Playing with the Third Rail.

The biggest single problem with guns in this country is that we are unable to have a conversation about them that doesn’t degenerate into bumper stickers.

Now, I’ll say up front, I like guns. I like the feel as the weapon settles in the hand, I like the noise and the push of recoil and the smell of burnt power which authors call cordite but which isn’t. I like the catharsis of watching targets fall and the zen like concentration of lying prone with a support sling wrapped around your arm, plotting shots in a range book as you methodically make adjustments to bring your rounds onto a target five hundred yards away.

I understand that people have lawful, legitimate reasons to own guns, and I think that guns run deep in our culture. I don’t think it’s reasonable to suggest banning them all, and it’s not like making meth illegal made it all go away.

But I think, on the other hand, we have to admit that guns are dangerous. They’re designed to be dangerous, at least to stuff downrange. And they’re dangerous to friends, family and neighbors of any careless, sloppy or just plain dumb operator.

Now, people argue that more people are killed with cars or baseball bats or bad sushi every year than with guns. This is true.

It’s also true that we regulate the shit out of motor vehicles, sports equipment and food. And unless you are being completely disingenuous, you have to admit that nobody has ever walked into a shopping mall with a hammer and racked up a double digit body count.

Any and all regulation is by definition an infringement on freedom. But we routinely accept large amounts of it because it makes sense. You expect your electrician to be licensed so your house doesn’t burn down. You expect your daycare to do background checks on the people who watch your kids.

I don’t think any of us feels that letting a legally blind man with a DUI and a seizure disorder drive an overweight tractor trailer with defective brakes over the speed limit without any sleep is just letting him exercise his freedom.

So why is it so unthinkable to suggest that maybe a criminal background check is warranted before we let a person buy an AK-47? Why is it un-American to question your lawful purpose in buying a 100 round drum magazine for your assault rifle. Do you even need an assault rifle? Do you plan to suppress the deer so your hunting buddy can get to hand grenade range?

So I think it time–actually far beyond time– that we start treating firearms like really dangerous stuff like motor vehicles or dairy products and put some sensible regulations in place.

A Rebel in the Making

Today, I was reviewing my first post Fiscal Cliff paycheck, complaining to the lovely wife that my net pay was lower due to the payroll tax holiday expiring.

The kiddo was getting bored with my explanation, because it didn't involve Zombies or Superheroes, and asked for a quick summary.

Offspring: Daddy, what are you taking about?

Paracynic:  Daddy got less money in his pay this week.

O: Did you do less work?

P: Nope.

O: then why did you get less money?

P: The government took more of it this week.

O (shaking tiny fist): Curse you, Government!

Coming to terms with being a professional writer.

I just received my first ever legitimate royalty payment for Out of Nowhere. It wasn’t "Change Your Life, Quit the Day Job" money. More like "Here, Go Buy a Week’s Groceries" money, but still nothing to sneeze at.    I had gotten a few “Here, Go Buy a Cup of Coffee” payments from the cheapskates at Quantum Muse, but this was my first payment where calling it three figures didn’t involve counting numbers after the decimal point or converting to Lire.   

This has prompted some soul searching about money and pay and whether or not this makes me a professional. I suppose it does.

Unfortunately, a life spent as a member of the working class has prepared me very badly for a career as a writer.

I’m no stranger to work. I’ve been working for wages since I was 15, and most of my adult life I’ve worked more than full time. A full time job with overtime plus a part time job is something I’ve come to accept, and not find daunting. So why does the idea of working as a writer seem so challenging?  Compared to being a Paramedic or fixing broken water lines in the dead of winter or the Marines it’s not physically demanding, it’s done inside where it’s nice and warm, to be brutally honest the stakes are lower, since I can always rewrite a scene, and there are fewer chances to get fired for threatening a co-worker.

The daunting aspect for me is the gnawing dread  that I might be working for free.

As a lowly wages slave, the one truth you cling to is that if you show up, dressed to work and put in the effort, they have to pay you. If they keep you late, they have to pay you more. It may be hard work, uncomfortable work, and the pay might be lousy, but they have to pay you for the hours you put in.

I’ve never worked on commission, because I just can’t force myself to face the fact that I might put in a full day, and if the fish aren’t biting, I may go home empty handed. If I’m going to be compensated like a hunter-gatherer, I think I should have the dress code and flexible hours of one.

So how does this relate to writing, you ask? How did I force myself to write a novel when I wasn’t on the clock?

Well, writing isn’t work, per se. Writing is release, catharsis. It’s the exorcism of the voices in my head.  It’s a visceral, vital act of creation that can be painful and difficult and exhilarating and triumphant.

It’s also a way to show the universe I’m more than a wage slave.

It’s less a job than it is like a relationship with a crazy girlfriend. It’s effort, and it has ups and downs, and sometimes you wonder why you stick with it, but the good parts are so good you just can’t leave.

So the writing part isn’t really like work.

It’s the rest of it. The editing is a little like work, but that till can be rationalized as the “we need to talk” part of the relationship. It’s hard, but you get through it and don’t expect to be paid.

No the work is the promotion. The synopsis. The query letters. The submissions. The endless hours hunting agents and publishers. And after the books is out and done and ready to buy, it’s the promotion. Begging for reviews, for links, for the opportunity to hawk and flog and pander to sell the results of your labor of love. To grovel to people to accept this copy of your blood sweat toil and tears made solid and please review it honestly.

That’s work.

And that’s where my working class soul starts wondering what the hourly rate is. And since my soul only speaks working class, terms like “building a following” or “generating leads” or “return on investment” all sound like “Nada, bro. You're getting hosed.”

It’s like digging ditches and being paid in scratch tickets. You could win $100,000.00! But you won’t. You’ll wind up with a pocket full of Try Agains and the occasional win will be $5 or a Free Ticket.
                               
So now I’m confronting the need to put in effort for no guarantee of remuneration. It’s a struggle, but I’m taking baby steps.

Like writing blog posts.   

It's gonna be a long thirteen years.

At the library yesterday afternoon with the kiddo because, A) he should be exposed to books and B) it’s a nice warm dry place on a wet crappy day.

So he runs into one of his little friends from Kindergarten. She happens to be a girl.

So my son suddenly switches on, goes into full on showoff mode. Making jokes, regaling her with stories about the stuff they build with blocks, and pretty much transforming into the Life of the Party.

She, for her part, favors him with coy smiles and laughs uproariously at everything he does. Which encourages him to further antics.

Now, I recognize this dynamic. Done the dance myself, and seen it done well and poorly. Nothing new or disturbing here.

But they’re five years old.

I don’t know whether I’m more unsettled at the fact that flirting starts so young, or that the boy just has so much more game than I do.

Backstory is Important

Took the kiddo to Imajine That, an indoor playground since it was rainy and lousy. They have climbing structure, slides, a bouncy house, craft areas and a rack of costumes and hats and stuff to play dress up.

My son winds up wearing a hardhat, safety vest and fairy wings, and has a knight's shield strapped on his arm.

Vessel of the Clan's Hopes and Dreams: "Daddy! Look at me!"

Me: "What are you? A fairy knight construction worker?"

VotCHaD: "Yes."

Me: "That's different."

VotCHaD: "We need to build a bridge for the fairies, then defend it against the trolls."

Me: "...OK then. Strong work."

Ask a Bitter Medic: Vaccinations

I’d like to talk about some facts versus folk wisdom and pseudoscience about vaccinations, and flu shots in particular.

“But the flu shots just makes me sick,” you say. “Why take a shot that makes me sick?”

A fair question, and one that is easily answered, but we’re all too damn overworked, underfunded and harried to explain it, plus, we hear any anti-vaccine stuff and we just roll our eyes and punch a wall, pretending it’s Jenny McCarthy. 

Now, I know Ms McCarthy has tried to make amends for her crimes against public health by posing again in Playboy, and we’re grateful, but, Jenny, that’s not quite gonna cut it.

So, anyway, here goes:

The flu shot does not “make you sick.” It’s a dead virus. Your body recognizes the foreign invader and the body’s immune response can make you feel lousy. Fever, inflammation, nausea, these are all part of your body’s immune response.

The reaction to the flu shot lasts a day, and can be unpleasant. My five year old son got the shot and was cranky and achy for one evening. He coped, and HE’S FIVE.

The alternative is he maybe gets the flu.

Influenza is a highly contagious and dangerous disease. 250,000 to 500,00 people DIE worldwide each year from the flu.  Mostly older people, very young people and those with preexisting medical problems, but even the healthy flu sufferer will have severe symptoms for a week or two. And the flu sucks. You’re not limping in to work, like you have a cold. You are lying in bed with a high fever, praying for death’s sweet release.

Plus, once one member of the family has it, it will rage through the household like Chlamydia through a Christian Youth Bible Camp, and you lose a week’s sick time (or pay, if you’re one of us who doesn’t have all that much sick time) taking care of a sick kid while praying for death’s sweet release.

And if you follow Mitt’s advise and call an ambulance, we will take you to the ER, where they won’t be able to do a damn thing to cure the flu, but will subject everybody else to your germs, and run up a bill.

All the while, thinking “Why didn't you just get the fucking shot?’

This has been a Public service announcement by Bitter Medics Against Pseudoscience. We return you to the internet.

Yeah, we kinda know we’re fighting a losing battle, but there ya go.

Lessons in being a Man.

Today we taught the boy about facing fears and overcoming obstacles.

Like rules.

We went to the park with lots and lots of slides. Now, it was a cloudy, muggy, lousy weekday, so the place was nearly empty. My five year old wanted to climb up the high, twisty slide after sliding down. Now, this is technically verboten. 

But it was awesome and huge and scary. It was, in his young mind, Everest. No way was I going to let something as pointless as The Rules take that way from him.

That said, there's a reason they have that rule. It's so we don't have a six toddler pile up as some other kiddo comes barreling down and mows his young legs from under him. Although that is also part of growing up. So I explained why the rule says no climbing, and why it didn't apply today and how we're Men, and we were damn well going to climb that mother.

So now he both knows the heady rush adrenaline of overcoming you fear of heights, and that when confronted with a Rule, one should as "why?" if the answer is something like "So you don't wind up breathing through a tube," that's a rule you should obey. If the answer is "because it Says So," then you can get all Henry David Thoreau on its ass.