What the Fuck?

I'm scared, and, for once, you should be, too.

It doesn't matter where you live, or where you work-- where you pray or where you go shopping. It just doesn't matter: wherever you are, you should be scared. If you're not, then I don't know what is wrong with you, but, then again, I don't know what is wrong with everybody else either. Maybe Dr. Phil does, but I doubt it. I think the current situation is beyond even his sophisticated analytical prowess.

In case you have been doing shrooms underneath a 500 pound black woman inside the Batcave for the last year or so, you've probably noticed that a small percentage of ne'er-do-wells and/or maniacs are passing the time by killing a disporoportionately large amount of random people in mass shooting incidents across this beautiful land of ours.

If you think I'm exaggerating, up yours. Courtesy of the website www.canada.com (they just love to stick it to us) here's a bit of what the U.S. of A. has had to offer in the mass casualty department, since January of 2008:

— Chicago. February 2008. Six women are tied-up and shot at a suburban clothing store. Five of the women die. The gunman has not been found.

— DeKalb, Illinois. February 2008. A man opens fire in a lecture hall at Northern Illinois University, killing five students and wounding 16 before turning his weapon on himself.

— Alger, Washington. September 2008. A mentally ill man who had been released from jail a month earlier shoots eight people, killing six.

— Covina, California. December 2008. A man dressed in a Santa Claus suit opens fire at a family Christmas party at his ex-wife's home and then sets fire to the house. Nine people are killed in the home. The gunman later kills himself.

— Geneva County and Coffee County, Alabama. March 12 2009. In a shooting spree that tears through several towns, a 28-year-old out-of-work man kills 10 people, including his mother and a toddler.

— North Carolina. March 29, 2009. A heavily-armed gunman shoots dead eight people, many elderly and sick patients, in a North Carolina nursing home.

— Santa Clara, California, March 30, 2009. Six people are shot dead in an apparent murder-suicide at a home in an upscale Silicon Valley neighborhood.

— Binghamton, New York. April 3, 2009. Up to 13 people are killed as a gunman goes on a rampage at a civic center in the town of Binghamton.

Add to that the mass police slayings in Oakland and Pittsburgh, where two cop-killers took care of a total of seven law enforcement officers: 4 in Oakland, 3 in Pittsburgh.

Kind of makes you want to sit up and say, "What the fuck," doesn't it?

Mass shootings used to be rarities. One would happen every year or so-- maybe spawning a lame and inconsequential copycat incident or two, but rarely anything more. Now, they're as regular as getting dressed in the morning. There's only one question on everybody's lips when these things happen-- well, one question besides "What the fuck?" That question is, "Why?"

Everybody wants answers, and criminologists, sociologists, ethnographers, scholars, talking heads, politicos, reporters, relatives of the victims and relatives of the killers are all scrounging around for that answer like squirrels on an acorn hunt. Everybody wants answers, but I'm not so sure there are any.

You?

They say that "violence begets violence." If they were talking about America, 2009, they may have been right. We pretend that we're a peaceful society, because that makes us feel good-- and we like to feel good. But you don't have to zoom in too close until the cracks begin to show. Peace is just a veneer that America slathers on so that it can sleep at night, but don't forget that, even though Woodstock was invented here, so was gang-bangin'. America might still be the home of the brave, but it's also the home of the lowlife who will shoot you in the face over your designer sneakers.

We love beat-you-till-you're-bloody hockey matches, we love to run over virtual cops and whores in our Grand Theft Auto world, and we love, love, love, love, love our guns-- legally acquired and otherwise. We love to hate, too. Remember those funny looking guys wearing K-Mart bedsheets? Yeah, we invented G.I. Joe-- but we invented the KKK, too, and they ain't no memory. We may have elected Barack Obama president, but don't let that fool you. When Nick Lowe sings the question, "What's so funny about peace, love & understanding?" we're still the nation that can't produce the answer. Hell, we didn't even hear the question-- we're too busy laughing.

And reloading.

"Keep honking," the bumper-sticker on the liftgate of the Jeep Wagoneer in front of me reads, "I'm reloading."

Yep, I think to myself. That's U.S.

I don't know what drives these mass murderers to go out and do the horrific deeds that earn them the inglorious title: mass murderer. I don't know. Most of the end up dying by their own hands, or at the hands of the police, so we rarely get to chat with them afterwards. It's a shame, because they're probably the only people who can explain it to us, we who are apparently so hungry to know. Regrettably, I can understand the motivation behind mowing down a cadre of police officers in a hot encounter: they've come for you, you want to get away. Pretty simple. The motive for killing many cops is the same as the motive for killing one.

I have a much harder time comprehending the impetus for butchering a bunch of elderly, skeletal, demented nursing home patients-- even if your ex-wife that you hate and want to kill works in that facility-- why shoot a bunch of withering, crinkly old Wilburs and Ednas, too?

Why?

Hmpf. There's that filthy, stingy, nagging little word again.

I guess I'm one of the whyners, too.

It's tempting to point the finger at old Dow Jones. "It's the economy, stupid!" But I think that's an oversimplification. There's plenty of people in this country who have lost their homes, their jobs, their money, their dignity and they're not going out Swiss-cheesing the neighborhood-- just the same as there are plenty of young, impoverished minorities growing up in the struggling, forgotten ghettos of America who don't grow up to become drug-pushers, gang-bangers, whore-slappers and cop-killers.

Every time the bullets fly and the body counts rise in America, which lately feels like every time the bright golden sun rises, people struggle to find meaning in the bloodshed, like reading tea leaves. They ask poignant, pointed questions of themselves, and of ourselves, of the killers and the victims. They almost always ask "why?" On July 11, 2008, Phil Gramm called America "a nation of whiners." Well, I don't rightly know if that's true or not, but I hope against hope that we don't become a nation of whyners, either.

Let's leave "why" to the frazzle-haired, bespectacled ones in their blazers with elbow-patches. Let's let them figure out "why" for us, if they can.

Frankly, my dears, we don't have time for that theoretical stuff. We're going to be mighty busy, for a good, long while, I fear, just ducking, running for cover, and hitting the floor as we scream,

"What the fuck?"

Comics, Comments & Chowderheads

We all have morning routines.

Part of my wife's morning routine is going to http://gocomics.com/ to read the stimulating offerings of some of America's most noteworthy doodlers.

She reads two comics daily: FoxTrot and For Better or For Worse.

It's nice, I think, for gocomics to put comics online for those of us who are too cheap and/or too young to purchase an actual newspaper. It's kind of sad, being in that age and income bracket-- some of my favorite memories of childhood revolved around eating cereal around the dining room table with my sister while getting milk droplets on the comic pages while my father screamed at us for "goddamn crunching" our Cinnamon Toast Crunch or whatever it was too loudly. But, those days are over, and thank God for the internet.

Anyway, not only does gocomics provide a place for you to catch up on the latest antics of G. B. Trudeau's highbrow clan and that sassy black kid from Boondocks, it also allows you to create an account, an avatar and this, then, enables you to leave comments under the comic of your choice after you've finished reading it.

Now why, one might wonder, would you want to do that exactly? Is it because you're bored? Perhaps unemployed? Maybe the power of Christ compels you? Maybe you just love to comment. If that's the case, then get your fat fucking asses over here-- stop wasting time leaving a note every time Hobbes makes a hiney-burp.

Seriously-- why do we need a place to comment on comics webpages? What is it, exactly, about the daily happenings of Paige, Jason, the iguana, and Peter's blind girlfriend that moves people to spend time commenting on? Not only do people comment on the comics, but they engage in discourse and, sometimes, heated argument over a storyline, plot device or piece of dialogue in one of the comics. I mean: look at yourselves. You're commenting... on a comic. You're investing yourselves deeply enough to make an emotional reply based on the products of somebody else's imagination.

Is it just me, or is that a cry for help?

They leave comments for each other, they debate, the interpolate and extrapolate, they take it all far too seriously. Not only that, they leave comments for the cartoonists-- as if Bill Amend or Berkley Breathead (no, it's not pronounced that way) were trolling gocomics regularly, thirsting for the sentiments, requests, criticisms and comments spewed forth from the avatars of their fans. Word to the wise: they don't.

At least... I hope they don't.

Commenting on internet pages is an interesting phenomenon. Everybody wants their voices heard, and the internet, with its endless amounts of space provides room for everyone. This is good and bad. I don't want to talk out of both sides of my mouth, because, well, here I am, but still I feel like not every website in the universe needs a comment function (please comment on this).

Another example is newspaper websites.

You might be too young to remember this, but there once was a time that, if you read an article that moved you or that you didn't like, if something in a newspaper story caught your ire or your fancy, you took fifteen minutes out of your day to compose a letter to the editor. If said letter was even slightly articulate, remotely timely and/or partially logical, in a day or two, it might actually wind up in print in the Editorial/Opinion Page. This, dear children, is how people used to make their voices heard. Now, every slackass shitstain with an IP address and at least one free hand can make an offensive, idiotic, irrelevant, oftentimes abusive comment on a newspaper's webpage.

The Oakland Tribune's website has the following message before each of its comment sections:

"Please keep your comments respectful of others by avoiding name-calling and other inappropriate remarks."

You're tempted to think, is that really necessary? Are we little children? Can we really not be trusted to behave ourselves on the online comment section of a newspaper? Must we be told to "avoid name-calling and other inappropriate remarks?"

Name-calling?

Really?

Really.

I'd post some of the unbelievably obscene, ridiculous, hurtful and just plain fucking stupid comments people made after the four police officers in Oakland were gunned down, but why give these questionable individuals more webspace than they deserve?

I know we all have things to say, and that we're all just dying to be heard, but can't we find more constructive ways to speak our minds than by commenting on the quality of the birthday gift Andy Fox got for her husband-- or by spewing racist venom all over America's failing newspaper websites?

I mean, just who's listening anyway?

Visiting Oakland

Most people who visit California from out-of-state generally don't choose Oakland as their destination.

San Francisco, sure. Los Angeles, possibly. Beverly Hills-- definitely.

Oakland? Probably not.

Today, though, Oakland is getting a tourism boom-- roughly 12,000 people are descending on Oakland, California today-- but they aren't exactly there to see the sights.

The people who are visiting Oakland today won't be staying very long, and, chances are they won't be doing a lot of shopping while they're there. They won't be taking pictures of famous Oakland sights, if there are any. They won't be dining in fine restaurants or hitting the museums either. And though they aren't there to see a sporting event, they will be spending a good deal of time inside a sports venue. These visitors will all file into the Oracle Arena to attend the joint funeral for Oakland Police Officer John Hege and Sergeants Mark Dunakin, Erv Romans, and Daniel Sakai, who were all killed last Saturday by Lovelle Mixon.

The people who are visiting Oakland today all have one thing in common: they are members of the law enforcement community, but that's pretty much where the similarities end. They're men and they're women, they're straight and gay, they're black and white and every shade in between. Didn't used to be that way, of course. If you were white, male, and Catholic, stood at least 5'10" and were 195 pounds-- you became a cop. If you weren't, you didn't. It's not that way anymore, and I have no doubt that, if you view any of the footage or the pictures from today's heart-wrenching service, you will see the diversity that is helping to make policing stronger and more trustworthy today.

The people who are visiting Oakland today are there to share in the shocking, searing pain that is felt by the Oakland Police Department. They are there to show their support. They are there to show the world that they give a damn, because all they'd want is for someone to give a damn about them. They are there to stand up to some of the negativity that has been spewed forth by some angry Oakland residents, statements made that these officers "had it coming" and that "the police are nothing but brutish thugs."

"The police."

What does that even mean anyway? Were Hege, Dunakin, Sakai and Romans "the police?" Are these twelve thousand individuals, people from all different ethnic, social, and religious backgrounds "the police?" Is any one department "the police?"

Just who is "the police" anyway?

The people visiting Oakland today are there to try and fill an enormous hole left by such a massive loss of life. Try as they might, they cannot. There is no groundswell, no outpouring of grief and solidarity large enough that can account for this calamity-- but that doesn't mean you don't try.

The people visiting Oakland today will all return to their own states and cities and towns and police departments and will resume their duties and their patrols and their lives. They will do their best to try to forget about the grief and pain that they will see today, but I expect that will be close to impossible. As they ride around in their cars and as they answer calls for help, they will be no doubt wondering if what happened in Oakland could ever happen in their town, in their city-- could this happen to them? The answer, unfortunately, is: sure. The circumstances that lead Lovelle Mixon to have a gun in his car and to turn it on those officers are no different than the circumstances of thousands and thousands of Lovelle Mixons all across America: on probation, a no-bail warrant out for his arrest, an illegal weapon, no hope, no future, no sense, nowhere to run.

Nothing.

The people visiting Oakland today will struggle to make some sense out of what has happened. They will be asking the question that has been on everybody's lips since these four men fell last week: Why? I would suggest that this is a waste of energy. There is no sense. There is no logic. There is no justification. As my very perceptive wife taught me long ago, there is no answer to "why?" questions.