No pity for columnist pushing guns for Christmas

Gun-loving Denver Post columnist Jon Caldara thinks we need more gun owners.

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

In his latest firearms-fetish marketing spiel, he tries to disguise his irrational fear of having all of his deadly weapons confiscated by demonizing those “cultural elites” and “bigoted urbanites” who don’t share his paranoia.

Then he decries “gun-phobe cultural manipulation” to stir up some more class hatred and manipulate others into buying guns or giving extras to their unarmed friends.

Not wanting to leave a divisive, dishonest rhetorical device in his arsenal unfired, he dismisses fear of guns as something “emotional” that is easily overcome by a little target practice, then really lets loose with a couple of absurd, insulting false equivalencies.

I quote:

Most Colorado gun shops now charge about $50 to do a transfer. If it cost a dime to transfer a Quran, the ACLU would rightly sue.

In the urban/suburban world, it’s easier to come out as gay than as a gun owner.

It’s hard to feel sorry for a guy who is so good at self-serving self pity.

Don’t give me a gun for Christmas. If you want to get me something, here’s my list.

Shop now, my friends. Shop now.

B.J.

We could have done without "The Irishman"

Let me save you 209 minutes if you haven’t already seen “The Irishman.”

Don’t bother.

Despite the hype and reviews and award nominations and Scorsese and De Niro and Pacino – and all you might anticipate in terms of film-making and stellar acting when you hear those names – what the guys deliver is a real snoozer.

Lest I spend too much more time on this (3+ hours and counting already), a quick summary: All that talent was wasted on a dreary, depressing story of corruption and serial cold-blooded murder by a bunch of thugs who can’t scrape up a single conscience among the lot of them. They’re all dead now and good riddance.

After 90 minutes of trying to figure out why I should give a shit about any of them, I toughed it out through the other 119 and ultimately learned that I should not have bothered.

Don’t waste your time.

You’re welcome.

What I want for Christmas: a satellite, a force field, peace…

Someone asked what I want for Christmas, so here’s a list:

photo of satellite
Eye in the sky, image by PIRO4D from Pixabay 
  • My own spy satellite.
  • A force field around my bicycle to repel motor vehicles. (Two if you can swing it. One for me and one for Mrs. Smith.)
  • Peace on Earth.
  • A massive worldwide reduction in greenhouse gas emissions by the end of 2020.
  • A non-criminal POTUS.
  • Everyone to know the difference between tenet and tenant.
  • An end to the senseless arguments about Harvard commas, which we all know are just regular commas that are often used when they’re unnecessary.

Please be sure to reply to all so everyone knows what you’re getting me. I don’t want two satellites and no Peace on Earth.

Write on,

B.J.

Love your indie bookstores

It’s been my good fortune to be able to do some readings and talk about crime fiction in three terrific independent bookstores in the past several months.

Places like Beaverdale Books in Des Moines, Iowa; Inkberry Books in Niwot, Colorado; and Trident in Boulder each have their own special niche and unique identity.

If you’re lucky enough to be near any of them, stop in and see for yourself. Buy some books while you’re there!

If you have your own favorite indie bookstore, I’d love to hear about it.

Read on,

B.J.

Are you an aging, melting snowflake?

To anyone offended by “ok boomer” responses to what you say or write:

Think about what makes you so easy to dismiss. It’s more likely about your attitude than your age. Learn something from it, then move on.

Lashing out only makes you look more like an aging, melting snowflake. I hope I haven’t offended you just now.

A private conversation

Keira looked at what he was typing even though she knew better.

“It’s like eavesdropping on a private conversation,” he said, snapping the laptop lid shut.

“A private conversation with yourself?” She smiled at him.

He snorted. “I guess you could say that.”

“I just did say that.”

He snorted again and turned away. “I have to get out of this stupid airplane seat and find the men’s room. If you read what I’ve been writing, I will know you did it.”

Keira watched as he stepped into the aisle, set the computer on his empty seat, and disappeared toward the back of the darkened cabin. She didn’t need his password because she’d read everything before he noticed.

“Keira looked at what he was typing even though she knew better.”

Backlit keyboard

What’s this about bicycle noir?

Someone asked me what this picture is about. A not-so-subtle clue to that little mystery is in the photo caption.

From a customer review of North of Grand: A Detective Red Shaw Novel.

It also has to do with writing what you know, something I’ll be talking about November 16 at Inkberry Books in Niwot.

See you there?

B.J.