Roy Moore, Sex, the Seventies, and the South (Part Two)

Here’s the second half of my “unacceptable” essay about Roy Moore–and it may just be my comments about Mr. Lincoln’s bloody dictatorship that got the door closed in my face.

I myself didn’t actually court younger girls very often in my thirties—but I knew those who did. At a large Southern Baptist church which I visited frequently (since it was the only place in town to meet single women other than a bar, and marginally the more wholesome gathering of the two), we were classed in Sunday School rigidly according to age; and, yes, I observed more than one thirty-something man to forsake the abundant company of wounded divorcees and go hang out with the college girls. The age gap always froze me in my tracks when I contemplated the maneuver. I was afraid that a younger woman might be interested in me only and precisely because I was older: that is, she would assume that I was “experienced” in various and mysterious ways rather than that I was a bookish, retiring person who had hunkered down as the hurricane of the Sexual Revolution raged overhead. I’m sure certain people who wished me no particular good must have whispered various ingenious theories about how I had come to remain single at thirty-two. In fact, I was occasionally apprised of the speculation by busy “well-wishers” who “just thought I should know”.

Now, I quite obviously cannot attest that my situation and Roy Moore’s were closely parallel in the manner that I have just suggested. I hope they were. That would allow me to let the Judge off the hook for everything except some very clumsy prevarications in the throes of “Yankee-induced panic”. I can further imagine, without much of a stretch at all, a fourteen-year-old girl whose parents have split up being titillated by the prospect of drawing attention from an older, “more experienced” man. And I can imagine her creating fantasies that come to have the vividness of reality for her—perhaps to the point that she holds the older man responsible for not finding her more interesting and considers herself somehow violated by him. Look up a classic black-and-white film with Lawrence Olivier and Sarah Miles titled Term of Trial if you want to view a good example of just how such things can happen.

I do not believe that Moore had the sort of encounter with the fourteen-year-old which she has described, forty years later, as a middle-aged woman. It would make no sense. Having exercised gentlemanly restraint around the older teenagers (who had reached the legal age of consent), as all parties acknowledge who acknowledge anything at all—and this excludes Roy himself, at least during Hannity’s interview—why would the same man then strip naked before a child? In the scenario I have portrayed, Moore would most likely have an interest in younger women precisely because he was striving to preserve an abstemious Christian lifestyle before marriage. Had this not been his objective—believe me—he could have found dozens and dozens of playmates to party with in the pre-AIDS, hypersexualized Seventies. Yes, even down in the land of cotton, where there’s a steeple on every street corner.

A Southerner, a Christian, a white male… Roy Moore is everything our intelligentsia loves to hate. The only thing needed to fill out his profile, as far as the opinion-makers are concerned, is a trail of corpses indicating the activity of a serial killer. I do wish this man were not so verbally klutzy; and, as a Christian myself, I wish he would not retreat to Bible-thumping every time he senses that the jackals are closing in. Just because all martyrs suffer doesn’t mean that everyone who suffers is a martyr.

On the other hand, I have to reject the pronouncement of Gregg Jarrett (for whose views I have the utmost respect) that Moore is an antinomian renegade just because he has defied the Supreme Court. “Renegade” seems to me a pretty accurate descriptor for more than one of the nine worthies who sit on that august body. Then, too, Mr. Jarrett, you must understand that some of us in the South, even now, have not forgotten the hypocrisy of a central government that invaded its member states for exercising a constitutional freedom, all the while sanitizing its act by decrying the atrocity of slavery yet tolerating the institution in “loyal” states and freeing Southern slaves only to serve as cannon fodder, imprisoning publishers and legislators in states as remote as Illinois and New York for resisting Mr. Lincoln’s draft and his sanguinary policies, and carting away plunder while leaving once-prosperous cites in ashes. Roy Moore speaks to those memories, as sublimated as they have grown and as unhappily knotted as is his drawling tongue. The government in Washington, Mr. Jarrett, observes what clauses of the Constitution it feels like reading on what days it finds itself in an observing mood.

We revere the Constitution in the South. The faraway, faceless government that claims to rule by constitutional authority? Not so much.

Roy Moore, if you are that caricature of a Christian gentleman that they make of you in the corridors of power… then God help us, and I only hope that forty years have taught you how to keep a belt buckled.

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Roy Moore, Sex, the Seventies, and the South (Part One)

The following is the exact text submitted to an e-colleague who has always published my ruminations before on his busy site.  He woudn’t touch this one, or even tell me why not.  Roy Moore is apparently radioactive for “intellectuals”–especially those with good northeastern educations.

I had to wince at Roy Moore’s answers to Sean Hannity a couple of weeks back. Specifically, there was far too much talk about how the mothers of a seventeen- and an eighteen-year-old girl “liked” Roy and were pleased to have him courting their daughters–how he never asked a girl out without first consulting the lady of the house–followed by reiterated insistence that, no, he didn’t date teenagers when he was a thirty-two-year-old. So, Roy… these two particular moms wanted you to court their daughters, but you refused because of the age gap? And when you asked out a woman of twenty-eight, you first contacted her mother so as to ascertain if a date would be acceptable? Is that what you’re saying?

I so wanted to like this man… but thanks to contradiction and incoherence flowing from his mouth in a steady, unsavory mush, he has rendered himself impossible to believe and presently looks as guilty as Ganelon. If your account of how you did not do a deed is insulting to people with IQ’s higher than the temperature on Christmas Day, then you likely did the deed. (For instance, if you claim that you found a gun in a dumpster and decided to shoot a seal with it, but dropped the piece and then stumbled so that your toe pulled the trigger while pointing the muzzle further downward so as to create a ricochet… but I forgot that such things really happen in San Francisco.)

I concluded after the Hannity interview, then (with my head buried in my hands), that Moore must have done everything of which he stood accused. I was ready to fit the noose around his neck myself.

As the weeks have stumbled along, however, as awkwardly as an expatriate seal-hunting drug-dealer on a crowded pier, I began to reconsider. I did so largely on the basis of my own recollections of the Seventies, and of the ordeal of being a single Christian male during those suicidally hedonistic days. Here’s what I wish Judge Moore had said, and what I think he may have meant to say:

“Mr. Hannity, I’m sorry that you think it’s a perversion for a man of thirty-something years to ask a girl fresh out of high school for a date. In the rural South and out West, such practices were routine rather than unusual (let alone aberrant) before the Civil War; and in some parts of the South, things haven’t changed that much. But, yes, they’ve changed enough to have made my courting practices a little oddball back in the 1970’s. All the same, in my neck of the woods, asking out a girl ten or fifteen years your junior wouldn’t have been equated with pedophilia necessarily, as you seem determined to do–and your making that association really intimidates me. I’m really tempted to scuff up certain boundaries and hedge on the truth, except that I know I would be setting my foot in my own snare. You fast-talking Yankees, Mr. Hannity… you all have a way, you know, of making us Southerners feel like backward, inbred perverts, deviants, mutants, and retrogrades. You’re always so sure of yourselves, and we’re always Exhibit A for human failure and degeneracy. But I’m going to admit to the seventeen- and the eighteen-year olds–those were innocent adventures involving nothing more torrid than a light kiss at the end of the evening; and I’ll attempt to explain to you something further about the Seventies.

“You just about couldn’t find a girl to go on a date with back then who didn’t expect the evening to end up in bed. It didn’t even matter much if you met her at church. Since I had been unwise or unlucky enough to remain single into my thirties, most of the available women were divorcees, and they weren’t in any hurry to repeat what they regarded as a mistake: to get married again, that is to say. They held the institution of marriage at fault for their unhappiness, and not their own evaluation of marriageable material. They had decided that if they ever did marry a second time, they would do so only after giving the vehicle several test-drives. Unfortunately, this attitude not only tolerates behavior that a Christian is not supposed to practice; it also doesn’t yield the sort of confirmation that girls back then seemed to expect of it. So if I had engaged in the dating game as it was then being played by people of my age, I would have been exploiting women for my selfish sexual pleasure, albeit with their permission–and I would have been preparing them for another personal catastrophe following hard upon their previous one, since they were seeking to build a solid edifice upon a foundation of sand.

“Of course, there were better-educated women of approximately my years who had not rushed into marriage right out of high school, as we tend to do in the South; but few of them, frankly, clung even the rudiments of Christian belief that I found in struggling, confused divorcees. Indeed, it was the creed of feminism, learned in colleges and exported by these dazzling graduates into professional circles throughout the community, that probably induced many a single-parent secretary or nurse to follow the same lifestyle. For that was how the ‘smart’ people lived.

“In those circumstances, Mr. Hannity, I conceived the perhaps ill-advised notion of trying to date ‘unspoiled’ girls–young ladies who were neither exiting an unhappy marriage nor bound for a campus that would make them wise in the ways of contraception and abortion. I thought I was choosing the best option of the few available to me. Naturally, I made myself look a little ridiculous to certain people in the community who were already disposed to dislike me. Some of them, I’m sure, made me out to be a pervert and a predator, because I had left myself in a perfect position to receive shots like that. My ill-wishers in the law enforcement fraternity, especially, would start rumors about how they had to warn old Roy away from the young girls at the shopping mall. That’s what Jesus said would happen if you didn’t follow the way of the world. Him, the Son of God, they called a drunkard and a reveler, a companion of shady characters like tax-collectors. If the world would say that of Him, why would it say kinder things of me?”

Kind of a long speech for a Hannity segment, I know… but I wish Judge Moore had uttered something in the vicinity of my script.    continued tomorrow

Insanity Begins Where Truth Evaporates

In just the past week, I’ve been bombarded with so many outrageous claims and patently made-up fantasies that I’m somewhere between headache and nausea.

Did you know that illegal aliens actually commit crimes at a lower rate than other residents—overlooking the fact that illegal entry is itself a crime, I mean?  Of course, being illegal, many of this group don’t call the cops when they’re robbed, raped, or mugged in the barrio… but I’m sure that whatever study the professor was quoting to Tucker Carlson took this into account.  Right?

High rates of Ruthenium 106 have been detected in the southern Urals… but, hey, Russia isn’t engaged any longer in the covert weaponizing of nuclear materials, and Jared Kushner’s chat with a Russian lobbyist remains a far greater threat to our security than Hillary’s Uranium One deal.  Anyway, who’s to say that Greenpeace Russia isn’t lying as part of a Trump pay-off?  Right?

Today I saw a video claiming that Native Americans have observed Thanksgiving as a day of mourning for centuries, and that the actual date marks the occasion of a massacre wrought by the Pilgrims upon their swart, dark-haired, fatally naive hosts.  The narrator was a Native-looking young lass who truly seemed to be very distressed.  Why would she lie?

All week I’ve been reading about our “greatest president”.  No, not Barack Obama—the other one: Abraham Lincoln.  He promised not to free the slaves as a candidate, his proclamation freed them only in the South and not in Unionist border states, he freed them then only to find more cannon fodder for his unpopular war, he had to siphon off precious troops to suppress draft resistance in states like New York, he smashed presses and imprisoned editors when newspapers in far-from-the-front Ohio and Indiana criticized his policies… but these are all just charges assembled by Southern apologists.  I have it on the high authority of Glenn Beck, the official historian of Planet Earth.

A professional sportswriter penned something that crossed my bow yesterday.  It argued that we might as well usher all the Steroid Boys into the Hall of Fame and waive the character criterion, because the Hall’s prior occupants are a bunch of bastards.  Take Tris Speaker, who wouldn’t attend teammate Ray Chapman’s funeral because Ray was Catholic.  Naturally, the argument made in Charles Alexander’s painstaking biography that Chapman was born Protestant and that, in any case, he selected Speaker to be best man at his wedding reeks of bias.  I’m sure the no-name who has wearied of the Hall’s prissy “character” clause must have it right.

A certain relative at our Thanksgiving gathering launched a verbal tirade because my son beat her at chess.  She insisted that knights couldn’t leap over other pieces when moved—citing an Internet source which actually undermined her position… but that was just our interpretation of the passage.  And the Internet is always right, especially when it’s vague.

From the cosmic to the national to the trivial, I find myself wading through hastily stitched “facts” at every turn.  What’s happening?  Are we all losing our minds?  Am I, perhaps, a psycho for thinking that the sun sets in the west?

No, it seems to me, rather, that we’re falling into a habit of rewriting the rules (sometimes literally) to whatever game we’re playing so that we personally come out ahead.  And because I once thought that Putin could be trusted, and that Glenn Beck could be trusted, and that institutional or professional research could be trusted, I don’t think I’m the lunatic in this asylum.  Why not?  Because I’m capable of admitting error and changing my mind.

Here’s an exercise I recommend: think of three positions that you’ve had to surrender over the past year because the facts just didn’t support them.  Can you do it?

How to Hide in Plain Sight: Surround Yourself in Conspiracy Theory

Societies have always been vulnerable to blindness induced by their own prejudices.  If a child were born under the “wrong” alignment of the stars, or if a crow flew left instead of right as an expedition started out, then human ingenuity and determination could be negated by an invincible sense of doom.  To our own time of mass communication, instant dissemination, and absence of rooted values, however, belongs a special susceptibility to “being handled”.  Devious people can lead us all around by the nose with a bridle of two or three words… or even just one.

The idiotic coinage “judgmental” has been such a word since my early youth.  So we are not to judge anything?  But are we not judging, then, those who practice judgment?  And how does anyone abandon judgment without surrendering consciousness?  Don’t we still advise our children not to climb into cars with strangers?  Don’t we pass on eggs and yogurt if their container declares them out of date?

Of course, the whole idea behind “non-judgmental” is to judge very harshly and rashly a person or group designated by our handlers as caught red-handed in the exercise of principles.  It’s an easy sell to such as we have become.  Simply by turning off our brains, we ascend to the ranks of the “best” people.  We didn’t really want to think, anyway.  It’s painful.

Or take the phrase “conspiracy theory”.  Who wants to be detected in entertaining a crackpot idea?  That’s the only kind ever known to have been hatched by “conspiracy theorists”, you know.  They believe that reptilian aliens living in Inner Earth slipped Lee Harvey Oswald his rifle, shape-shifted to become Dick Cheney, and loaded the 9/11 jetliners with robots.

The truth is that a conspiracy is any plot to maneuver a person or persons into a certain behavior by withholding critical portions of situational truth.  Two or more must be involved in the subterfuge.  A lad who bribes a girl’s best friend to praise him lavishly to her has launched a conspiracy.  A dad who promises his son a new video game if he votes that the family should vacation in the Rockies instead of at the beach has created a co-conspirator.  Conspiracies are a fact of ordinary life.  To hear the “conspiracy theory” theorists, you’d think that all the laws on the books against conspiring to commit criminal acts would be redundant.  Few people would ever be stupid enough to conspire, and nobody would be stupid enough to believe them if they tried!

Labeling intelligent suspicion of official accounts a “conspiracy theory” has now become a favorite species of disinformation.  If you and your cronies design a lie for feeding to the public, and if some group of skeptics indicts your veracity, play the CT card.  “Oh, sure, that’s right… we wanted to cover up the existence of an alien spacecraft at Roswell, even though its discovery would have revolutionized modern living.  We want to stay in the Dark Ages—and we lied about the Lizard Men who fought us for the wreckage, too!”

A dismissive documentary about the Roswell incident quoted a high-ranking general testifying before Congress in almost exactly these terms—and the narrator obligingly rated the testimony “devastating” to the conspiracy crowd, though it had no more substance than I have portrayed.  All you have to do is sniff, be a little snarky, and tilt your head in the direction of “the troglodyte set over there”.

An infinitely subtler use of the technique, however, is to finance your own “conspiracy theory” clique, broadcast, or website to cry out against the very conditions you wish to hide.  Instead of cozening interviewers for the Roswell documentary to ignore the evidence of an extraterrestrial encounter, play the thing up to the hilt.  Make your own film.  Carry it far over the top.  Spread rumors that one alien pilot survived and conferred with President Truman.  Create a list of everyone in the county who died over the next decade and speculate that government agents “took them out”.  Disgust the public with your lunacy.

I sincerely wonder if some of the more extravagant serials and documentaries about the Kennedy assassination, alien visitors, 9/11, and the rest do not have their roots in this more subtle kind of dissuasion: the “make the believers look like psychos on crack” approach.  But that, of course, would just be another conspiracy theory.

 

9/11 Again: Did the CIA Get Played One More Time?

A very fast one today.  I watched the new British documentary about 9/11 on Netflix yesterday.  Was disappointed that the producers gave certain logistical inconsistencies and physical impossibilities in the official narrative a complete pass.  Obviously, their interests lay elsewhere.  It would have been okay just to say as much: no need to caricature those of us suspicious of the two towers’ incredibly telescopic collapse (repeated later by WTT 7) as believing that the planes themselves were just photoshopped in for the television audience and that the arms industries wanted to gin up business by starting a war.

The chosen focus was on the CIA’s refusing to share vital information with the FBI in a timely manner, and in the subsequent cover-up of a significant Saudi connection by all branches of the federal government.  Here’s a proposal: might the CIA have thought that Mohammed Atta & Co. were working undercover for Uncle Sam right up until the time that they steered the jetliners into the Towers?  Might the idea, that is, have been to stage four highjackings on the same day, land the jets in DC, incur a few civilian casualties as the planes and hostages were retaken, and then use the incident as an excuse for pressuring Saddam and ridding the House of Saud of Osama Bin Laden’s annoying influence?  The highjackers, one must presume, would not have been in on the whole scheme; they would have supposed that they were winning one for the Great Gipper in the Sky.  Yet they may well have received a degree of CIA training, and that organization was most certainly trying to recruit them.  This could have been a case of A playing B who thought he was playing A.

My theory would explain why no government agency has been forthcoming with details about events leading up to the highjackings.  The truth would make the CIA look indefensibly, perhaps fatally naive and obtuse.  And the Saudis, as co-owners of the secret, would of course have to be protected from public scrutiny lest they spill the beans.  If I’ve learned nothing else about careerist bureaucrats in high places during my long life, it’s that they know how to cover their tails.

Look at Operation Fast and Furious, where the Obama Administration was trying to use ATF to manipulate public opinion against the Second Amendment.  When things blew up, agents in the field were disgraced, released, and otherwise gagged if they attempted to cry foul.

Or look at the Kennedy assassination.  There’s quite a bit of evidence now that the CIA was bankrolling bands of Cuban exiles to train for guerrilla-like raids on Castro’s domain, that Oswald fell in with such a group that had been penetrated 100 percent by Castro’s own operatives, and that the president was thus shot thanks to training (and perhaps hardware) paid for by our tax dollars.  Again, we got played by the people we were trying to play.

I wish I could believe that 9/11 were as “simple” as this.  The trouble is that a massive structure severely compromised on one side about 80 percent of the way up doesn’t neatly accordion to the ground: its crown leans into the wound and falls.  The Popular Mechanics study that gave the thumbs up to this insane physics… I really do need to get a copy of the report.

Guns: Part Two

I’m not crazy about guns. I very seldom fire one any more—they take time to clean, and the shells are almost prohibitively expensive if you don’t have a reloading press. Furthermore, I particularly hate automatics. They jam, and I’m also never quite sure that a final round isn’t hiding in the chamber. I find them hard to aim, as well.

When I was about sixteen, I began acquiring a series of replica pistols that used black powder and loaded Minié balls from the cylinder’s forward end with the aid of a ramrod slung under the barrel. They were small cannons, in effect. I would retrieve the lead from two-by-four targets and melt it down to create more balls. The complete experience was very educational with regard (for instance) to how the Civil War was fought: but its complexity, its racket, and its risk also inspired in me a deep respect for the firearm. Guns are and always have been—and always should be—the last resort in the struggle to survive.

I’ve known, or known of, many people who boast of their time on the shooting range as if they had run a weekend marathon or pumped weights for an hour at the gym. They act as though shooting is physical exercise; and indeed, most of them need a strong dose of the real thing. Simply squeezing off rounds doesn’t prove you’re a man, develop your biceps, or bring you closer to nature. I don’t understand this “winning your spurs” attitude toward shooting that licenses the initiate to swagger like a saddle-sore cowboy. Petite females, in fact, are often the most enthusiastic and devoted shooters, precisely because they realize that the “equalizer” (as the 1873 Peacemaker was dubbed by its loving patrons) gives them a fair chance against a 250-pound assailant.

Would the world be a better place without guns? I doubt it. Then the lone female would again be easy prey for the criminal predator. Fights and even full-blown wars would probably also be more common, both because the opposing sides might suppose they had less to lose and also because the act of combat would be deemed a fitting measure of manhood (since trading Homeric blows tends to reward strength and determination, whereas surviving in a bullet-heavy atmosphere is largely a matter of chance). The butcher-bills reported by Julius Caesar in his foreign campaigns are utterly staggering.

Truth to tell, the “romance” of the firearm has been purveyed more by Hollywood blockbusters and the video games that have fed off them than by redneck Westerners plunking at bottles on their remote ranches. I’ve given up movies, for the most part. I can’t stand the glorification of gunplay and the sociopathic indifference to its consequences (not to mention the childish ignorance of the physics involved). I’m not a “snowflake”. On the contrary, it is because of my fair familiarity with guns that their constant use to supplement AWOL plots and characterization by an industry without conscience or other signs of basic intelligence disgusts me.

Why, after all of these shooting incidents, do we never hear a cry and hue rising from the Democrat Party to discipline—or at least boycott—Hollywood’s antinomian, homicidal tripe? Why, for that matter, have I heard not a single plea from either side of the aisle to outlaw the bullet-proof vest? That unique garment would be my greatest fear, if I were concealing a small handgun legally in church for my and my neighbors’ defense when Punk Sociopath bursts in screaming, “I’m so offended that the world hasn’t made me emperor!” as he sports a bullet-resisting jacket. Great. Now we’re all dead unless I squeeze off a perfect shot.

Why does nobody ever ask questions like that? What good would it do to collect all the legal weapons? What good would it have done, Mr. Republican, if the Air Force had done its job and put the Kelley punk’s risk factors in a database? You think people can’t purchase guns illegally? What good would it have done, Mr. Savage and Ms. Ingraham, if the swine had been confined to a mental hospital? Thanks to our “entertainment” industry, we’re grinding out psychos faster than Planters shells peanuts. Why don’t you all tune down your mouths long enough to think?

Guns: Part One

Why was I so mad at the Left in my last post?  Oh, I don’t know… maybe just because I’m so tired of lies from every political quarter, and because the Left’s pose of outrage at gun violence is especially sanctimonious, hypocritical, and fraudulent.  I can lie to you about a car because I want to sell it; and then again, I can lie about the car while also telling you how sick I am of lying car salesmen.  The Left’s rhetorical position on guns is of the latter sort.
Remember Operation Fast and Furious?  No?  Well, no wonder!  It wasn’t really, as one might say in the high calling of journalism, “covered”.  A corrupt FBI collaborating with the corrupt Holder Department of Justice to disseminate guns illegally among Mexican cartels in the hope that these latter would kill lots of innocents (as they obligingly did) and stir outrage in the States against the Second Amendment… it was Phase Two alone that didn’t quite go as planned.
I’ll be perfectly blunt.  If there is indeed any sort of conspiracy behind the Las Vegas massacre (and the disappearance of a serious investigation certainly enhances the plausibility of a cover-up), then my money is on Fast and Furious, Take Two.  The American mainstream was insufficiently riled up when a score of birthday-partying kids in Juarez was murdered due to Holder’s gun-running… so this time, let’s gun down some middle Americans themselves.  Let’s get them at a Country Music concert, where their kind likes to gather for patriotic expressions in twangy tones and maybe a prayer or two.  Riddle Uncle Cletus and Sister Sharlane with bullets, and let’s see then what they all think of the NRA.
Do I really believe that certain politicos associated with the left side of the aisle would connive at gunning down dozens of unsuspecting citizens?  Well, at least two Democrats left the floor of the House when Paul Ryan called for a moment of silence on behalf of the victims, and a CBS exec voiced publicly that the gun-owners among the fallen deserved to die.  Several of the “D” persuasion made no bones about tweeting out a snarky contempt (understood as humor in their circle) for the fifty-eight redneck fatalities.  And I must repeat: Fast and Furious introduced the script.  There’s nothing in this “conspiracy” that wasn’t zealously and demonstrably executed under Eric Holder’s reign.
Why would any human being, let alone a public servant of the highest standing, conspire to murder dozens or hundreds of fellow beings?  Because, you see, the Second Amendment must go at all costs.  It is the log-jammer in the bottleneck: it is what inhibits the forward surge of the totalitarian progressivist state.  We will never be able to arrange the lives of individual people who are too benighted to understand the destiny awaiting the species as long as they can resist forcible persuasion effectively.  We must have their weapons.  Why is the US not Mexico?  Because Mexicans cannot stand up against homicidal marauders and corrupt police who work hand-in-glove with them.  We can perhaps draw enough Mexicans into our nation that, endowed with their inbred subjection to the will of the patrón, they will create a critical mass at the ballot box; but right now, that strategy is looking dubious.  Maybe we need another, if we’re progressives.
The endgame is to get the guns.  All of them.
Hence the knee-jerk response from the Left every time any incidence of gun violence occurs: never miss an occasion to remind John Q. Average that this is happening entirely and only because of the Second Amendment.  And if some of the Average clan should drop dead of lead poisoning, in the process… all the better!  To make an omelet, you have to break some eggs.