#gunculture

At this moment I will admit that I use high interest hashtags (basically drama fueled subjects of audible news) in the hope of random traffic discovering my work. 

For I am part of the growing mass of intellectual plastic, cluttering the internet in its endlessly growing mass.

There is no recycling allowed in this deed restricted, gated brain community!

#climatechange #guncontrol #secondamendmentrights #makeamericagreat --> #hillary2016

#feelthebern

-Jack Kunning

#Brexit

This reflection of normal civilian existence is marked by the #Brexit.

All around commentators of the minority of opulent cry of the impending doom caused by this referendum. Allegedly the implications will know no global boundaries as everyone feels its effect. But I feel no fear, only simple curiosity as I await the arrival of the alleged chaos that is to be expected.

As I wait, the question lingering in my conscious is what does this mean for the price of coffees and bananas? 

- Jack Kunning

The Little Drummer Boy Part 2

My final year of middle school was defined by my use of institutional weaknesses as mechanisms of support for my survival, evasion, resistance and eventual evacuation from the societal evils I was faced with each and everyday.

I was too damn smart for my own good and resentful as hell. I refused to accept responsibility for my own actions that were inciting negative reactions from my peers and elders. Creating a festering cesspool of hostility.

It was through a combination of these weaknesses and my behavior that lead to my voluntary ejection from P.E. I was receiving no actual physical education nor healthy release of physical energy from the incompetent instructor. Thus I had nothing to gain except opportunities to hinder myself from reaching my goal.

 Instead I would spend that allotted time as an assistant in the school library. I was suppose to study and assist the librarian but the majority of my time was spent in simple chatter with her and her assistance Rain.

I do not know where they found Rain, but she was the embodiment of my expensive, exclusive education. My father was under the impression he was purchasing entry for his children to be at a school that provided a superior education under the moral umbrella of Christianity.

In all reality this was the daycare where the minority of the opulent of our community could keep their children while father worked and mother went to gossip driven lunch dates with their girlfriends. The first priority was not education but social molding. To iron out any personality quirks that were unacceptable for the future leaders, and their spouses of our community. If you were not capable of being molded, you were simply there to help pay the mortgage.

Rain had no college degree that I knew of but she was chic. She was someone the well polished mothers could take out to lunch. Her clothing and jargon gave the school a modern hipness that the younger parents demanded for their children's education.

As for my own education, she played a valued roll as an adult within the institution that was not threatened by the hot topic pins on my backpack. I do not really remember our conversations only her beauty and if I remember correctly her favorite Christmas song was the The Little Drummer Boy.

The little drummer boy

"I use to have a thing for drummers" she said with a wink. Well aged into her 40's, strong, determined and cliche. Reagan's morning in America fully grown into an adulthood the cold warrior would be proud of.

While we  disagreed over a multitude of issues, I had no issue with her character. I appreciate her still to this day. But she had a habit of making fun and flirty statements that simply agitated me. This was one of them.

Well it was nearing 2 am when I recalled this comment. Cold, dark and quiet, the empty lobby filled with the magnificence of machinery, and vibrating lights echoing off the high ceilings and bland modern decor.

     The CD skipped as the repetitive track was broken by the sound of sliding doors opening as a woman entered the lobby. As I looked up, I experienced an intense sense of familiarity.

She was from that portion of the population we don't recognize, only vilify and fractionalize. "Just say no to her enticing beauty, magnetic spirit." was Mrs. Reagan's advice for "her kind".

Clearly she had been all of that in her rebellious youth but years of survival, evasion, and resistance had left her tired, and frail. She was still searching for her escape from this hostile foreign land we call the "real world".

"I need a room." she requested with a smile and laugh. "This is absurd, I am only 30 minutes from my house but I have to get off the road and get to bed."

"If I could just see your Credit Card and I.D."  I requested politely.

"Don't look at my age" she said with a demanding laugh as we made eye contact.

She continued to ramble at me discussing her evening. She was on her way back from New Orleans with a friend. She flirtatiously whined about how they were exhausted and that he had to be at work at 7 am.

The whole time she spoke I racked my brain trying to figure out who she was. Her name and face were so familiar I began to even consider that she was a star who had fallen from fame. A "has been" would be appropriate terminology if I was writing without a conscience.

But as I went through the motions of labor, I sided with my gut that I did in fact know her. Not simply recognize her existence from an appearance in the media.

       
           Then he entered, "Her friend".