Category Archives: politics

Guns: Lapel Pin of the Powerful Elite.

I have a brass lapel pin in the shape of a cello.

In earlier years, the sterling silver eighth note or Treble clef populated these accessories, bestowed by the aspiring or devoted student, and my jewelry box is peppered with several.

( However, I can’t say whether I have ever actually worn any of them. As a working professional, I guess the doing always trumped the wearing; after all, musicians don’t generally feel the need to bear labels. They just show up and play. )

What we pin to our chest is a moniker. It tells the world of affiliation pride. From the American flag to the Masonic cross, so many associations and clubs require them of each member. But, what of such symbolism, and its affect on the subconscious?

Those who “pack” don’t wear theirs on the lapel. But, they might as well.

Because to these, the weapon is a mark.

They are part of the collectors’ culture. Some do use their rifles, to kill game in sport. Others place value on the history of the guncraft, its material detail and design, much as that of the fine wristwatch or other outmoded accoutrement.

To such afficionadi, history is what drives their interest. But, the lines blur here. Historian > politician……….many a retired general, on a visit to the officers’ club, might discuss his latest acquisition with those from whose social circle he or she seeks acknowledgement. Unfortunately, these are those whose power over legislation holds sway, and which has brought us to the scrutiny of the world stage.

Why? Because another “club” has arisen in our society, born and bred in its underbelly, populated by the disenfranchised, remotely located, and easily alienated. The anarchy of assault weapon acquisition is a burgeoning subculture, and poses a palpable threat to our social stability.

In fact, there are more assault weapons available in the United States per capita than anywhere else on earth. And, every time a lone shooter has massacred innocents, from Parkland to Uvalde, the assault weapon has been chosen to accomplish the deed.

The disparity between the culture of the elite collector and that of the stockpiling insurgent must be vanquished. Laws governing ownership are antiquated, and serve only the former while emboldening the latter. Those in leadership must recognize to which group they might belong, and legislate accordingly. And, the time to do so waits for no man, woman, or child.

My cello pin has a tiny, engraved bridge, set of strings, and protruding post known as the endpin. My real cello’s endpin is, when fully extended, almost two feet of sharpened steel, a weapon in itself. I know the difference.

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Copyright 5/29/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying in whole or part, including translation; sharing permitted via direct blog link, exclusively. No RSSING. Thank you for respecting authenticity.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Line.

They were only subtle signs.

Last night. Momentary maxillofacial symptoms, then one sided nasal congestion. Hard to name how or why, seeing as the four plus hours just spent over two days working in my own yard and on the sidewalk beside my house hardly qualified as social immersion. No fever; just breathing restriction. Popped a squirt of HP in the ears and Budesonide in each nostril, and went back to bed. Had taken my most recent dose of IVM the previous Thursday.

The next morning, after a starkly sleepless night (anxiety…nasal steroid…) I pushed through two and a half hours of carotid and veinous ultrasound, flat on my back. The tech had taken the vax but had also had covid, a year ago; so, though we both masked, he wasn’t a concern. The pharynx was still irritated, and I was in denial.

Upon arriving home, pacing a little, I stared at the packet of meds which had been my prophylaxis of choice for the past five months. Did a quick cheese toast, and took two more IVM pills. Within an hour, did I feel better?

Outside, to continue tackling my newest manic creative project, the backyard renovation. Some children new to the neighborhood had set a small fire on my grass. I was inspired.

Thirty minutes and, back inside, to eat, and socially mediate those I had offended, a daily occurrence anymore. By 8:30pm, my body had finished with this charade; it was time to get twelve hours of uninterrupted, deeply deprived REM. But, was the pharynx getting raw again, and why was the house cold?

After a few choice Messenger sign offs, I slept.

Two hours.

Awake now, in a rush a bowl of gnocchi and one apple crisp to the oven. Did I have Delta? From whom, exactly? The dull witted unmasked millennial walking by who didn’t have the energy to lift my overfull bins to upright? Did I touch them, after he did? Had I bent down one too many times to scrape at the sidewalk traveled daily by dog walkers, mailmen, children, strange loners…all unmasked, many spitting on the pavement in some slumtown ritual of territorial dominance…?

The headline tonight, splayed across CNN, declared that Canada and Mexico will throw open their borders once again, come November. To the, well, you already know. To the vaccinated.

I’m not. Don’t ask. But now, fighting back against this pestery, lowgrade, hallmarking set of Delta encroaching symptoms, wondering how many days I’ll get and whether I’ll be spared the dreaded loss of life’s last pure pleasure, the taste of food…….I know my next soapbox. It’s all laid out, crisply painted, fresh and ready:

Since when on either this Earth or in my lifetime did a needle ever trump the human body’s natural immunity, AT THE BORDER?! How can Americans NOT be allowed to exchange their commerce and creative drive with Toronto or Mexico City, lest they take a SHOT?!

As usual, I’ll remain silent – acquiescent; compliant; obedient. NOT.

Since when did a robust immune system, able to fight off with a hardly noticeable 48 hours of infection, get punished at the state line for failing to secure a rubber stamp to the forehead? Just what is so wrong with this picture, and who are the puny holdouts still refusing to say so, aloud?

The lines will form. There are always several – one for cars; one for trucks; one for those waved over to relinquish the contents of their seam-bursting hatchbacks.

I’ll be in the one carrying the signs.

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©10/11/21 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Sharing by blog link, exclusively. Thank you for respecting the writer.

littlebarefeetblog.com