Fake news? This is clearly fake weather. There is no other possible explanation for rolling out the door in San Francisco’s Glen Park neighborhood in a short sleeve shirt in August. It should be cold. It should be windy. It is neither. 

This very morning did I not make it all the way down the hill without encountering a single cloud? I rolled straight into the redoubtable Cup, had my cappuccino, staked my presence in Café Society, then rolled home in utter meteorological bliss. It doesn’t seem possible. It certainly doesn’t seem credible. So, Gentle Reader, take this all with a huge helping of salt. It didn’t happen.

Dealing with age and death. Which means precisely what? Dealing. Understanding? Fuck it. Trying to be conscious, that’s all. And that’s a lot. 

I keep signing up for various volunteer activities, all of which might be classified as community betterment. Meanwhile, I question why I am doing this. Will any of these efforts really make a difference? Do I care? Should I care?

All of this falls under the general category of being an elder. And let us acknowledge the obvious: elderhood is not to be taken for granted, in view of the fact that I was so nearly converted into the past tense at age 21. So here I am. And having supposedly learned some lessons, what is there to do but share the wealth?

So far, the lucky beneficiaries are the UC Berkeley Law School, where I have offered myself up to classes in areas such as criminal justice reform and restorative justice. And despite the apparent self-doubt and so on, I actually do trust my instincts. This feels like the right thing to do. I was very upset, in fact, disturbed, when San Francisco’s progressive district attorney was recalled from office. Fuck the populace, I thought. How could they do this?

Now, here, I need to be very careful and attempt to get as clear as possible about my own motives. Did I get justice when I was shot in 1968? Certainly not. Am I angry to this day? You bet. Do I want revenge? Yeah. So while all this is utterly true and among my angry motives…. There is the other thing. That at this stage of life, I really want something done, something useful. And this means appreciating the difference between what is immediately gratifying by way of justice, retribution, or anything post-crime from the victim point of view…and what is effective in trying to prevent at least a bit of crime in the future.

So if I turn up at UC Berkeley law classes holding forth on my experiences as a crime victim, well, I might just feel useful. After all, these young people need support. If they are going out in the world and trying to make a difference, they need someone backing them up. And I am in a sense an unimpeachable voice of experience. Hard to argue with a guy who has been shot in the neck at age 21 and has certain stubborn feelings about shooting and shooters and shots. Vis-à-vis gun control. And, by the way, this is what I call it. Gun violence reduction. Sensible gun laws. OK. I get it. This is a strategically more palatable language for much of the American gun-toting population. But I favor control. Where was I?

Yes, that’s the other thing I have signed up for more direct work in the gun control movement. I find it scary to get involved in this arena. That’s because Americans are rather scary, being a violent people. We also seem to have some trouble drawing the line between fantasy and reality. 

Cap pistols. That’s what people need. Does anyone remember cap pistols, those toy guns that made a bang bang sound? I would like to see the nation disarmed and well supplied with these. If everyone could agree to this, I would volunteer to put a single feather in a band around my head, pronounce myself an Apache, and roll about the neighborhood as volunteer target.  Want someone to shoot at? Call Paul. He’ll bring the toy guns. Everyone can make a lot of noise. While the casualty rate in your neighborhood will drop. So will your insurance premium. Check it out.