An Open Letter To The Idiot With High-Capacity Gun Magazines

Dear "Rookie",

I love firearms, weapons, things that go "boom." You really don't understand how much admiration I have for these things, you really don't. Not in an obsessive, right wing, I-feel-the-need-to-protect-myself sort of way, but in an appreciation of the devastating power these instruments project. It is not unlike the admiration a storm chaser experiences staring down a tornado or, on a grand scale, flying into the eye of a hurricane.

One would expect such appreciation to close my eyes to the fact that the United States leads the world in gun violence. Truth be told, I am used to this fact, not unlike the fact that my nation does not have universal health care unlike other nations. But just because that's the way things have always been done, that does not make what has been done inherently a good idea.

The Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, or "right to bear arms," is almost a mantra to gun owners. Like a mantra, it is uttered in reverence, in motivation, in deference and also indifferently when confronted with the dark side of this coin. For every "law abiding" citizen who enjoys this right, there are other citizens with less intent to abide the law who enjoy the right. Still, many gun owners will say that this only reinforces their need to own a firearm. Multiple firearms, in strategic locations around the house. But that's just not enough for some, which brings in the issue of high-capacity magazines. Some argue that the magazines give a person an edge in defending themselves, but there are others who'd disagree. I'm more than certain Sen. Gabrielle Giffords can vouch for the fact that high-capacity gun magazines aren't the best thing anyone can own.

I can definitely say on my end, that the ownership of high-capacity magazines is foolish and pointless. It didn't impede the Virginia Tech shooter from gunning down 32 people. High-capacity magazines don't make you look badass, or cool, or even remotely proficient in the use of firearms. To those of us who know how to handle our steel, you look like a novice, an amateur or as they say, "a fuckin' rook." I've seen you, you lover of extra rounds on the range. I'm the guy firing center mass with less than an inch difference between shots. Yeah that was me, the guy who rolled his eyes and refused to talk to you. You're an embarrassment to true marksmen, and that M4 you painted pink with a Hello Kitty face on the stock for your girlfriend? Alright, yes, that was cute and I'm probably going to buy one for my girl, but my girl doesn't need more than a 15-round magazine. Meanwhile I got a good giggle out of watching her freak out when an expended shell landed on her jacket.

If my words have not deflated your desire to run out and buy a 50-round drum magazine for your AR-15, then remember this: Learn to fucking reload. Because if you can't take the guy down with the 15 you already have, you may as well point the business end of your nickel-plated sissy pistol at yourself; that's the only head-shot you'll ever score.

Respectfully (I guess?),
Rey Ignatius Fawkes

Quentin Tarantino Loves Breakfast

Any follower of literature or film notices patterns in an artist's work. From the protagonist's grim realization after the fatal act in Shakespearean tragedy, to M. Night Shyamalan's incessant "dire plot twist." But what of Quentin Tarantino and his love of breakfast scenes to mark pivotal moments in his films? This writer intends to study the significance through three of his most acclaimed films.

"Reservoir Dogs "

One of Tarantino's first films, it opens to show the Color Gang discussing the validity of "tipping the waitress" in a diner shortly before the ill-fated bank heist for which the film is based around. "Mr. White" and "Mr. Pink" ( Harvey Keitel and Steve Buscemi respectively) at one point engage in a somewhat expletive-filled debate over the issue. The group of men already don't trust each other, given the fact that the heist has very specific parameters to be met and that complications may arise. The tension is set from the start with the strained interaction between the main characters. Hell, they're using code-names! I'm sorry, but not knowing the names of the people I'm going to risk my life with for a bunch of scratch would make me totally fucking edgy. Add in to the fact that one of them won't tip the waitress? Well now I'd know a bit of the character of one man in this group, were I Mr. White and the little he did know of Mr. Pink leads one to believe he's a little opportunistic weasel-ass. It's bad enough that "Mr. Blonde" (Michael Masden) is steady giving everyone the creeps (which ironically enough he does something "creepy" but you'll have to watch the bloody movie to know.) So, what were they doing before all of this you (had you not seen the film) wonder? Eating breakfast!

"Pulp Fiction"

During the prologue, we're met with "Pumpkin" (Tim Roth) and "Honey-Bunny" (Tim Roth in drag... Just kidding, it's Amanda Plummer, but she needs surgery) both of whom are discussing the perfect target for a heist and past "jobs" they had performed together, shortly before attempting to knock over the diner after having breakfast. The entire sequence gives the viewer insight into the nature of the film and the plot, based largely around criminal acts and the lives of those who perform said act. Then, in the first chapter, after a long discussion between Vincent Vega (John Travolta) and Jules Winnfield (Samuel L. Jackson) about the ethical and moral ramifications of giving another man's wife a foot massage, they enter the apartment of a group of young men in the possession of a mysterious briefcase. To hammer home the point in this case, Winnfield says "Looks like we interrupted you boys at breakfast." There you have it, folks. Yes, they were eating "hamburgers, the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast," but it is made explicitly clear in the dialogue that breakfast has occurred, there is nothing to be inferred from the scene; it's laid out in front of you. This, shortly before taking the ultra valuable briefcase to Marcellus Wallace after wasting one of the young men in what is the most awesome example of Sam Jackson yelling "mothafucka" that you will ever come across.

(Side Note: This writer actually watches the aforementioned scene on YouTube to get himself pumped up before hitting the gym: true story.)

During the third chapter, Butch Coolidge (Bruce Willis) has returned home to his apartment to retrieve his father's gold watch, a family heirloom. After finding the watch, Coolidge finds himself face to face with his would-be assassin who, ironically enough, is at a disadvantage after leaving his silenced MAC-11 on the kitchen counter across from the bathroom. Said MAC-11 is now in the hands of Coolidge, who proceeds to burst half of the magazine into the assassin's chest. The toaster pastries he had placed in the toaster popped out, almost like a shout to draw in a western, before Coolidge gives the assassin what this writer likes to call "high-speed lead poisoning." But none of this occurs until Coolidge lingered in his apartment to make himself some (all together now) breakfast. In fact, the very idea of assassins being on the lookout for Coolidge is an abstract concept until that moment, even to Coolidge himself, which sets the tension for the rest of the chapter. Also, non-consensual anal sex, of which I'd elaborate on but there's no need to spoil it for you. The epilogue of the film is, by far, the best example of breakfast scenes as a foretelling to a greater destiny or development for characters in a Tarantino film. Flashback to the original diner in which Pumpkin and Honey-Bunny are in the process of shaking down. Winnfield has already come to the resolution that his current occupation is a lost cause, and that he should change his life in order to do good with his life. At the same time he encounters Pumpkin, where after a brief "Mexican standoff," Winnfield shares his insight in the hopes that it would enlighten the misguided pair of thieves.

"From Dusk till Dawn"

Though only written by Tarantino, one of the earlier scenes splits between the Gecko brothers (George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino) and the Fuller family (Harvey Keitel, Juliette Lewis and Ernest Liu) and their plans to cross the border into Mexico. Yet another pivotal plot moment, it is also filmed at a diner and the aforementioned characters are having (what else but) breakfast. This shifts the proverbial gears of the film as shortly thereafter our characters find themselves going from subjects of violent crime, to victims of a vampiric horde after crossing into Mexico.

Quentin Tarantino; perhaps the morning plays a significant role in terms of symbolism to him? Or perhaps Tarantino is a morning person in general? In any case, this writer knows only one thing: In Tarantino's world, breakfast truly is the most important meal of the day.

Oh I'm Back, and I Ain't Happy

As you may have noticed, I've been away for quite a while taking care of other things on the writing front, namely my upcoming book, random crappy poetry for a dead-in-the-water poetry jam that never saw the light of day until it was buried in the backyard. It's times like these that being a freelance writer can be a hassle, a tragedy, a solid-pain-in-the-ass.

So here I am back into the rotation, and boy am I angry about it. Not that I don't enjoy you, the readership, and what I do. But it's taking strides to make what I enjoy an career that puts me on the brink of mass murder.

Being a freelance writer is not a glamorous gig, don't let anyone lie to you about it. If the allure and mystique of sitting in a room chugging coffee and screaming at a computer monitor all day sounds like fun, you're probably in Human Resources, and you need to be checked out by a doctor. But more than that, I notice a lot of writers who discuss freelance writing make it seem like a satisfying hell when it's a full-time career, but no one tells you what it's like when it's part time. Because when it's part-time, it's "prime time" havoc on your ego.

You see, most people mark their levels of success by what they wish to accomplish and how close they are to their respective goals. So when you apply the logic that the best way to look for a job is to have a job, you find yourself torn between your responsibilities to the two. I wish this post could be more than a line of lame excuses, but unfortunately this is not it.

More to come in the coming days, unless more opportunities arise.

The Two Things They Didn't Tell Me About Bulking Up

I've had a small, thin but by no means weak athletic frame. So when the idea was thrown at me to start putting on muscle as another hobby and a way to change up my workout, I jumped on it. Through all of my research, training and of course, eating, I've come to a realization: Ramping up your calories leads to GASTROINTESTINAL HIJINKS! As I write this, I'm sitting in a cloud of discomfort and methane gas. By that, I mean I've been busting ass, and I don't mean trying to be funny on command...

I mean I'm farting non-goddamn-stop...

I'm somewhere between Mount Pinatubo and a paper mill, due to the increased amount of calories, specifically the protein. I hate to refer to my own bodily functions because, well, it's fucking nasty. Seriously! You'll be chatting with someone, an innocent bystander, but meanwhile you're clenching you buttcheeks tighter than buttcheeks have ever been, or were ever meant to be, clenched. Then the person is looking at the pained look on your face and Jeebus only knows how stupid you look. In fact, I know I looked about as stupid as the person who put a "hash-tag" on a facebook status the last time this happened to me. (Side Note: Who seriously does that? Putting a "hash-tag" on a Facebook status? That's what Twitter is for, and Twitter is stupid.) I can honestly say that at the time of this writing I've been making toilet so much you could call me "American Standard" and the name would stick.

As I had mentioned before, the increased protein, specifically the breakdown of said protein, produces a great deal of gas. The most effective remedy however, is staying hydrated. During these trying times, the only friend you have is water, and it's not just for hydration anymore. This will keep the aforementioned tummy hijinks at bay, as well as a natural filtration process. Unfortunately, it's the only thing holding your body in balance as you ramp up you caloric intake. I have personally noticed that I am increasingly thirsty and feel warm, due to (once again) the increased amount of protein in my diet, creating a thermic effect on the body. You're not going to burn from the inside out like a staked vampire, but you will feel the need to go without a sweater in early fall.

Ideally, you should be consuming a gallon of water a day which may sound like a lot but technically you get a great deal of water from the food you eat. Unfortunately, since you're a dummy who can't sit on the couch and watch TV instead of going to the gym to beef up, you're going to have to ACTUALLY consume this gallon of water when all the math has been calculated. Now before you start trying to down a jug in one go, let me just remind you to pace yourself on this one. Otherwise you'll endure the worst kind of bloat you can handle.

In any case, I'll keep you informed of how this business is wrapping up. But now if you'll excuse me, I have to use the water closet.

Wednesday Writer's Block: "Saving My Soul" Wasted My Life

I don't usually go on tears against religion, ranting mournfully about the atrocities committed in the name of a god...

Alright, that's a lie but bear with me because I've come to a rather grim realization. The realization being that religion has not left my life untouched in a negative way.

For a while, I'd say that religion was something I didn't agree with. My commentary was not unlike that of an eyewitness to violent crime: Utterly shocked and appalled, but not personally touched by said violence. I'd mention that I didn't have a problem with those who did believe. True, I wouldn't break an appointment to hang out with a religious zealot, but I wouldn't curse their very name either.

Then, there was my uncle...

This man-in-name-only, who will remain nameless, was quite the stereotypical Christian devotee. My uncle was a reformed drug addict and criminal who had found Jesus (the one from the Bible) while serving time and living at a bible college. If it's one thing I've said routinely about religion, it's that it gives one a plethora of excuses that most others with any inclination to believe in a higher power are, like a porn star ready for the money shot, far too willing to receive. Being young and impressionably, in addition to the fact that I had an opinion of my long lost uncle formed through youthful idealism, he was far too apt to force his beliefs my way. Like any common bible-thumping charlatan, he'd routinely cherry-pick quotes from the bible to support claims, end disputes, make excuses and make vain attempts to psychologically intimidate the rest of the family.

But I'm not writing this about my uncle, about how big of a let down seeing what he had become after so many years away from him. No, this is about how my fear of reprisal from "on high."

You know the really ugly broads? The ones so beat up and hideous in face and character that they couldn't get dick if their first names were "Richard?" Yeah, those are usually bible-thumpers, and I seem to be a magnet for them, as is much of my family.

That wasn't relevant to my topic, but I figured I'd throw that in there to cure the boredom. But wasting my life in fear of some dead-beat sky-daddy left me unwilling to pursue other aspects of my life. To take chances and make mistakes, to enjoy life. Hell, I even think it may have been a nickel in the quarter called my "inability to get laid in high school." I'd also like to apologize to you, the readers for wasting what would be a funny article for Wednesday. But in any case, thank you for reading.

Oh, don't forget to "question everything."

No Article Today!

Nope, no funny rattle from me today! I'm trying to gear up and focus on a rather challenging endeavor scheduled for tomorrow. Tune in Friday and I'll make it up to you; promise.

-Rey