Friday, October 2, 2015

Guns in a profoundly sick society

"Guns don't kill people, people kill people," as the pro-gun rhetoric goes. It's big business, make no mistake, and when the inviolable sanctity of gun-ownership got ensconced in the political ideology of American freedom, the twain would never divorce. John Dewey said that politics is the shadow cast over society by big business. The gun issue is no exception.


Let's analyze the propaganda rhetoric of "Guns don't kill people, people kill people." While it is a trite fact that guns don't autonomously shoot people, the first part of the statement is absolutely false. Guns do kill people, i.e., they are weapons that kill. Guns can kill people at short, medium, and long ranges. They are dangerous objects.

The pro-gun propaganda takes the argument further in stating that knives and automobiles, for example, should also be outlawed if guns were to be outlawed because after all, people can kill with knives and people get killed by and in automobiles. But take that idea a step further. It could be said, then, that "hand gernades don't kill people, people kill people." Take it another step further: "bombs don't kill people, people kill people." "Chemical weapons don't kill people, people kill people." "Nuclear weapons don't kill people, people kill people." And so on.

 Well, how do we equate kitchen knives and automobiles --- objects of everyday utility --- to guns, i.e., weapons designed for "shooting", which have no other utility or function? Human beings have a dark side, true, and when the darkness overwhelms sick minds, anything, i.e., anything (a baseball bat, a shovel, a fork, a hammer, etc.) could be used as instrument of murder.

 But the gun is an object that blasts projectiles. Sometimes they go off when children play with them. Accidents have happened and will happen. They are dangerous objects that can kill with great efficiency. They are dangerous objects designed for "shooting", just as bombs are designed for "exploding"; and those things --- weapons --- have no other function or utility.

 Try this thought experiment. Would the world be a safer, better, more peaceful place if all guns were eradicated somehow, miraculously? Most likely. A world without guns would be safer than a world with guns.

Anybody could turn anything into a weapon --- even a bare fist --- but a weapon is just that, a weapon. And guns are dangerous weapons. And no person can be labeled crazy or unreasonable to expect some serious regulations get set in place; they'd be crazy or unreasonable to object, and worse, to clamor for less gun laws, to arm the entire nation, students and all. Wing-nuts of that ilk ignorantly holler political and religious claptrap --- peppered with the buzzword 'freedom' --- on behalf of big business, unaware that it is they who are getting the short end of the thunder-stick.

Friday, August 21, 2015

No Gay Out

no gay out ebook cover 

No Gay Out, the prequel to Don Drake's Main Camp and second book of the American Zealot series, is a tale of alienation, denial, and survival. Young Jacob finds himself relocated to the Mars-like landscape of Dry Wells, where the quest for social acceptance is a matter of life or death. No Gay Out is a horror story of Biblical proportions.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

. . .

Our hearts are broken over the SC tragedy. No words suffice to express our feelings of sadness for the victims and their families and everybody who are suffering from of the event. U.S. president on SC tragedy: "“...we as a country will have to reckon ... this type of mass violence does not happen in other advanced countries." The 'advanced' part almost sounds dissonant as we hear of more extremism all around, there is a tendency toward regression and "devolution" even as guns are made more freely available to carry with less strictures. If there is some kind of collective unconscious at work here, the divide of the future-moving people and backward-regressing, devolving people is getting wider. The concern is also not primarily about the "other" so-called advanced countries, but what's going on here in the U.S. But I do believe the president's concern is also about the NRA spreading global wings.

Gun related tragedy after tragedy happens but the insane right to bear arms (the early American patriarchs were referring to the right to bear muskets, not the advanced weapons of death available today) is touted highly, one of the top of the list of right wing values. Why?

The heinous act of murder in SC was nothing short of terrorism. It is high time people begin to understand the meaning of the word 'terrorism,' that it does not refer solely to Islamic extremist plots and actions. Extreme ideological entrenchment of the "true believer" is the infernal poison, especially when it entails the "us-against-them" mentality.

Do be wary that ideological extremism and violence go hand in hand.

May human beings evolve into awakened neosapiens, kind, intelligent, informed, peaceful, and fit for the future and all its hitherto unprecedented challenges.

Friday, June 12, 2015

Arizona Christofascism Sampler: Main Camp

Right-wing extremism is not necessarily an all-American phenomenon, but extremism has its way of shifting from the fringes toward the more socially acceptable middle of the road, creeping its way in as it were, especially when sociopolitical and economic situations are such that the general public begin feeling the heat.

Main Camp is the new novel by Don Drake that is not a parody or satire (though the reader will laugh for all the correct reasons), which transposes the rhetoric and activities of the theocratic phallic thrust of the conservative paradigm into a what-if context. "I'm not making this stuff up, folks," as the bible-thumping pastor says in the American horror novel.

After all, crazier things did happen in the not-too-distant past, and NeoNeanderthals still cling to the good ol' days, battling evolution from all angles.  

 Main Camp on Kindle & Amazon

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

On Male Team Sports

I do not like team sports (of both men and women, but for the purpose of this article, I am strictly referring to the big-money male team sports). Sorry, never did, never will. When I was in college I went to a few college-basketball games for social reasons. A few years later I watched one season (1991) of college basketball on ESPN when Duke University defeated Vegas University on TV; I liked watching Christian Laettner, and even I, a sports "disliker,"  would admit there was something mold-breaking about that player. I was impressed. I made a monetary bet that Duke would win and they did. But I'm just trying to convey that I really, really, am not a sports fan at all, because what you just read is all of my personal team-sports history in a nutshell. (I do enjoy watching winter and summer Olympians and so on, but not in team sports) I think athleticism can be beautiful, but I also know it's not the same thing as team sports, and male team sports in particular. When you hear of a "sports fan" it's usually someone who is a fan of an all-male team or teams.

Anyway, I came across this article about inequality of men-women coaches in sports (big-ticket arena sports like basketball, baseball, football, soccer). And I wonder if people could juggle several concepts at once, chew gum and walk at the same time. What is sports? Go back to the ancient Romans and the Greeks. Sports was a dude spectacle, their arenas were oceans of testosterone. Is social equality and biochemical equality the same thing? Of course there are less women coaches. I think of team sports as a residue of caveman tribalism.  Who are the football hooligans? Who riots after a big game? Men and women equally? I would think mostly men. Team sports is not a social equality thing, it's a primitive chemistry thing. Such being the case, it would be no surprise the world of team sports is imbued with hypermasculine politics and there indeed is inequality of men-women coaches. 'Sports' should be defined. What's with the bathing suit issue of "Sports Illustrated" anyway?

What is sports? I got this from Wikipedia: "Sport (or sports) is all forms of usually competitive physical activity which, through casual or organised participation, aim to use, maintain or improve physical ability and skills while providing entertainment to participants, and in some cases, spectators.[2] Hundreds of sports exist, from those requiring only two participants, through to those with hundreds of simultaneous participants, either in teams or competing as individuals."

I'd like to apply the idea of morphogenetic fields to team sports inasmuch as sports has been around for thousands of years (as an evolved simulacrum of tribal warring). Sports teams are tribes, of which case tribalism per se has a creode. The creode is that of survival of the fittest, the very basic modality of biological existence. Testosterone was the chemical fuel of brawn and muscle of our male ancestors that hunted, say, mammoths. It's the same chemical substance of territorial battles and wars, us-against-them aggression since primitive prehistoric times. And it's the same chemical that fuels males today (females have lower levels, not zero, but this isn't a biology paper per se so don't get persnickety). And when there is a teaming of that male energy and male field, there is morphic resonance with primitive morphic fields of hunting, fighting, killing,warring. There is an "apeshit" energy there, and sometimes it runs amok. We see it on the news all the time.

So the matter lies with the chemical substance called testosterone. And of course when it is synthesized into anabolic steroids, it can be very dangerous and volatile. Therefore the world of men's team sports needs to first be understood for what it is, that it is reflective of a primitive creode, that its chemical potion is testosterone. Insofar as testosterone and phallus are connected, it is no wonder why there is a Sports Illustrated "swimsuit issue," because the chemical substance is also what drives the male to satisfy his seed-planting propensity. It is also the substance that makes males blustery and arrogant, makes them do a lot of macho posturing, which also are reflective of atavistic ape-like behavior. Let's say they are not very intelligent, self-reflective, or "mature" (you know those stunted boy-men). Let's say there are many of them gathered together in a single arena, and let's say something stokes their testosterone ablaze. It wouldn't be a place ladies and gentlemen would want to be. There is such a thing as group synergy too, which exponentially enhances.

Anyway, I wrote this tidbit hoping the next time you see a male-sports-team phenomenon, you'd see it from a biochemical social-phenomenon angle with history that reaches beyond recorded homo-sapiens history.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Dingo Subman: Reality Quest


Oh, how doth thy neighbor live-
without form or sense, to exist without
rules or laws?
- In theory and theory alone.

- Gold-Stanky

Dingo shifted toward Bunky, eyes glistening from the wax injections.
    “The treatments aren’t working Bunk! I’m still as formless as ever!”
Bunky was an interesting character, traveling the galaxy manipulating privileged physical beings into the theoretical plane. He was one of many scientists capable of the operation, but he was also one of the best. Bunky dabbled in music production, alongside his good friend, Gold-Stanky, and was quite a womanizer. He was adored everywhere he went, probably due in part to his small build; he was three feet tall and looked like a newborn. Dingo found him while searching the universe for himself in physical form. It was wonderful finding Bunky. It was a chance at hope, at finally becoming physical.
Bunky sighed and threw away the syringes,
    “I don’t know what to tell you Dingo. Like I told you before, these treatments are experimental, I’ve never encountered a patient who’s wanted to become a physical being. I may be an expert at manipulating people into the theoretical plane, but that doesn’t mean I can reverse the process. The human body is capable of letting go of a consciousness, and it is easy to facilitate this operation. But trying to create living, breathing, physical matter from a theoretical being is near impossible! There are just too many variables. The whole point of becoming a theoretical being is the limitless potential! I understand that this would be an incredible scientific breakthrough, but I must ask, why would you want to become a physical being anyway?”
    Dingo paused, lost in thought.
    “Did you know that we all came from a big dot? When I feel low, I just watch it. The universe slowly pours out of it.”
    “Dingo I Shub-”
Before Bunky could say anything, Dingo continued:
    “If you look closely enough at the universe, you can see countless, infinitesimal ripples and eddies. They swirl, dance, and collide, creating whole worlds, even beyond what can be seen. I can explore this noise as much as I want, even interact with the microscopic beings who inhabit these worlds. But no matter what I do, these moments pass through my hands like water, refusing to take me with them. I am a ghost, doctor. Nothing more.”
Bunky stood still, staring at the floor; he was watching someone slowly crumble under the weight of their own non-existence. It was something he could never understand, unless he too left his own body, to wander amongst those he had personally escorted to the theoretical plane. It was something he would consider from time to time, yet always thought against.
Before Bunky could say anything, Dingo shifted out of the room. He slowly drifted from the space station Bunky stayed in.
As Dingo drifted farther and farther away, outside of the boundaries of the known universe, he began to see more and more of the First Bubtronic, the large dot he told Bunky about. The universe was slowly leaving it, like a bee from its hive. Dingo looked over to the other end of the universe, to the Last Bubtronic. The Last Bubtronic slowly consumed the universe; it was the literal end of all existence as beings theoretical or otherwise knew it, and one day, it would consume everything between it and the First Bubtronic. Dingo made sure not to get too close to it, lest it swallow him up too. Not too many theoretical beings came up here, as it would ruin the high that came from creating their own theoretical worlds. Dingo did that for a time, but slowly gave in to the ennui of the limitless, asking himself, “Is this all there is?”
That’s when he found himself looking toward the minutia, the infinitesimal, finite moments that slowly fed the universe into the Last Bubtronic. He envied those who were shackled to a certain time and place, the microscopic beings who had hopes, fears, dreams; anything was possible only because there was so much that was unknown. Dingo had seen all there is to be seen, and known all there is to be known, all he had now was hope. Hope that he could one day die a physical being, swept up by the swirling, unforgiving nature of time into the Last Bubtronic.
It felt selfish to just leave Bunky sitting in his lab alone like he did. So Dingo cooled down and headed back to the space station. When he got back, Bunky was sitting at his desk with a look of concern plastered across his face.
“Oh, y-you’re back, Look, Dingo, I’ll do everything I can to try and help you, but at this point I’m just not sure it’s possible to do what you’re asking me to do. I’m sorry, but I don’t think technology will ever be able to account for the infinite possibility of a theoretical being. “
Dingo looked at Bunky earnestly.
“I get it, doc. I do, I just - I just want to be able to experience something real for the first time in my life. You know? Something mundane, something physical.”
“I-I don’t know what to tell you, Dingo. My presence is needed in lab block 3, I have to go.”
And with that, the moment left Dingo to go swirling off into the rest of the universe.
Dingo had had enough, he’d reached the end of his rope. Nobody could help him leave the theoretical plane. He looked at the Last Bubtronic eating away at everything that ever was and will be, knowing there would be no escape from the theoretical plane outside of this. Dingo began hurtling towards the Last Bubtronic, he was ready to go, to get out of the theoretical plane, to die. As he flew closer and closer, memories of his past left him. He found no comfort in his theoretical life. Finally he reached the Last Bubtronic, and Dingo could feel its energy buzzing and pulsing. It was time to leave.
He plunged into the Last Bubtronic. The area around him quickly grew darker. He heard what sounded like mechanical screams and hisses for a time as he flew deeper and deeper into the end of the universe. There were bright flashes of light going off at seemingly random times. All of a sudden as things began to move faster, Dingo turned around. The universe began to leave the First Bubtronic completely, dislodging itself. Moving faster and faster, it began to shoot toward the Final Bubtronic, toward Dingo. The universe hit the Final Bubtronic like a speeding train. A bright flash of light blinded Dingo and struck him with a realization: The universe was just a message, a transmission between two points. Before this realization could really sink in, Dingo felt his theoretical body separate from himself. He looked deep into his own brain, down to his neurons and synapses, and saw millions of Bubtronics, all of them sending and receiving whole universes at blazing speeds.
Dingo was shocked. He felt so incredibly small, yet so impossibly large. What felt like an incredibly powerful gust of wind took what was left of Dingo and made him part of the infinite within the Last Bubtronic.
The Last Bubtronic went on to receive trillions of universes, sent to it by the First Bubtronic. These Bubtronics worked alongside countless others within Dingo’s brain. The universes in question were just nerve impulses, each carrying different and unique messages.
As Dingo made his way to the space station to see Bunky for his treatment, he felt a bit of Déjà vu, but shook it off and carried on.

Saturday, May 23, 2015

Main Camp - new novel by Don Drake

Welcome to Dry Wells, a town scorched by a fiery drought, a charnel ground of dry bones and parched souls. Furious fanatics rise from its socioeconomic ashes, wielding their hammer of might to reclaim their birthright. An American horror story of biblical proportions.


Justin fell on his knees, bowed his head, put his hands together. Damn tears just wouldn’t stop. What’s our country come to? Saint John had prophesied these times on the Isle of Patmos a couple thousand years ago. It’s all happening now. Terrorists, illegal immigrants, colored creatures everywhere, mixed breedin’, socialized health care, taking prayers outta school, legalizing homosexual marriage. A damn outrage and shame unto the lord.

Justin smirked with head bowed, thinking of one of his favorite bumper stickers: Jesus is coming and boy is he pissed. Yeah, that’s a good one, lord. You come and judge the wicked, pitch ‘em into the hell they deserve. May thine New Jerusalem descend from heaven as a bride, for thou art the groom, o lord. Thy will be done, o lord. Though thou saw it best that I don’t join thine earthly army of the elect, thou hast a purpose set aside for me.


Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Dry Wells

Chapter 2 Knights of the Lord’s Second Coming

Chapter 3 Reise Reise

Chapter 4 Smart Patrol

Chapter 5 The Revelation of Josh

Chapter 6 Also sprach Pastor Jim

Chapter 7 The Tabernacle

Chapter 8 Antichrist

Chapter 9 Acts of the Apostles

Chapter 10 Golgotha

Chapter 11 The Final Judgment

Paperback and Kindle available