NRA “School Shield” Annotation

school resource officer and student

“A properly trained armed school officer, such as a school resource officer, has proven to be an important layer of security for prevention and response in the case of an active threat on a school campus…”

~ page 11

Report of the NRA School Shield Task Force:

http://www.nraschoolshield.com/NSS_Final.pdf

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Rawclyde’s Annotation:

The NRA was a leading factor in School Resource Officers not getting federal funding, when the NRA campaigned against the “Safe Communities Safe Schools” bill that failed in the U.S. Senate in April…

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Inside the Bird Cage Saloon II

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GUN 2013

Chapter 16

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As Mr. Newscent begins to talk, saying such things as “How’s that leg doing?” and I reply, “Not bad, thank you, sir,” and he continues, “You don’t have to ‘sir’ me, I’m just a guitar player, call me Ted,” and as our conversation continues forth, I begin to notice a few details in this new environment, the most noteworthy of which is the ceiling of the saloon.

It is a regular flat ceiling, kinda dark, but centrally located there be a sizable dome, artistically & brilliantly designed to resemble the inside of a bird cage with a sky-blue background.  Up there in the dome, hanging in midair, there be a large perch a hanging, and on which is standing a colorfully-painted sculpture of a bold & fearsome Bald Eagle.  The effect is quite beautiful and creates a down-home patriotic air to the place.

I suspect as Ted & I talk along we are actually bonding.  “Yes, Ted, to support laws that force us to be unarmed & defenseless would certainly be sheeplike.”

“Extremely so,” says my new rock n’ roll friend, plucking a few strings on his guitar.  “That kind of equality is for sheep.  Be better or get sheered!”

“Well of course, Ted.  That makes some sense alright.”

“What’s yer handle?”

“Rawclyde!  That’s with an exclamation mark.”

“Glad to meet you, bro!”  He holds out his paw ~ and squeezes mine in a vice-like grip.   He’s grinning of course.  “Did you say Raw Slide?”

“Rawclyde!”

Meanwhile, Wayne Peeintheair twirls around on his stool and orders a drink.  He taps with his fingers the counter, which is wood lacquered & polished to an extreme glare.  When he finally gets whatever he ordered, he raises the frosty glass into the air with a keen bravado & baritones, “What stops a bad man with a gun?”

“A good man with a gun!” shouts forth in gleeful reply everybody at the bar, which includes some “Iron Brotherhood” bikers.  They all laugh & drink-up ~ and play around with open rucksacks & briefcases on the counter ~ sacks & cases full of happy clicking & clinking gunware.

As time passes, Peeintheair repeats this favorite refrain of his over & over again, always answered in enthusiastic chorus by those around him.  Even Newscent bellows forth in this coddling of the famous NRA spokesman.  There at the bar, semi-automatic rifle congomerations get snapped & twisted into all kinds of outlandish configurations ~ constructed from simple pistols.  When one spider-like weapon gets completed, it is raised in the air & “hoorah!”s are shouted.

I absolutely do not know what is going on here.  Are these happy-go-lucky men celebrating Wayne Peeintheair’s birthday?  Does anybody here, besides me, know about his sinister clown activities sneeking out & in the saloon backdoor?  One thought that flashes through my perplexity is that Peeintheair is in the middle of a full fledged nervous breakdown & his friends are trying to get him to “blow it out of the water” so that he can return to “normal” sometime soon…

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Old Glory by Red Skelton

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Gun Nightmare!

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Our streets are bastions of immorality ruled by gun-toting thugs…

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Everyone has gotta have a gun…

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America left Iraq in chaos…

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Sometimes two isn’t enough…

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Baghdad is overrun by bullies & hoodlums…

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It’s getting uglier…

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The Taliban have left Pakistan no choice…

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And uglier…

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Now rebels in Seria want our weapons too!

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Look what I bought at Walmart, Mom!

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Inside the Bird Cage Saloon

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GUN 2013

Chapter 15

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I cut a few corners & there I is ~ in front of the Bird Cage Saloon ~ Harley Davidson steads parked at the curb, homeless men in the park across the street vacantly spying on Whiskey Row.  In the middle of this grassy shady park across the street looms the stoic courthouse of Yavapai County.  This is the same courthouse square where somebody is rumored to have filmed a scene or two in yesteryear’s cult-classic, Billy Jack.  And here I is ~ on the other side of Montezuma Avenue ~ standing forlornly before the Bird Cage Saloon ~ craving so badly to go anywhere except inside.  I shrug, cough-up some old-man phlegm.  I gracefully sail the spittle into the gutter.  And, specially for the homeless audience across the street, I sneak into my performance a sharp secret-agent move to the right, and then, a sharper, swifter, secret-agent move to the left.  And thennn ~ I enter.

He is wearing clown shoes ~ a dead give-away that this is the clown who was handing out loaded derringers to children on the street & whom I stalked up the alley behind the Bird Cage Saloon.  These clown shoes are about 12-inches longer than regular shoes.  And they flop around like what I imagine backward beaver tails look like on freshly shot specimens.

I probably would not have noticed anybody wearing such shoes except as I push the door open & casually saunter into the infamous drinking establishment, my leg gives out & I fall to the floor.  This is not part of the plan.  Must be some kind of ceasement of circulation.  Whatever cool I possessed is now shattered glass.  However, I have noticed those clown shoes.  I most likely would not have noticed them if I had not fallen.  While lying on the floor like a jelly fish, I happen to note that a feller sitting at the bar is wearing them.  Scuffed up, flippy floppy, hilarious clown shoes.

Another feller, this one with outrageously long hair, a steel guitar, and a big grin, comes up.  He gives my leg a couple kicks in the calf.  This gets the circulation going again & I am grateful.  When, with one hand, he yanks me up onto my feet, it dawns on me this guy looks a lot like Ted Newscent ~ the famous rock n’ roll daddy & gun yo-yo ~ yes, this guy is the spittin’ image of Ted Newscent ~ he who is so often publicly flamboyantly hostile to the U.S. President.

And the guy sitting at the bar, presently in a regular business suit & the extremely extended clown shoes that, I presume, he forgot to switch after niggling thru the back door moments earlier ~ he looks a lot like ~ no, it cannot be!  He’s peering point-blank at me like I’m a target.  The hefty fellers around him with bulges in their coats could quite possibly be ~ yes, they are ~ they are his bodyguards.  A chill runs up my spine.  This man is the National Rifle Association big-talk man, Wayne Peeintheair.  He is, in no small way, publicly hostile to the U.S. President too.

And, alas, I am one of the White House’s favorite secret agents!

~ Rawclyde!

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The Homeless Ghost

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GUN 2013

Chapter 14

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So I keep on strolling up the alley ~ stroll by the backside patio of the famous Palace restaurant with a severe parking structure to the other side of the alley ~ stroll by the back of this bar & that store & more trash bins.  In the shade beside one bin I discern movement.  Oh oh, am I a goner?  Why must I be one of the White House’s favorite secret agents?  Who volunteered me for this job?  Maybe right now is a good time to suddenly start looking for something that pays ~ like flipping burgers.

My eyes blur.  The shade is deep.  The shade is ~ mystical?  The shade next to the trash bin is hiding a tramp ~ and not hiding him very well.  He’s sitting on the pavement, his back against the smelly bin.  He has found a cool place to rest his bones ~ but this cool place is shrinking due to the sun moving across the sky.  Pretty soon he is going to have to move.  He raises his arm.  He points.  “The fucking clown went in there,” he growls.

I turn & look at a not-too-fancy wooden door on which is elaborately printed, “Bird Cage Saloon.”  This narrow door is at the back of another plain windowless crumbling-brick building.

I spit out, “Thank you, brother.”  I turn & head for the door.

As I reach for the door handle the tramp behind me says, “I wouldn’t go in there if I was you.”

I turn around.  This feller is standing up now.  Half of him is in the sunlight.  He’s long & lanky, stubble all over a haggard face.  He’s wearing a black duster coat with long tails, a little western tie at his throat, a shirt that was once white, a wide brim smacked down on his skull.  He looks like a very soiled version of Wyatt Earp ~ without gun or badge & in the market for a grave.

“Go around thru the front,” he advises.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I acknowledge.  The clown I’d been following could be hiding somewhere behind the backdoor ready to knock me off.  He most likely wouldn’t be expecting me thru the front door.  This, this, this ghost might have just saved me much harm.  “Thanks,” I say.

He glares at me with nothing more to add.

I step further up the back-alley of Whiskey Row.  I’m no longer limping.  But my back is kinda stiff and my muscles are kind of ~

Plucked like guitar strings…

~ by Rawclyde!

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Photo:  Wyatt Earp

Stepping forward…

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GUN 2013

Chapter 13

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What perverse ideology leads a man to don a clown costume & give loaded derringers to children?  He’s over the edge.  He’s over.  Period.

The sad scene behind me on Cortez Street dictates courage, dictates that I investigate.  I slither out from behind the trash bin.  I straighten up.  I step forward.  The clown disappeared up the alley & I want to know exactly where.

Limping now, I step forward again & again.  I step across Gurley Street ~ named after a surveyor & officer in the U.S. Army who set out for but never made it to Prescott.  He was going to be the town’s first mayor if I remember my history correctly.

A motorist almost runs me down.  What else is new?  Another motorist slows, stops, condescendingly  wiggles her fingers at me to continue across the damn street.  I do as beckoned & back alley drift between the tall edifice of Saint Michael’s Hotel & a little Buddha gift store ~ both built of crumbling brick.  The clarity of the situation is hitting me now.  The shadows, though shrinking, are deep & mystical.  This reminds me of when I walked down Oak Creek Canyon along the highway under a full moon.  But I’m in Prescott & it’s almost noon.  And, as usual, there’s nothing to fear but God.  And He is known to loves us.

I think I am getting Gurley mixed up with Whipple when it comes to the historical personalities of Prescott.  Was Whipple’s first name Fort?  No, I don’t think so.  And it might very well be he was going to be not Prescott’s first mayor but Arizona’s first governor.  He never made it.  I best stop thinking about this.

And it’s getting hot around here.  Sweat is dripping down the side of my face.  My armpits are sopping wet ~ might be because I’m wearing a new vest.  I pull down the brim of my old hat.  My hair, I’m sure, is all over the place, like, I’m an over-the-hill hippie with a silver beard…

~ by Rawclyde!

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copyright by Ken Loots


http://www.paintingsilove.com/image/show/156795/younger-willie-nelson

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