Breaking Peaches

It took us nearly a month to recover from binge-watching Breaking Bad. We went for total immersion, and while the whole series felt like a month-long nightmare we knew would end horribly, we couldn’t help ourselves. Then there were all the extras on the DVDs, such as the entire video of Gale Boetticher performing his own version of “Major Tom," and the featurette on the creation of Gus Fring’s  half blown-off face.
When our chins finally came up from the floor I might have been able to discuss some of the finer details such as, was Skinny Pete actually a savant? Or, how could Jessie Pinkman’s teeth look so good? But I’ve stopped speculating about where Jessie would eventually wind up, or how much therapy Skylar and Walt Jr., aka Flynn, might need in order to carry on for the rest of their lives. I’ve nearly weaned myself from fan sites where you can read endless discussions and trivia.
 
No sooner did the smoke clear from the wildfires, and the sinister haze of Breaking Bad lift, than another shooting occurred in a tiny town several hours north of here, at a community college.
One particularly disturbing posting I read described the shooter as mentally ill, socially unskilled; an underdog who often feels humiliated in group situations. Vengeful. Delusional. Hateful. Now, rather than dwell in solitude, any socially troubled person can simply go online and meet kindred souls, share plans and compare manifestos! Or, as in this most recent event in Roseburg, go hunting with a mother who’s been stockpiling weapons for the eventuality of Obama taking them all away.
Save the guns! supporters cry, as if guns were some sort of conscious entity facing extinction.
Stockpiling guns and canned peaches doesn’t take into account that, should an actual revolution or apocalypse happen, everyone will go off their meds, (myself included, as I medicate for high blood pressure). Are they stockpiling those, too? What happens when they run out?
As many of my peers agree, the world makes less and less sense to us as we get older. “Not everyone ages gracefully either,” I remind myself. I drive past a decrepit pickup truck with a homemade cardboard sign stuck on the back window that reads, “Obama is STILL an Obomination!” and wonder what kind of gooberosity would compel someone to scrawl such a crummy looking sign in magic marker (although FOX News might be a reasonable guess). Moments later I pull up to a light behind a later model pickup truck with a bumper sticker that reads, “African Lion/Lyin’ African.” Still? Seriously?
 
I’ve had the belief that one of my purposes is to write about things that cheer people up—turn my own painful events into humorous stories so readers can feel better about themselves.
But I can’t. It’s my blog and for once I’ll admit that I’m feeling very sad today and I have no solutions. I won’t sugar-coat my fear of shootings becoming so routine, that many of us are shrugging them off and turning back to our own lighted screens while a furtive community of assassins grows larger every day. It’s a reality that can’t be ignored.

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