam maze of its interior. My friend Damian appeared, and guided us through the site. There were a number of African-American children around, and it became apparent that this was a play site of theirs. It was indeed an urban church that was being renovated. Upon entering another room, a group of African-American women were working, washing laundry by hand in a series of deep wash basins. Damian’s son Aidan joined us briefly to say hello, but soon we left them behind as we began to exit through the back of the church.

Entering a dark room on our way toward the rear, everything was dark though a strange glow illuminated a miniature cityscape much like an architect’s model for a neighborhood, or perhaps more accurately, the model of the Map Room in Tanis from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Upon closer inspection, the landscape was not full of buildings, but of monuments and gravestones. Most were small, but some monoliths and towers jutted up from the floor. The light gave each a small shadow that in turn created a chilling scene before us.

We navigated through a pathway that crossed the model-train graveyard that in turn led us to a sun-lit enclosed graveyard, perhaps the real version of the model we passed through. A small white house that might be mistaken for a mausoleum stood in the center before us, but it seemed more of a temple of sorts. From our right, and old man dressed in white approached us. He had a bald head, though long white hair extended from the back and sides. His eye sockets were large, and held dark pupils that were at once frightening and soothing. We felt safe but cautious. He silently opened his left palm as if to motion us to the right, to show us something important there.

Then I woke.

Gaggles of Girls

I have always found hanging out with women to be entertaining. This weekend I spent time with four women who were out on the town. My friends Jeri and Erica live here in Portland and are both graphic designers. Meredith is a budding chef and a friend both of them who I met at Erica's wedding last summer. She brought Shari, a high school friend who she reconnected with recently in Seattle. They were reuniting because Meredith had decided to move back to Iowa to be closer with her family, at least in the short term. Eventually, Chicago or another city in the midwest would be her future home if all went according to plan. It had probably been awhile since I had been with a group that was tight knit and comfortable, that had conversation come so naturally between them. I had forgotten how much I thrived on that interaction, whether as an active participant or an included outsider.

We men have a lot of similarities with women when taken separately as a group. We talk about and make fun of each other, talk about things we wouldn't say in mixed company, and love to laugh. The differences in these dynamics is really only the subject matter. Women might prefer to talk about clothes, men about sports. Both talk about the opposite sex in direct and often cutting ways.

I love talking sports or any other male subject, but having grown up with three sisters I also crave a little female group interaction from time to time. I think it keeps me energized, balanced. I also get reminded about what women truly find funny; not just giggle-in-front-of-the-boys funny, but laughing deep from their guts funny. I don't like to do it all the time, as you take risk of becoming the boy who is hanging out with the girls - not my scene. But a good dose of estrogen by association is often entertaining if you allow it to be.

When groups of men and women get together things change. Each side (save a select few mavericks) becomes more conservative in their speech, eyes up their opposites, and either engages or retreats. Men, being visual, usually make their decisions faster as we become attracted at first glance. I used to think that women operated the same way as men did, just in reverse. Oh how wrong I was. Women look to identify those who they might truly have a connection with. They'll become excited by conversation, or even by a single thing a guy says; looks are definitely secondary in most cases.

In mixed groups of single people who know each other well, the interaction returns to a more comfortable level. Both sexes speak freely again with little concern for impressing or offending the others. These groups often form "urban tribes". Urban tribes are best defined as groups of urban professional friends who develop into familial-like units, providing emotional support for each other in place of their more distant (geographically or otherwise) real families. I was in the middle of one and enjoying it.

We all went out on Saturday night for drinks and dinner (though I smartly ate first), then to a strip club - totally normal in Portland, unheard of for mixed company in most other cities. The conversation was good, but it really wasn't until the next morning that the estrogen really began to flow. Against my gut, I met the girls for brunch. This was going to be a little challenge to my masculinity; Easter Sunday brunch at an expensive restaurant with four women who are completely dressed down. I needed to be comfortable in my skin - I wasn't worried, just aware of what the morning would entail.

They all got alcoholic drinks, I abstained - it was Sunday and I certainly didn't need a drink today (strike one against my maleness). The real fun began as they caused problems for our male server by asking for soy milk, artichokes on the side, and adding goat cheese. I ordered straight up with no fluff. They tortured most anyone walking into the restaurant for their Easter outfits, and I helped out (strike two); some of those outfits were amazingly bad. They loved talking about our waiter, and how he put up with them or even liked them.

It was pretty much the same thing I would have done with my friends, though we probably would have done it at a cheap diner, ordered directly off the menu, and ripped on our waitress. Differences between men and women among friends? Just semantics. And maybe a little estrogen.