I'm a big fan of New Left Media's interview series. They do just enough to let people hang themselves, and then courteously allow the viewer to pull the chair out themselves. It's hard to argue with them too... there's no trick questions (heck, there's rarely any tough questions), just a lot of people talking about things they faintly understand.
I think one of the scariest things is that, towards the end of the video, one of the participants straight-faced and verbatim recites a line from this Onion article. We live in terrifying times.
I basically hate flying. Maybe it's the fear of the unknown, or the idea that my life is in the hands of two guys who probably like all the same stupid stuff that I do and maybe have ex-wifes and are tired of living and don't see any reason to go around that storm when it's perfectly nice inside it... Yeah, too many variables.
I do like being comfortable, though, and I like charts (especially really pretty ones). So, for your personal edification, I submit this link to help you choose the absolute best seats on an airplane depending on your priorities.
My body and I have always had a tense relationship. Like an ineffective middle manager, my brain says, 'Hey body, no monkey business', and then my body basically does what it wants.
Which meant that it came with some surprise (but not a lot) that, at around 4:55 AM, I awoke with a sharp jostle. I instinctively went to catch my breath, and found that, nope, no breath available.
When you were younger, were you ever punched in the stomach really hard? If so, you may know what this is like. That initial gasp for breath, when you're trying desperately to get some oxygen into your body, but your body seems incapable of pulling any in? That's what this was.
Except this was over, and over, and over. Each gasp produced a low bubling sound, a sharp chest pain, and absolutely no air. Ignoring the 'punched in the stomach' comparison, I knew what this was. I had muscle memory of this.
This was drowning. When I was younger, before I learned how to swim, I fell into my grandma's pool. I remember the reflexes; the body tightening up, the lungs refusing to breathe, and the brain panicking. That's what this was... I was drowning in my own bed. My chest felt tight, and my heart rate shot through the roof. My fingers and toes began to tingle, and deep in my stomach, something sharp turned. Oh, crap... I'm drowning.
Spoilers (highlight to read):I survive this one.
I rolled right sharply and fell out of bed. Knocking over my ukulele, I crawled panicked towards my door. I could imagine my family, finding me dead in the morning, inexplicably face-down on my own floor slightly blue from hypoxy. As I reached the bottom of my bed, I paused briefly, and punched myself as hard as I could in the chest with the side of my hand. A tiny gasp of air entered my lungs. As if taking that as a cue, my lungs instantly relaxed and allowed me one giant, sobbing gasp of air. No sooner had the air entered my lungs than a new feeling took me over: I need to throw up.
Twisting my body, I position my head directly over my garbage can and, using that just-gained, hard fought breath, throw up. What exiss isn't vomit; it's hot, and clear-ish, and burns my mouth. It's stomach acid.
Stomach acid?
I spend the new few minutes cleaning myself up and brushing my teeth three or four times. The taste still won't go away, and when I blow my nose a couple moments later, the taste floods my sinuses again. Regaining my composure, I do what any good nerd faced with near death would do:
I Google what almost killed me.
Turns out this sort of thing... well, it's not common, but it's uncommon. When a person experiences strong acid reflux, their stomach acid acts up a little bit and flares outside of where it should be. That's what causes the discomfort and pain that so many people chew antacids for. But if you fall asleep with severe acid reflux, and your head somehow manages to get below where your feet are, that same acid starts to move upwards. Mouth/throat/lungs upwards. Like self-waterboarding, my own acidic stomach contents flood upward, and produce a drowning situation. It was terrifying knowing that, even beyond the scope of my brain, my body was a couple angry minutes away from saying 'Screw you' and just attempting to kill me. I now understand how everyone who has almost died, or has died, felt choking on their own vomit. It's scary beyond words, really.
Of course, I asked the internet what you can do to avoid this. Their list was, in order:
No eating before bed
No caffiene
Sleep with your head at least twelve inches above your feet
Don't eat anything red
Chew an antacid before bed every night even if you don't have acid reflux that night
Let somebody know to make sure you're not choking to death on your own stomach acid
The first two were good, and then things got weird. I mean, don't eat anything red? What?
So now I'm forever in the waiting game. Is tonight going to be the night my body decides to strike back?
I really like Ringo. If you watch all the old videos of them playing, you'll see that the rest of the guys are trying really hard to look cool and professional and Ringo just has this turd-eating look on his face like, 'Yeah, I'm pretty cool, right?'
During my undergraduate studies, I spent a lot of time working with low-income groups. This includes diverse populations usually thought of as 'outside the mainstream' like ethnic minorities, single moms, the poor, refugees, etc. The experience was enlightening, not just from an academic standpoint, but from a personal one as well. Above all else, one message kept appearing:
It's still pretty tough to be anything other than white and middle-to-upper class.
No, this wasn't one of those darn 'Oh, you went to a progressive school so of course you learned about progressive stuff'. This was working and spending time with people outside of my own race, or social background, or even my frame of experiences. It was seeing what the day-to-day life is of someone who doesn't have all the same breaks as you, and the answer is, it's pretty tough. Sure, within the last forty or fifty years, we've made some remarkable strides. Heck, we even recently elected an African-American President (although considering the current cultural landscape, that might not mean as much about progressiveness as it should). But one thing's still clear: there are still some major hurtles to overcome. Even as of two weeks ago, there were still schools segregating students for arbitrary reasons. We're not even talking "tricky" 'illegal immigrant' segregation... we're talking good, honest, American citizens being divided based on the issue of race. OK, sure, things are still rough for black folks, but at least women are doing OK, right? Same treatment and everything? Oh, wait, not so much... Well at least people of different religions can still practice their religion in peace no matter how they see-- oh, wait, crap... Well at least you can still walk the streets peacefully witho-- WELL FINE, MAYBE I'LL JUST STAY HOME IN THE HOUSE THAT MY PARTNER AND I BO-- ASDFAWEASDWQEROAJSNDPV.
OK, OK, you get the point. There's still an awful long way to go for basically everybody who isn't white, wealthy and well-off.
So why, WHY do we need a wealthy white man to 'reclaim the Civil Rights movement'?
"YOU... are missing the point entirely."
Honestly, I don't care how tone-deaf you are. If you can't see something supremely wrong about a wealthy white man standing three feet away from the location where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave one of the most important speeches of all time about inequality between rich whites and poor blacks... something's wrong with you.
Where are you, Glenn, for the rallies about equal pay for women? About half of white people are women, can you get behind that?
How about rallies against things like institutional segregation... doesn't the inherent idea that skin tone changes your life opportunities strike you as directly against what the entire idea of America is about?
And you're LDS, so you've obviously benefited from your rights to freely practice religion! I mean, LDS folks were upset when they were ran off the eastern seaboard and sent west in order to practice their religion, so don't you have a little compassion for another group being told they can't build places of worship in places where they aren't 'welcome'?
But instead, you're taking back the Civil Rights movement for white, middle-class folks who are upset that... what? That white, middle-class values are threatened?
The Civil Rights movement doesn't need to be 'taken back' by a white millionaire who is disappointed in the country since a black guy got elected President. The Civil Rights movement has been chugging along just fine in the hands of every couple who can't get married because of bigotry. And the hands of every black student who goes to a crappy school because their district can't get more funding while the white kids have a rugby team. And the women who go to work every day, work hard and make inexplicably less.
And this business about 'restoring honor'? Let's talk about honor. Honor is about doing the right thing, even if it's a tough decision. The so-called 'Ground Zero Mosque' (which used to be a Burlington Coat Factory, but nobody was concerned about the 'sanctity' of that)? I'm pretty sure that allowing a mosque to be built a few blocks away feels like a tough decision, but it's the right thing to do. It's the only thing to do if you claim to support religious freedom. And further, what's been done at the Lincoln Monument that was particularly disgraceful? I mean, I can think of a lot of disgraceful things that have been said or done recently, but a lot of them have been perpetrated by people who think just like you.
The whole thing is offensive. It's offensive for a rich white guy to claim he's 'restoring honor' by hijacking the Civil Rights movement as a political tool. And it's offensive for people to blindly agree and insist he's doing the right thing.
Want to support the Civil Rights movement? Awesome, let's do it. But let's make sure we're actually supporting the right thing, and not just another suit with an agenda.
That title was a really abstract Phil Collins joke, by the way.
So my amateur hobby took a slightly less amateur bent last night when the final components of my crappy pretend not-very-good home recording area finally came together. I've now got two monitors, a copy of Ableton, a multi-instrument audio interface to plug it all into my Macbook... it's sorta awesome. And I do it all on top of the first TV model with a remote control. I guess now I don't have an excuse for not producing crappy singles.
This little feller was hanging out on our kitchen window. I took a close-up video because bugs are gross and now you can look at one really close on my blog for some reason.
So, reminder! If you're one of the lucky ducks who received an invitation to my super secret surprise birthday party that I don't know about, your RSVP deadline is coming up this Thursday (August 26th). Please note, even if you've verbally RSVP'd to me (why would you do that, don't you understand this is a surprise party?!), you should probably call the number and confirm how many of you are coming just so the party planner (my mom?) can get an accurate number for the reservation.
Are you a close personal friend of me but didn't get an invite? That's actually very likely, because I didn't have a hand in picking the guests! If you need an invite, text me or call me or Facebook me or something and I'll get you one ASAP even though then it won't be a surprise. Why am I even pretending it's a surprise anymore.
It's going to be a very classy birthday (hopefully). I want to see everyone I even sort of know there, so let's make this happen! Also, dress smart (i.e. we're pretending it's a Wes Anderson movie) and get extra awesome points. But really, just come to the party even if you don't Anderson out.
Note: Yeah, some of the details are blurred out. It's the internet, I don't need any more personal information leaking than this blog has already ruined.
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I am not a graceful man. I've never claimed to be one. As a man over six feet tall, I'm something of a behemoth, endlessly lumbering around, issuing primal noises from my leviathan gullet, constantly looking for a medium-to-large-ish building in Tokyo to destroy. I show concern not for my surroundings as I endless plow forward through my daily routine, determined to get where I need to be as quickly as I can.
Of course, this means that occasionally I fall folly to a foot-related injury. Such an injury occurred yesterday afternoon.
While in a rush to get ready for dinner, I turned a corner in my basement a little too sharply, and the little toe of my right foot met the corner of our large, heavy, wooden TV tray rack. This rack has been the cause of many an injury around our household -- split shins, stubbed toes, minor scrapes. We'd get rid of it, but it's just so darn handy!
None of those injuries compared to mine. So rounding the corner, my little toe decided to catch on the side of the tray. The rest of me lumbered onward, uncaring about my the little piggy that likes to go wee-wee-wee, which meant that I bent that little piggy at a lovely 90 degree angle.
My scream was stuff of legend. So legendary that the dogs upstairs began to bark. So legendary that Andre, who was a few feet behind me, covered his mouth and went 'Oooooh' like it was a rap video from the 90's and I had just insulted Suge Knight. Now, my pain tolerance is known around the house to be pretty high, and this still hurt like the dickens. After a couple minutes, I finally grew the strength to look down.
DISCLAIMER: Two things here. Number one, the sensitive may not want to read. I'm sensitive, so I'm going to stop blogging here. Just kidding. But number two, I have a thing about nail trauma. Be it finger or toe, all nail trauma is horrifying to me, which makes The Ring and Stir of Echoes difficult to sit through. I guess what I'm saying is, if you're looking for an unbiased description of my foot injury, this is the wrong place to get it.
My little toe jaunted off at a funny angle. A preliminary pinch twisted it back forward, but the little pop and excruciating pain meant that the toe was broken. Across the center of the toe was a red, bleeding gash where the wood had decided to try and sever my toe rather than just break it. The toenail was bent in half, sticking up a little, bleeding underneath.
Eew, I'm getting the heebie-jeebies just reading that.
Anyway, it's gross. I'm rolling on some mild pain killers, and occasionally walking like a penguin. I was going to take a photo of my foot and show you, but feet are inherently not really attractive, and it's pretty gross, so no thanks. I'm not sure how long it's going to take for my toe to fix itself; probably a while, considering that even doctors are at a loss for what to do with broken toes.
Milo and Lucy, our two dachshunds, have never really been in a body of water. They've been in the shower before to get washed, but never water as deep as their bodies. I'm not sure they know what to do with it. They did learn to swim pretty quick though.
One of my favorite instrumental pieces is 'Soulful Strut', a jazzy little piece that anyone under the age of 60 will remember as 'the other song in The Parent Trap' and anyone under the age of 25 will remember as 'the other song in that movie Lindsay Lohan made before she went crazy and did a lot of drugs'. But I instead remember it as it should be -- as the jaunty tune that signifies that something carefree is happening.
Now, Austin Factoid: I tend to whistle when I'm alone. Sure, I could do it when others are around, but they just get aggravated and tell me to stop. So my whistling has become a strictly solo affair.
That'll bring us up to speed. Tonight I was out on my scooter delivering invitations to the secret birthday party I'm not supposed to know I'm having, that I designed, and basically have an idea of the guest list for despite that it's still totally a secret shhh don't tell me. Anyway, like I was saying, I was out on my scooter (a ridiculous sight to see in any circumstance) and whistling my favorite whistlin' tune, 'Soulful Strut'. As I scoot past families in their front yard, and high school girls on bikes, I whistle loudly and proudly until I arrive at my grandma's house. She's out working in the front yard.
"Were you just whistling at me," she asks. Nope. Invite delivered.
Next place is my aunt, a street over. She has her screen door open, and hears me coming too. "Oh, that was you whistling at me?" Again, nope, but the invite is delivered, so I get back on the road.
On the way back, I pass the same group of people that I did before. Only this time, the girls on bikes are looking at me funny. I pull into the driveway just in time to realize that they probably thought I had been creepy perv whistling at them as they rode their bikes, and I look like a total weiner.
There's an important lesson here: 'Soulful Strut' sounds like a wolf whistle from a distance. I'm sorry, random bicyclists... I didn't mean to unintentionally harass you!
Let's talk about some of the basics of human interaction, yes? Daily life is an oft confusing battlefield of unwritten faux pas, guarded by norm gnomes and wizards who tell you it's rude to stare. But sometimes we forget this, and we break some social norms, and things get really uncomfortable for everyone involved.
Let's talk about bathrooms and, more specifically, occupied bathrooms.
Now, there are an endless amount of unwritten social rules regarding public bathrooms. Why, the unwritten laws behind how to choose the correct urinal in a public bathroom could be a blog post in itself! But this one's more specifically about occupied bathrooms, the kind you may face every day if you work in a building with 40 people and two toilets.
So here are some rules.
Rule #1: If the door is closed, the bathroom is either occupied, or otherwise uninhabitable. Closed doors mean they're closed for a reason, be it because the door shuts automatically or because it's been pushed closed. If the door automatically closes itself, then proceed with caution. If the door needs to be manually closed, and it is, consider panicking. Sure, some places keep their bathroom doors closed when not in use (restaurants in particular), but that just means that somebody's left the room to stew in its own juices. Be wary.
Rule #2: If the door is closed, and a light is on, and it's not a multi-stall bathroom, DON'T ENTER. Locked or unlocked, if you can see the light on, and the door's closed, stay out. Sure, I can understand if you have one of those systems where the lights are always on during business hours, but if the bathroom relies on a switch, the light and the closed door should be a good indicator that somebody's busy inside.
Rule #3: Please don't talk to anyone inside of a closed bathroom. I cannot begin to tell you how wildly uncomfortable this is, and if you don't already understand you are a fundamentally broken person. Bathrooms should be a silent, solitary experience. When in the bathroom, you are in a moment of silence and deserve to be left alone. Somebody trying to talk to you (i.e. asking 'Hey, is somebody in there?') is terribly awkward when your pants are down and you're feeling vulnerable.
Rule #4: If a bathroom is occupied, don't stand directly outside of the door and wait for someone to be done. Give at least a few feet worth of buffer room. Do you know what's uncomfortable? Knowing that someone you know is listening to you go to the bathroom. Pure horror.
In conclusion, this is an incredibly passive-aggressive way of telling my coworkers to please stop jiggling the handle while I'm taking a pee, and then saying, 'Hey, somebody there?' like some sort of dumb ape. Of course somebody's in there, you are a stupid person, I don't like you.
It's almost Wednesday, which means we're due for a mid-week sag. In a feeble attempt to boost both your spirit and mine, let's watch some classic Mr. Bean and pretend to laugh our cares away!
Ahh, Saturday mornings. My interests may have changed (watching The House of the Devil rather than Recess) but my drive to get out of bed and do laborious thing hasn't. Oh Saturday, I wish you lasted forever.
Everyone has things they wish they could have said to their old teachers. Many of us never get the opportunity, unless it's at the school board meeting to have us expelled, or from an anonymous payphone. But what happens when you can tell the truth directly to your teachers and administration, and they can't really do much to stop you?
Turns out, you drop some major truth bombs, and make everyone uncomfortable in the process. Eagle-eyed viewers are advised to keep an eye on the faculty directly behind her as they realize that A) they're on the menu and B) she's completely right.
Honestly, we've been long overdue for an overhaul of the educational system. Much like a college degree is the new high school diploma, we're hammering the wrong things into kids and, in most cases, inadequately preparing them for the actual, real world. But she says it much better than I do.
[Warning: Viewers who get shifty uncomfortable around confrontational stuff, go ahead and skip this video. This is one of those delightfully uncomfortable 'truth to power' moments that make you cringe.]
Recently, a woman went through a McDonalds drive-in at 6:30 in the morning and just wanted some chicken nuggets. Informed that they only serve breakfast that early, she did what any all-American hambeast would have done; she proceeded to try and beat the unholy crap out of the McDonalds staff.
All things said and done, this is pretty ridiculous. Everyone knows she could have just gone to Wendys and gotten far superior nuggets, duh.
At the end of June, this year, on a flight from Tel-Aviv to Frankfurt, a pillow fight broke out. Whereas in America all participants would have been tazed and arrested pending an emergency landing that Fox News would have covered for the next year and a half, everyone on this plane just kinda had a good time. Heck, the flight attendant even got involved.
Tell you what, when the Germans can lighten up more than us...
You know, Spike Lee's a pretty cool director. That said, the Satanic evil dog from Son of Sam is a bit much. There's really two ways to do this scene; either play it straight, so the audience doesn't see the dog talk and you're just watching the guy go crazy, or make it ridiculously scary so you know what it must have been like for him. Don't just go sorta half-way.
I am currently posting this from bed, on my laptop. Feeling somewhat sick/nauseous today (was it dinner last night?), I've decided to conduct as much of my business as possible from the safe, squishy confines of my room while also watching Truffaut and Fellini movies. One La Dolce Vida down, one The 400 Blows to go, and then maybe La Strada. Anyway, you don't give a fig. You came here for some mindless blog entertainment, and by golly, I aim to please.
I was noticing yesterday that I have a surplus of pictures on my cell phone that are just kinda sitting there. So, to clear off some space, and also have a place to put these, I present you with a veritable Photo Dump Blogstravaganza, in which I'm just going to show you some of the stupid stuff that was on my phone. Let's get started!
This is a gigantic pile of muffins. When counted, the number was around 85 or so. They're all Red Velvet, but they taste more like chocolate, and they were awfully good. All in all, I think I had about four, and the rest were given away with only a couple thrown away after a few weeks.
Facebook friends might recognize this photo of me, in a bow tie, in front of the 'Looking Good' sign out by my work. When we first saw this, I read it aloud to Scott, who looked out the window and saw a group of pimply teenage boys and assumed that I was A) totally scamming on those underaged boys and B) losing my mind. Nope, it's just this sign.
Scott's conspiracy board that was in his office, prior to it being erased in an attempt to class the office up. Notice the central premise: Magnets, and how they work.
My fuel cap is a little circular dagger in my heart. Following that whole Gulf hooplah/natural disaster, suddenly BP coming highly recommended is more darkly (un)funny than it was before. Choosy moms choose Jiff, and choosy Fords choose BP.
This was the caller ID on our unlisted house number the other night. For those of you who can't read it clearly, the caller ID says 'Phone Scam'. To be honest, I love the level of brazen truthfulness. If you're gonna do it, at least do it classy, yeah?
My pie business cards! Pie Carumba!
My Lego Daleks on my work desk. Hell Yeah Raichu sits in the background watching excitedly.
This picture was actually the source of a very ugly family fight which Scott was inexplicably around to see first-hand. The irony of the photo is that, since we moved back from St. George, a couple of my movies got stuck in Kira's collection. No, it's not A Walk To Remember, it's Across 110th Street, the classic blaxploitation film about police searching for petty criminals who are trying to start a mob war. Kira and Kathy insist that it's Kira's copy of the movie (?!) that was given to her by the Shriners Children's Hospital (?!?!?!?!) when she was staying there for her leg surgery. Anyone with an ounce of brains doesn't need me to explain why this is the stupidest thing in existence BUT, in case you're still doubting, I bought this at the Suncoast that used to be in the Cottonwood Mall back before they closed. I know, because I bought it the same day I bought my copy of Black Caesar. But the girls insist that Kira received the pimp-slapping, ultraviolent Rated R crime thriller from a children's hospital, while I insist that they're stupid. Such is life.
A hippy bus outside of a fast food place by my work a few weeks ago. I took the picture because it struck me as a very Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem thing to drive.
A Mexican food meal I ordered from a restaurant a month or so ago. It's rice, beans, a taco, an enchilada, some chile verde, and a tostada under that. I think this is basically the definition of an unhealthy hot mess.
And, from last night. It's a little hard to tell from this photo, but yes, that's a double rainbow, and double-yes, it was all the way across the sky. We spent the evening pondering what it meant.
Disclaimer: Before writing this, I think I need to preface and give some background. I am not attacking organized religion in this, nor am I attacking any one group of people. I personally was raised in a religious family, taught Primary for four years, and am a fine, upstanding young man.
Let's talk about books, and let's begin with an example.
John is 18 years old and, as part of a college course, is asked to read John Steinbeck's work The Grapes of Wrath. While reading it, John is immediately taken by the book. Something in it speaks to his core, his very soul, and he feels as if he understands the book perfectly. The next day John packs up all his personal belongings and hitchhikes to California where he works on a vineyard for the rest of his life.
The question is this: did John actually understand the book?
On some level, yes. John read the book, comprehended what it said, and then acted on it. His error was acting literally; rather than understand the meaning of the book, he took the words inside as instructions, and decided to live his life emulating the book.
Now let's take a step back, and look at another book.
Jane is 35, and has been reading The Bible her whole life. She attends Bible study courses, goes to church every Sunday, and speaks out against issues that she deems to be immoral. Recently she's been protesting against gay marriage, and has been distributing literature condemning abortion as the devil's work.
Has Jane made the same mistake as John? I would argue yes.
In both cases, the error is the same -- the reader misunderstood their relationship to the book. Both readers read the book thoroughly, and both readers feel as if the book spoke on a deep and meaningful level to them. But both interpreted the book very literally (as instructions) rather than for it's content and meaning. John thinks The Grapes of Wrath is about traveling to California and picking grapes. Jane thinks The Bible is about maintaining the rules listed inside. Rather than look for the meaning of the books, both are content with their superficial view of the book and what's inside.
The question then becomes, in the case of The Bible, what are we supposed to actually take away from the book? Most Christian religions would argue the most vital information is contained in the 'Four Gospels' (namely, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John). These four gospels tell the story of Jesus Christ, his acts, and his eventual return to heaven. The meaning of the books is clear; we are supposed to live our lives in the same way that Christ would have. Accepting. Open. Forgiving. Tolerant. Permissive. Aware that he is not the ultimate judge, and that all should be treated equally.
I think this message gets forgotten by a wide percentage of people who call themselves Christians. Rather than actually live by the meaning of The Bible (be a good person to everybody and live in a way that would make others proud), they're content living by the literal text of The Bible. And even in that case, how many of them pick and choose verses that they believe while entirely ignoring ones that they don't like?
The point is, living your life by the text of The Bible is foolish. I mean, it literally tells you not to shave, or eat shellfish, or touch your wife during her period. Living by the spirit of The Bible is OK, assuming you're going to actually do it. But please stop using The Bible as a way to justify mean or bad behavior. If you need an even simpler guide, this is the most succinct way to put it:
Perhaps I could teach our little dachshunds how to operate a skateboard or something. Then again, their legs are so small, I'm not sure they could get up on one without a little assistance or a whole lot of work. Maybe I should leave ridiculous dog training to the Japanese.
Whoever said the internet was dead was wrong. The internet is the great equalizer -- it makes every man, be they mere mortal or Shaq himself, behave in the same ridiculous manner. Like lip-syncing to Rick Springfield songs.
As a youngster back in elementary school, there were quite a few things to look forwards to.
Recess.
Pizza day.
Substitute teachers.
And Tuesday computer lab, where you could go play 'Oregon Trail' under the faulty assumption that playing a game where you shot bears would somehow teach you something about American history. Well, it did. It taught me that you can never take too many bullets, and if your kids died, it was both inexplicable and their own damn fault.
