Just sad. Sad, frustrated, angry, scared and aching for San Bernardino. Colorado Springs. All in one week.

This author voices the outrage we are/should all be feeling: 


Generally try to have an open mind about all issues and hear all sides, but enough. What is there to even discuss? How can we continue to do nothing?

As Rep. Murphy explains here, the reality is this Congress is bought and paid for by the gun lobby:

So are we just stuck? Living in a reality of thousands of mass shootings, simply because of a bully gun lobby?

And where’s the responsible gun owners? Why can’t they coalesce around an NRA alternative? How is there no strong advocacy community of responsible gun owners for gun safety? As someone who has no interest in the hunting or sportsman community, feel like my voice is less powerful than those who want gun control and are responsible firearm owners. 

Just sad. Supporting this organization gives me some hope, but their lobbying budget pales in comparison to the NRA‘s (and you know the reported $2.6 million is a fraction of what they spend on shady policy and coalition work to keep Congress in their control).

Tuesday, between Colorado and San Bernardino, NYT ran a chilling editorial. After reading it, that now all too familiar sense of outrage and HOW ARE WE NOT DOING ANTHING overwhelmed me. And that was a day before the massacre at a Regional Center.

This has to change.

Been thinking about the people of San Bernardino and their horror. A while ago, read Joan Didion’s Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream essay, and feel haunted by her description of San Berdoo:

“This is a story about love and death in the golden land, and begins with the country. The San Bernardino Valley lies only an hour east of Los Angeles by way of the San Bernardino Freeway but is in certain ways an alien place: not the coastal the California of subtropical twilights and the soft westerlies off the Pacific but a harsher California, haunted by the Mohave just beyond the mountains, devastated by the hot dry Santa Ana wind that comes down through the passes at 100 miles an hour and whines through the Eucalypts windbreaks and works on the nerves. October is the bad month for the wind, the month when breathing is difficult and the hills blaze up spontaneously. There has been no rain since April. Every voice seems a scream. It is the season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.”

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