Reluctant Activist

There's a march I want to go to tomorrow, the Justice for All March, starting at 10 a.m. at 15th and Market. I'm a little afraid they're going to close down the bus lines going there. My foot being swollen, I'll be walking with a cane.

Despite my poison pen and big mouth against racism and for civil rights, I'm really a lazy coward. I have all kinds of anxieties just leaving my place. That's why I plan my schedule to the minute. Nothing kills me like empty time.

Then being in a crowd is an anxiety inducer. Then I add in the more rational fears, of arrest, teargassing, brutality or harassment. Fear of being in jail for days, of not getting to write, of having my picture taken, of missing my medication doses, and of missing my cat. Those are the only ones I could think of.

It seems that after decades of therapy and psychiatric drugs, my recovery has left a lot of loose ends. Tonight I'm just sad and tired. The writing didn't go as well today as it should have. I go to bed hoping that the night's dreams reset my mood for tomorrow.   

Racism in St. Louis

Michael Brown, The outrage

Racist outrage: Michael Brown's memorial burns

I remember last decade arguing with conservatives that minorities bringing up race were "picking at a scab," according to one of them. We were in a post-racial society, Blacks and other minorities were holding themselves back by not keeping themselves to the discipline and morality (prevalent in so many Whites) and then blaming it all on White racism, which magically disappeared when all those racist laws that, accidentally, crept to our state and city statutes came down.

Poor and not exactly cured.

I had another really busy day today. I didn't get to my writing until 10:30 tonight, and I've quit after an hour; the well just ran dry. I do already have a full amount of material written for my writers' group next (though it has to be rewritten to some degree).

Because today was laundry day, which wasn't as busy as grocery day was. The laundromat is nine blocks away, and I had three loads of clothes. Without a car, I put it all in a cart and take it over. The choice is either to take a bus and transfer, but the weather was good and I missed the bus anyway, so I walked.

I filled my waiting time there by reading a fellow writers' memoir for critique later today. So, for getting my real work done, it wasn't a total loss. Then I wheeled it all back and folded it. I didn't loaf doing any of it, but the whole operation took about five hours. Then I sat down and did my budgeting.

When I got done, I could see bad news. I wanted to spend some money on the Ginger Snaps comics. Yes, finally people are releasing a comic based on the movie. It's a two part comic, though to cover the movie. First part is $10, second is $10.50.

I just determined that I can only buy one this month. Part 2 has to wait until November. Again, it's only like $10.50 but I don't feel like I can afford it. That's how pathetic my finances are now.

Ferguson October starts Friday. I want to participate. I want to show my support for justice and against the racism that poisons this region and nation. (See my political blog AnArch Liberal (to be posted on soon) for upcoming details.

But here's where I know I'm not actually cured: I'm scared shitless of meeting people. A few weeks ago I was supposed to do canvassing. I backed out. I feel the same panic growing with Ferguson October. That, and a fear, of course of our injustice system. Most of all, I'm afraid of being seen, of having my picture taken (and worse, being shown it). If ever I think something like 30 years of therapy has "cured" me, these anxieties remind me that it hasn't.

I'm so damn sleepy, now. I'm giving up the ghost and going to bed.

The Monthly Grocery Adventure

I got tired of going to the grocery store every other day, especially with mass transit, so I arranged it so I only need to go once (or twice) a month. Yesterday was the day. I had my grocery list(s) made out. Monday night, I looked at every bargain at every store and chose all the best deals I could. I planned my every move like it was D-Day.

I took the bus, the Metro, and another bus to my sister's and borrowed her truck. She works graveyard shift and definitely was not going to miss it. Then I raided the stores, seven of them in all. It was like a great heist, except without the excitement and illegality.

On the Chainsawed Edge of Medicine

Obamacare barely scratched the surface of what's gone wrong with medicine in the US. I'm not going to complain about my health problems here, but about the system set up to ignore them.

I get most of my medical care from a community clinic. Today was that awful time to refill my prescriptions. I needed to have a refills called into the local pharmacy. This procedure has always been an ordeal with this clinic. There seemed to be no easy way to do this. The clinic has an in-house pharmacy, which isn't in my cheap Medicare part D insurance network. The clinic's voice mail gives an option for refilling your prescription with the in-house, but not anywhere else. Is this like, a monopolistic practice, or is it just stupid as it looks. I presumed the place to talk to about a refill then, would have to be adult medicine, but they were unreachable by clinic's phone system (I think the garbled option was the one I needed) and I waited a half-hour to speak with the "operator" before I gave up and decided to walk in.

I arrived and found the waiting area full. It was Monday morning, a lot of sick people waited for Monday. The receptionist gave me a paper to fill out explaining what medicines I needed to be refilled. Luckily, I brought the number to my pharmacy. While I was completing the form, a man walked up and asked if he could get an appointment. Judging by his accent, dark complexion, and the lost look in his eye, he seemed to be an immigrant. He asked the receptionist if he could make an appointment. She told him appointments were filled for the next two months. He shrank away. I was busy filling out my request so I only thought afterward that I should have directed down the hall to Urgent Care, which doesn't need an appointment. For some reason, the woman at the desk, who was in the care industry, didn't advise of this, either. He was gone before I looked.


That was a man who glanced at our health care system and recoiled in dread, and he wasn't given the least amount of information that he needed. If he's sick in some way, now he's going to get even sicker. He's from the third world. Industrialized countries, the civilized ones, look at our health care system with revulsion and disgust. I can see why. Even with a community clinic, there wasn't much in the way of care. This isn't health care, it's health bureaucracy.

Yes, it's true. It also takes me two months to get in to see my primary care. The last health problem I tried to get treated cost me three hundred dollars total, which I'm still paying. I still have the problem, they never found out what it was, didn't treat it, they merely ruled out it being life-threatening or (too) degenerative and sent me home. In other words, they ruled out the possibility of a lawsuit. Three hundred dollars for nothing.

I went through all these sorts of troubles before Obamacare, so it isn't the source of the problem, no. This is for-profit health care, where even the charities are drawn into standard industry BS. This is the health care that the wealthy have judge as adequate for the rest of us. 

    

Blog changes coming.

Okay, I've made a decision. First, I'm going to stop publishing on this one, because its labels have become unwieldy to be practical to search a niche blog. So, I'm starting a new one up. This one will simply be vacated, but the posts will remain up.

I will run three blogs. The first is about my personal life, Life After Shocks, which is a reference to the ECT that changed my life track.

I'll also have one which will be named AnArch Liberal, which will be my social/political blog. The name says it all. Really, once I came up that, nothing else comes close. This will also be the default blog. Like if I want to write about math or science, it will probably end up on AnArch Liberal, unless I write on them a lot, in which case I'll have to set up yet another one. 

And for the literary/story/poetry/review/pop culture commentary, I'm calling it Singing Stars & Shrieking Shadows. This one's already reserved on Wordpress, so it might take a bit longer to launch. I don't know for sure.

I'll make nightly postings to warn my readers (all two dozen of you) of the change.

California's new rape law (and an announcement)

First the announcement: I'm making some big changes to my blogging soon. After putting up the excerpt to my novel, I realized the format was not best suited to reading a longer passage like that. White on gray looks pretty cool, but it's not the most readable text. (White on black looks cooler, but it's even less readable.) Moreover, transferring my writing from my ODF file manuscript to blogger was a headache. Then it occurred to me I could perhaps attract more readership by aiming for several niches rather than just a catch-all blog.

So, I've decided to use three blogs. One will be at Wordpress, and it will have stories, poetry, reviews, and discussions about writing and creativity in general. This will also include science, since SF is one of my reading and writing interests.  This one will be called, "Singing Stars and Shrieking Shadows." Or just "Stars and Shadows." It will have a format conducive to longer reading.

The second will be a political and social commentary blog, it's going to be called "Further Out Left." The title should say everything about its political orientation, and mine.

This blog will be both the personal one and the catch-all for any other subject. I might change the title of it, though I don't yet know to what else. I'm brainstorming.

After the jump, to my commentary about California's new affirmative consent rape law.

Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond, A fan-fic novel, Chapter 1

A pact made with blood

Hi, I know I haven't posted in a long time. I've finished with the final version of the first chapter of my first novel, which happens to be a fan fiction using Ginger Snaps as its reference.

It's called Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond. It's an alternate sequel to the first film that keeps the setup (the first five minutes) to the sequel Ginger Snaps: Unleashed, but takes it in a totally different direction.

Unlike the version of the book that's up on fanfiction.net, this now starts with Ginger.


So, you'll find the first chapter right after the jump.

Ferguson

From the response of most Whites, I bet we're going to be seeing this a lot.

Now that I'm not completely down on my back depressed, I'll write about current depressing events.

Depression, Despair

This about describes it.

I got back home from Flashback Weekend in Chicago, a happy time where I got to meet Katharine Isabelle and the Soska Twins, Jen and Sylvia.

Jen, Katie and Sylvia. Not one of my pictures from Flashback, but you get the idea.

Some relief

I'm now at the nursing home most days. I'm glad to say my brother seems to be recovering and in better spirits. He doesn't talk, or sign, or communicate in any way but inarticulate drones and bleats, and rudimentary body language, so it's hard to tell. Nevertheless, I'm encouraged by his smiling again. He even laughs occasionally. I'm guessing his pain pills are effective. He's eating again. He swore that off over the weekend giving everybody a scare.

I'm through second guessing certain of my siblings in this matter, though. Anything is possible after he recovers. I'm certain he'll recover, at least to the point of walking with assistance.

Community home goes wrong

Things were going so well for a week. My brother was getting care, and I was carefree. I think the rest of my family were relieved, too.

Then on Tuesday, I hear my brother Joe had something wrong with his foot. My brother can't speak, remember. He was limping. As always, he couldn't tell anybody what was wrong. On Wednesday, it turned out it wasn't his foot, nor was it a light injury. He had a fractured knee. The surgeon reconstructed it with a couple pins and a plate and he said there was no way my brother could have walked with this injury. So, it couldn't have gone down the way the community home's staff say it did. It looks like was caused by a fall against something ridged, like a threshold between rooms. There's no evidence of assault.

Negligence is another matter.

Why was he so poorly supervised? How could have fallen without anybody seeing/hearing it? Why was he not checked thoroughly when the staff realized he had an injury? How could they mistake a knee for a foot injury? Why did they give story that doesn't match the medical evidence?  Why didn't they call an ambulance?

It didn't take long for that arrangement to go terribly wrong. One week. I'll admit I'm shocked. I thought if this wasn't working out we'd get warning signs instead of jumping immediately to grave injury.

If there's something not-so-bad about this, it's that all my family members should be on the same page regarding his care now. The side that pushed facility care has been proved spectacularly wrong. He will be cared for at home once he recovers, and everyone should be working together to get the funding for in-home care.

However, I'm apprehensive about his recovery. He has to be immobilized for six weeks. In a nursing home. Infected bed sores, superbugs, and pneumonia are all a threat now.

If he gets through this, I'm certain he will get the best care.

Relief

I feel such relief. What a discovery! That I think my brother is going to get better care in the community home than he did in my parents house for the last forty years. Maybe that's what I found to be a constant source of anguish, and I buried it. It was a harsh thing to see my parents were badly mismanaging his care, and were in the meantime killing themselves doing it. My mother did her best to make sure Joe didn't go into a home. I think that was a terrible mistake, though the sentiment was understandable. "Homes," institutions, were terrible places when she was growing up. 

I have a lot of writing projects going now. I have two proposals for comedy articles in the works, and if the website doesn't buy them, I'll put them up here. . I have the novel, the Carrie fan fiction, and a short erotica story. At least 40 percent of those are paid, and if they pay off, I guess I'll then call myself semi-pro, which is better than, not-pro-at-all.

I'm not doing anything tomorrow to celebrate the 4th, really. My Dad invited me over, but I declined. I'm staying away from his place as much as I can for the next two weeks. I need the rest and decompression.

Supreme court supremely screws up.

Wouldn't you know the most maddening US Supreme Court decision in my lifetime came when I was at my busiest. The Hobby Lobby decision if probably not the worst one this court made. No, that still likely goes to Citizens' United. But I haven't had a chance to read the decision and Justice Ruth Ginsberg's dissent. So, there's not much factually I can say about how it's reasoned. I can only say that the SCOTUS conservative members have the strangest notion of rights and freedom, one that I don't think the vast majority of Americans, including the Tea Partyists, are going to like.

I helped move my brother into a halfway house yesterday. I can't believe the relief I feel. It seems that most my stress about my family was due to concerns about his care. But I've seen the place, and I talked to its head. I think this will work out well for everyone involved.

It helps in another way. I won't have to put in so many hours as a caregiver. I'm going to just enjoy the windfall of time over the next two weeks.    

Writing to Raise my Mood.

"Red. I should have known it'd be red."

Last night, I was bored and depressed. For some reason, I started to write just to try to bring myself out of it. As a result, I wrote the first chapter of a fan fiction, one that isn't a novel, and isn't based on Ginger Snaps. I'd never gone from having no plans to write a story to posting a thousand words of fiction in three hours, and it did help my mood.

I based on Carrie, mostly on the 2013 version, but borrowing some from every version of the story. I thought I'd change Carrie's fate, make the prom even more bizarre, and tell it in her words. So, the chapter's in first person present, something I haven't done before.

For the GS Feral Bond novel, I already have my installment done, proofed and printed for my writers' group, and I'm writing more tonight.

Oh, here's the link:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10490461/1/Carrie-The-Night-of-Triumph-and-Torment

It's pink Momma. Um, was.

A thought. No research.

I had a thought recently about inequality. I haven't done any research on this, and I have no degrees or expertise to take this anywhere.

There are two problems with a capitalist system, or a moneyed economy in general. These problems have been noted time and again, not just by Marx. Accumulated wealth stored in the form of money or various instruments simply attracts more wealth. It's as though wealth has its own force of gravity, and part of it is due to compound interest. I'm not arguing for the abolition of compound interest, I'm just pointing out it's effect on wealth distribution: those who have money will make more money. In fact, there's really no "trickle down." The wealthy sees that trickle as leaks they must fix. However, there is a trickle, rather a flow upward. It over-rewards the wealthy.

The second problem is the ease at which accumulated moneyed wealth can be turned into other kinds of power. It can buy weapons, it can buy politicians, it can buy resource monopolies (like the way water rights are being bought up).

That seems to be the flaw in a moneyed economy in general.

So, my radical thought is perhaps rather than taxing income, accumulation that should be taxed and redistributed?

I see that the library now has my copy of Capital in the 21st Century by Thomas Picketty. So, maybe I'll become better informed. 

Cat whispering

I decided to make this about cats. Originally, I was going to write about the possible extinction of humankind and perhaps most mammals. Reputable scientists see the strong possibility of The End within three centuries due to Global Warming raising the temperature above survivable levels (95F wet bulb for weeks on end). That's really important news, and we need to take action on it, like overthrow capitalism if any of our great-grandchildren or perhaps children are going to survive. If that meets the expectations of deniers who call global warming a socialist conspiracy, so be it.

But frankly, for a day or two, I'm tired of all the depressing blogs. So, to cheer things up, first I'm calling on cute kittens for help: 

That should take your mind off human extinction for a few minutes. Damn, I said it again. More kittens:

Okay, I've taken your mind global warming so we can keep on pumping CO2 into our atmosphere to our heart's content (or in my case, fear.)  I'll tell you about cat whispering.

Living alone, I end up foolishly talking to my cat, saying things like, "meow," "ack," or gididididi. Or I rhyme my cat's name. 

Cat haters (like this DOUCHE guy) like to point out that science has determined the nefarious creatures make sounds that are similar to a human infant. Meaning their voices are attuned exactly to manipulate people into regarding cats as cute. Science has supported this, and I myself have long known this before it was reported.

That's true,  but what the haters don't realize is that it goes both ways. Humans can make sounds back to the cat that manipulate the cat's emotions, too. Meow back at a cat, and watch what happens. They'll look you in the eye, they'll raise their tails, their fur shifts, indicating that they're likely feeling tingles. They might actually meow back at you. They seem almost always pleased that you're speaking to them in their "language." Ferals might take cover when you do it, but they will watch you. Some cats will look you in the eye and meow back at you. With my cat, I'll always spend some time in the day "talking" to her, in her idiom.

It makes sense that cats will do this because they seem to emit sounds such as "meow" especially for people, and never for other cats. Cat's seldom voice to each other, and they very definitely don't look like they're conversing when they do.

Though there are exceptions (though I think the hard consonants are probably dubbed in. Even without the "Okays" it's remarkable) :

A mother cat will make certain sounds to kittens (like "meow"), but in other cases, if the cat uses its voice for other felines, its to express extreme aggression.

So, I'll assert that to cat haters: not even dogs have sounds that they only use for humans. That tells me they are evolving to communicate with people. I would never claim that felines understand words beyond--perhaps--their names. But the way they meow back and take mimicking them as something delightful tells me they grasp the concept of social conversation much better than dogs.

They did evolve as solitary creatures with no concept of a pack. However, we've changed them. Cats today are far different than the ones depicted in ancient frescoes. The modern kitty is a paradoxical animal, adapted to have stronger bonds with humans than they do members of their own species.

It's hard to read a feline's emotions, though, so people unfamiliar with cats find them cold. The reason why cats and dogs don't get along is that their body language is crossed. For a cat, wagging their tail and flattening their ears is a sign of anger and fear, and a warning to back away or get a face full of claws. For a dog doing the same thing is a sign of joy and camaraderie. That's why first encounters between the species can set a bad tone for what's to follow.

It's a similar thing with people. To people who've spent little time around felines cats seem cold and manipulative. The cat haters never see the cat and owner "conversing" and bonding with each other. It's every bit as touching as your dog welcoming you home. Yet, cats don't show emotions the same way. I once had a feline that had apparently been in great pain from cancer for some time. I'm attentive, too, and if hadn't stopped eating and I didn't then discover the lump in his neck, I would have never known how much he was suffering. Since they're not by background a social species, felines are adapted to keep going when they're in pain and not call for help.

They've also had little evolutionary reason to communicate their emotions.   

So, I've made an entry without dealing with the most important issue of our time, and in all of human history. I plead guilty to procrastination, but at least I'm not crippled by despair about global warming. I am going to become an activist about it. I just don't know how, yet.

More kittens?

I promise I won't do another blog like this. 

Excerpt from my GS fanfic novel.

Only the most disturbing werewolf design, ever.

Look at the arms. They're almost human.

 
I've decided to put up an excerpt from my novel, Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond. The novel is fan fiction based on the Ginger Snaps films.  First I'll give you a spoiler warning: if you haven't seen those films but intend to, stop reading here.

I'm only getting started

I wrote a little on my novel tonight, about 500 words. I'm encouraged by this, because with the stresses related to assisting my family, I wasn't putting any production expectations on myself until after this weekend. In fact, it feels like writing it released some stress.

I know 500 words seems poor. I have written up to 3,000 words a day. In fact, I could write 750 words in less than an hour. They would be coherent, too. But they'd suck. When I was writing that fast, I had to totally rewrite or throw out what I've written.

For a good night's sleep

Sleeping at my Dad's now feels like being homeless, except with much better weather. To begin with, there are no guest beds. My father and brother sleep downstairs. The downstairs is noisy everywhere at night, with TV's, videos, stereos and everything playing. This is necessary for my brother whose disability demands constant audio-stimulation. Everyone else in the family has gotten used to it. Except me. I wear earplugs all the time there. In old family photos, everybody's hair is messed up, a hint at the noise the family grew up in. They all still have their mussed up hair, but I've gone bald. Probably I should have turned to ear plugs sooner.

My sister provided me with a self-inflating air mattress. An improvement over the 70s model which had to steal the breaths of three people to be serviceable. Problem was where to put it. Downstairs, there was no getting away from the noise, even if there was a place that didn't block the front door or, worse, my Dad's path to the bathroom.

But why do that? There were five bedrooms upstairs.

Because upstairs, every bedroom was stuffed with junk and hadn't been cleaned or dusted since 1994, except the "cat room" where food and litter were provided (and was also right above my brother's room).  My parent's bedroom had been converted to my sister and brother-in-law's  personal family room. It had a couch which was totally unsuitable for sleeping; my parent's old long dresser, which now just took up a lot of space; at TV, computers, computer components, a desk for such, and a coffee table.

All horizontal surfaces were buried under four layers. I knew the filing system. Archeologists of the future would be able to identify the clever purpose of each strata. The layer on top was the currently interesting or slightly used items. This would include at least three remote controls and my brother-in-law's bong. In the middle the slightly used or things of no current but possible future interest. Beneath that, was the trash strata, a very important one given that the room had no receptacle the purpose. The fourth layer was dust, which always sank to the bottom, provided the other three layers were well-maintained. Then you hit the treated wood surface, fire retardant, to no apparent purpose except to poison everyone with hormone-disrupters, in obvious hopes that we wouldn't reproduce.     

I finally moved the couch and the coffee table aside and inflated the twin mattress there. This blocked the door, but I managed to shift things so that I could get out of bed and get out of the room. I turned the fan off, trading cool for quiet. I set up my brother's baby monitor, but put my earplugs in, knowing that I would hear him even with the plugs in my ears.  

I was so tired, I think I fell asleep in a few minutes. It was about midnight. Next thing I knew, I heard my brother over the monitor.  "Auuuauuuuu." It wasn't really a shout, it wasn't really a word. It could have meant a lot of things. "I need help going to the restroom," "Somebody cover my feet," or "Why's it so quiet in here?"

I moved the couch aside, limped downstairs, happy to see that the swelling of my ankle had gone down. I took the long way, the short way involved the spiral staircase, which I wasn't going to try in my drowsy state. I arrived. My brother Joe lay in bed on his belly, his face to the pillow. He raised his arm up to me, wrist first. His way of saying "Hello, thank you." I took his wrist and said, "Wah!" on it. He turned his head and smiled up at me.

I covered his exposed foot with the blanket. I stroked his hair and pat his back. "What do you need, Joe? Do you need to go to the bathroom."

He turned his wrist up, signally he could use my aid getting up. I took him by the hand and helped him sit, something he could do by himself, though with a bit more difficulty. It was just to quell his fear of falling out of bed, though he hadn't done that in years. He wasn't smiling, which was unusual for him.

I asked him, "What's wrong?"

He patted his belly. That didn't mean hunger. That was an upset stomach. "Okay, I'll get you a blue pill."

I got him a sucralfate and Tylenol for any other pain he had. He could have several toothaches and wouldn't be able to communicate it. I hoped not. He probably took for granted pains that normal people never had to contend with every day, with no way to tell anybody, and no way to get treatment. It took decades for my parents to determine that he had acid reflux, and by that time, his esophagus was almost gone.

I gave it to him with milk. He rejects water. It was milk or soda. Everything else was iffy, and I hated both alternatives. But he took it.

Joe had Angelman Syndrome and was now in his fifties. He never learned to speak or sign. His head was small, balding and with totally messed up brown hair. His sensitive eyes, were usually unfocused; they moved slowly and haltingly. He would squint when you asked him if he wanted something or if you put on some music, then he would either smile and rock or shake his head. With rough facial skin and a crooked nose, he had once been a beautiful child. But he drooled. He was unable to groom himself and care for himself. His parents were barely able to do so for themselves. So, his looks deteriorated. His teeth looked large and crooked. He hadn't had any dental care since my father retired.  

Now to my surprise, he got out of bed, and walked with his slanting shuffle, one leg being longer than the other, and began to pull me toward the dining room. That's where the laptop was. He wanted to hear some music off Youtube. There I could find him playlists, currently he preferred either of a R&B/Soul/Gospel duet from the 1960s, Joe & Eddie, or one of TV Theme Songs, starting with Captain Kangaroo's, which always made him laugh and shout. It reminded him of his childhood.  

"No, Joe, we can't do that. It's 5:30 in the morning. Dad needs his sleep." What I left unmentioned was needing mine, too.

He immediately reversed course and limped back to bed. I covered him up, patted his back. He raised his hand, thumb and forefinger held out to pinch my my nose, I said "Honk!" I honked his nose back, patted his back, and made my way back to bed.

And I found I couldn't sleep.   
  

A George Jetson Nightmare

Coming soon to a nightmare near you.

When I study today's employment economy, I always recall the Hannah-Barbera cartoon from the 1970s, The Jetsons. For those who aren't familiar, it was a "futuristic" cartoon spoof, where people lived in Earth's orbit. (Apparently because Earth has been polluted to death, though a children's cartoon didn't make that explicit.) The characters would drive flying cars in space. Mostly, its humor was lame and forgettable Saturday morning crap, just like The Flintstones was, er--should have been.

Gunners go wild

The fashionable accessory for summer, for Texas and Somalia.

It's a good think they have open carry of long guns in Texas, because now we get to see exactly how mature responsible gun owners behave. An inactivated Marine known only by James (Marines hate the term "former Marine," and it is inaccurate. Also he doesn't want pro-gunners to harass him) viewed and videoed an Open Carry demonstration:

 What he saw there struck him as especially provocative. Not only had the open-carry activists come to a typically relaxed, family friendly part of town, they were displaying intimidating firearms just three days after a major gun massacre in Southern California. What he didn't anticipate was that they would soon be pursuing him for several city blocks with cameras of their own, harassing him and later posting the footage online, where they would also level homophobic slurs and violent threats against him.

 [Article Continues]

Ignorance Disguised as Skepticism (Brought to You by Greed)

California is receiving no rain, and the Sierra Nevada Mountains had only 30 percent snow cover. The results: exceptional drought and a coming water emergency.

 
First I'll declare these two as facts and will support them later: there's nothing scientific about Global Warming denial, and broadly speaking, there's also nothing scientific or even intellectual about skepticism.

I find myself stressed out about Global Warming, and it does keep me up at night. Environmental catastrophe is upon us and the consequences will continue to get worse as long as the people we've put in charge of our country and corporations are either paralyzed or are in bribed ignorance.

(Read more below the crack.) 

Dealing with Stress

I'd be the first to admit I don't handle stress well at all, and the oddest things can stress me out. Putting away my change at the grocery store? I feel like I'm holding up everybody and all eyes are on me. If I wait to get away from the checking line to do it, I still feel like all eyes are on me. The feeling I look nervous itself is a aggravates the stress. Sometimes I can't get my hands to work and I just have to stuff bills, metal and receipt into my pocket and find a private place to sort it out.

[More beneath the crack]

Ignorance is bliss. Until it becomes embarrassing.

Operation American Spring: ten million protesters

Now we know how many holes it takes to fill the Capitol Mall

When is a revolution not a revolution? When it's fiction.