Livin’

Life has been pretty good lately, I can’t complain one bit. It rained 0.73” a couple days ago and all the summer fallow ground is worked and ready for wheat drilling.

Yesterday, I bought a 2024 Yamaha TW200 dual sport motorcycle. And yes, it’s a farm expense. I plan to mount it to the back of implements so I can shuttle myself home from fields.

Riding it for the first time last night, I scooted around the yard in 1st and 2nd gear and got it up to 25mph. Playing it safe or whatever. 3rd gear was pretty spooky anyway. But today, it felt so natural. I got it up to 5th gear and 65mph on the sand road near the house. I rarely go that fast in my pickup on sand roads! Ha. But boy, what a way to feel ALIVE. Such a forgiving bike too. Mucho recommendo.

After the 12 step meeting this morning, I decided to make another tractor seat stool. Considering I’m all caught up on field work, and everything else for a week or so, it’s a good day for a day off.

The original seat was that 70’s puke colored canvas… yikes.

Here is what it looked like after taking the seat off and before sanding.

Then I sanded with 220 grit sandpaper until the original stain was gone.

Used a red mahogany wood stain which turned out better than expected.

Then I attached the seat to the 180° swivel plate. I can’t quite remember what I pulled it off of but I think it’s from an old farmall tractor parked behind the trees.

Thought it’d need to be welded but I got by with an old carriage bolt and a couple washers.

Turned out better than I expected. But anyway, I’m onto the next project, thanks for reading.

Photo Drop: The Farm

Time to write is fleeting lately. It seems as if I’ve said all I’ve needed to say about the less recent past and am now living in the present. But as I sit on this auto-steer driven tractor, I reflect on the last few months and my new found productivity. I’ve been told I’ve likely accomplished more in the last few months [at the farm] than I have in the last few years. I wouldn’t doubt it. Here’s photo evidence in (mostly) chronological order from May 14 to August 17.

My initial cleaning of the shop. In one of my recent posts, I included photos of what it used to look like.

Planting milo.

Wheat harvest, green combine and semi were my jobs. I truly appreciate the help my Dad and Uncle provided.

During rainy harvest lulls, my uncle and I replaced the floor of the stock trailer. Cattle in my future? Likely.

Cleaned out and reorganized all shop drawers. Also added liners.

One of the milo stands on July 2. These are likely the straightest rows I’ve ever planted. For whatever reason, I felt like taking the time to adjust the auto steer settings. I must’ve been content with bare minimum effort before giving up alcohol.

Taught myself how to stick weld. These were practice beads on an old piece of iron.

My first welding creation. The seat is from an old horse drawn implement, the base is a rotary hoe wheel, and the foot rest is an old vise handle.

Cleaned out the garage. The other side will be clean once we put out deer feeders.

Undercutting all the summer fallow ground. These will go into hard red winter wheat this fall.

This is a Donahue trailer I got so I could park my planter in the shed. This particular one came from a John Deere dealer as it’s painted green and yellow and has the dealer’s name painted on the side. Maybe from the 70’s? It disconnects at the axle and slides forward to lay flat on the ground. An implement too big for a shed can then be parked on it long ways. Here are the restoration photos below.

Old bridge planks removed and ready for welding.

Fresh coat of John Deere green and yellow paint. And adding new bridge planks, they were like 50lbs apiece… bleh.

Stained the new wood with used oil/diesel fuel after drilling and bolting down.

Last but not least, new decals on either side!

Installed a new exhaust and manifold on the Ford 8N tractor. The old manifold was cracked.

Also installed a metal screen between the radiator and grill to keep brush from collecting on the radiator fins.

Organized the Montezuma “field” toolbox.

Cleaned out the ranger shed. Someone (me) decided to store some milo seed in it a couple years ago, and mice had taken over. You should’ve seen it.

Repainted the W on the shop.

I finally got tired of not having power in the shop, so took matters into my own hands. Borrowed the trencher from a second cousin and got to it. This entire job I’m proud to say I did by myself. 110ft of trench, 6ga wire and conduit.

Replaced the old fluorescents with LED’s from Harbor Freight.

First thing I did after getting power was fill this fridge.

And put in a coffee maker.

New evaporative cooler and multi function welder. Too much power for one man to handle!!

The Milo finally started pushing heads after a much needed rain. Month of June was dry and caused some to stall out.

Burned the brush pile after 1.73” of rain the night before.

Replaced 8 broken windows from hail.

Of course I had to get Internet in the shop. I’d have to go in the house every time I needed to use the Internet, which would really slow my work momentum.

And wall mounted a TV.

Unfortunately, I had to bury Screen (the cat) this morning. He passed overnight after succumbing to the neurological effects of Bromethalin, a common ingredient in mouse poison. I took him to the vet a few days prior and had them try their best until he gave up on his own. He lived a relatively long life for a farm cat, and I’m grateful for the impact he made on the farm and my life. He will be missed.

Today as I do field work, I’m reminded that as I take care of the farm, it takes care of me back. And for that I’m thankful. Without such an energy outlet, I know where my mind strays.

Anyway, I’m sure there’s photos I missed but I’m about to call it a day on this tractor. On to the next thing. Until next time, thanks for reading.

100 days

100 days sober, the longest it’s been since I was 16 or 17. Life is much better for me this way and I often wish I would’ve done this long ago but I know now what had to lead me here.

Life’s problems still exist, but now they’re “kosher” problems, the ones normal people deal with, the ones I didn’t create while I was drinking… not to say I don’t have unsolved problems due to my past drinking.

My emotional stability has noticeably changed. I’m learning not everything deserves a reaction. As a friend put it, “imagine a couple dogs, one is yapping away at any noise, mailman, squirrel, you name it. Then there’s that older and wiser dog, who lays peacefully while unwarranted chaos erupts around him. But at the end of the day, he’s been around long enough to know what’s worth barking at.” I want to be that old dog. My patience too has grown in amazing stride. In late June, I stopped harvesting perfectly ripe wheat for a few days so my dad and uncle wouldn’t miss out on all the “fun.” After all, wheat harvest is a family ordeal and always has been. Old me would’ve cut all the wheat that I could, as fast as I could, because I lacked patience and regard for the truly important things in life.

I’ve found inner peace. I find peace through helping other alcoholics, going to 12 Step meetings each day, working on farm projects, doing service work at 12 Step locations or elsewhere. A few weeks ago, I volunteered at the food bank and helped load/unload a pickup bed full of day old groceries. Even more recent, I took my pickup, chainsaw, clippers, a ladder, and trimmed up a couple trees that were taking up parking spots at the 12 Step meeting location. Those put me on the pink cloud immediately. Humility and gratitude, those are the real gifts.

I’ve got keys to two separate meeting locations and now open/lead a meeting on Tuesdays. It feels good to be trusted, to be relied upon, and to be useful.

About a month ago, I gave a ride to a guy and his girlfriend (both of whom were alcoholics I had previously met in treatment) to two 12 Step meetings on two consecutive days. They didn’t have a car so I of course obliged as their house was on my way. As I arrived, I noticed the boyfriend, we’ll call him Matt for confidentiality sake, had glossy eyes, “maybe he smoked a little weed,” I thought. “I’ve been drinkin Jake,” he said as he got in the truck. The smell of stale beer could’ve given it away had he not.

The girlfriend, we’ll call her Alison for confidentiality sake, had been diagnosed prior with cirrhosis of the liver and the two were now living together. A match made in heaven, I know.

We got on our way for the 30 minute drive to the meeting. Alison sat in the back seat catty corner to me, and started reminiscing on her childhood as we passed a small nearby town with a towering grain elevator. “As a kid, I went up there once!” And “that’s my cousin’s house, we used to play in that yard all the time!” During the meeting, I noticed her hands shaking from alcohol withdrawals. The next day was about the same, I picked them up in the morning and we headed off to another meeting. After dropping them off and saying goodbyes, I headed back to the farm. Little did I know that’d be the last time I saw Alison.

Two weeks later, to the day, Matt calls me while I’m driving and says, “Hey Jake…umm.. Alison passed away. Heart and kidney failure due to the cirrhosis” Wait, what?! I almost had to pull over. She was just in my backseat and had gone to two meetings looking for a sponsor, there’s no possible way, she had seemed to be on the right track or at least really wanted to be.

After the normal condolences, I couldn’t help but ask, “when was her last drink?” “3 days ago,” he said. I learned later that those diagnosed with cirrhosis usually don’t drink for 3-5 days before they die because they’re too sick.

That was like a closed handed slap of reality right to my rosy know-it-all cheek.

This thing really does kill but seldom does it get talked about. It might come up in the paper for others, but not Alison. Her family was estranged, she had no obituary, and no funeral. “Jails, institutions, and death” they tell us, and that is damn right. She was 37 years old.

Prior to her death, I started to question my “helping” of other alcoholics who are still struggling. I would ask myself, “why do I set myself up for disappointment just to watch them go back out?” But now that thought has fleeted. I feel grateful I was able to take her to those two meetings. Maybe it added a day or two onto her life, or maybe just a few hours, I sure would like to think. At the very least, maybe her death swayed others at the meeting into staying sober, or helped them forget a thought of relapse which would’ve eventually taken their own life too.

God has a strange way of showing his path for us, but I’m starting to see mine through doing His works, by helping others.

The Cloud

Things have remained great as day 32 of sobriety comes to an end. I can safely say that I 100% do not want to drink today. Granted, this pink cloud has been quite a ride the last couple days. For those that don’t know, the pink cloud or pink cloud syndrome, describes a stage of early addiction recovery that involves feelings of euphoria, elation, and optimism about sobriety. Basically, my neurotransmitters are firing like normal again. Pink cloud can occur on major sobriety dates and other life accomplishments, or so I’m told. It can also occur after a good AA meeting, which I’ve attended a total of 6 in the last 72 hrs. Either way, I’ll take it in whatever form. On the flip side, however, it can be a dangerous phenomenon as heightened confidence invites complacency.

 For me though, it’s been a WILD ride and I’m embracing it. Pure bliss, unconditional love for life, and craziest of all is the desire to small talk with strangers. After asking the gal at the veterinary clinic how her day was going, she replied with “eh…it’s a Tuesday.” I must’ve started foaming at the mouth when she asked about mine. I just couldn’t hold it in, “ya know… we’re on this side of the dirt, and the sun is shining!” If it weren’t for my internal voice telling me not to say weird shit, I would’ve proceeded to tell her how liberating The Twelve Steps are. If you read my last post, you might’ve noticed the cloud because I hadn’t before I typed it. In fact, I was only made aware of my pink cloud after my newly acquired savior complex almost got me in a tight spot and some good friends pointed it out. Illusions of grandeur that was. Maybe later I’ll share the whole story. Anyway, I should be careful as this cloud isn’t black and white, and accurately separating those emotions is no easy task.

 Back at the farm, my dad and I were getting the tractor and planter ready for milo. Upon entering the shop to look for tools, I slowly scanned my eyes over the 12 foot bench and the heap of farm supplies that lay in front of it.

Suddenly, I experienced a perspective shift, a sort of out of body experience. It felt as if I had walked into someone else’s shop and the owner was no longer alive on this earth, or maybe he was cast away to some institution. Like a crime scene without blood or a body. A scene frozen in time, left just the way it was before they departed. As the tools seemed to evade us, I turned to my dad and said, “This is some alcoholic shit. Tomorrow didn’t matter so why put tools back where they belong.” In consolation, he replied, “it’s all good Jake, it’s in the past.” It was strange to hear his contentedness as that had been a strict lesson he preached my entire childhood. That’s how things were in my active addiction though, a ‘fuck-it-all’ mess. And if that life could be represented by a few pictures, these would be it.

I’m glad that person is gone. I’m sure his headstone is facing west, cause he didn’t believe in salvation anyway. I did know him once. He was an old burned out flame who couldn’t find his way through the dark. If only he knew me.

Fellows

Driving home on the long stretch of open highway, surrounded by barren crop fields patiently awaiting bountiful harvests, I found myself flush with emotion and began to cry. I had missed the fellow patients I’d come to know during my stay. They had provided comfort in my darkest of times and laughs when the whole world seemed to frown back. As I thought of the infamous statistic, that only 10% of my friends will stick with recovery, I couldn’t help but cry more. I developed such a seemingly delayed regard for my peers and  relied on them for more than I realized.

 The strange phenomenon about institutions (like rehab or prison) and its patrons was best coined in the 1994 film, Shawshank Redemption.

 “These walls are funny. First you hate ‘em, then you get used to ‘em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That’s institutionalized.”

 Plainly, prisons are designed to take our freedom. The thought of being institutionalized post prison sentence implies that one can no longer handle freedom in its natural form, and instead maintain reliance on their captors.

But rehab facilities are designed to take our addictions. There are no bars, no fences, only free will. When we become institutionalized here, we learn to rely on the safety and security of our close fellowship with others. We rely on being surrounded by like-minded individuals who are quick to lend an open ear. Most importantly, we rely on an environment free of drugs and alcohol. This form of institutionalization is valuable beyond measure as these elements provide us the thoroughfare to recovery. Similarly, AA/NA meetings provide just the same. When we look to Alcoholics Anonymous for a reprieve from drinking, we find fellowship. This beloved forum for voicing our troubles allows us to find a new strength beyond ourselves, one that helps us face life and its “terms” instead of fearing them.

Life Through a New Lens  

 Upon my return, the farm has a different glow about it from just 30 days ago. Instead of associating grief, sadness, and self-pity when I see things in disrepair or the unkept house, I see opportunities for rejuvenation. I’m inspired by the beauty of how it could look. To be fair, this can be said about life in general. The things that tormented ‘the old me’ still exist, but now I find gratitude within. Instead of feeling stressed, anxious, or impatient about everything I need to do, I’m now content taking them one at a time and simply enjoying the ride.

 I can’t say I’ve experienced such a bright perspective on life, or at least not in nearly a decade. My happiness before was conditional to circumstances and people around me. It was often short lived. But today, I am unconditionally happy… what a beautiful thing it is. Alcohol had smothered any fighting chance of having a normal and healthy mind. But now I am free!

New Beginnings

Twenty seven days ago, I checked myself into an addiction treatment and recovery center... rehab. Alcohol has been a part of my daily life for the last 9 years. Of those 3,285 days, I can safely say that roughly 3,225 included alcohol. During college, I stood out as the drunker member of my fraternity, not a proud accomplishment, or an easy one, nonetheless. What started as something to get me out of my shell quickly turned into full blown alcoholism before I knew it. Along with another fraternity brother, nightly pints of Paul Masson Brandy became our thing. These weren’t the party type benders you might be thinking, these are the ‘sit in the lazy chair and watch tv’ benders. Monday night? Sure, it was a Monday after all. It didn’t matter the day. I was away from home and had nobody to tell me I couldn’t. What more could an unknowingly aspiring alcoholic ask for. On many occasions, when the funds were tight, we’d scrounge around couch cushions or bum dollar bills from other guys. Little did I know, I was making tremendous strides toward a lifelong disease flush with inescapable hopelessness and depression.

After college, the alcohol continued to pour but in fancier fashion now that I was employed. Somehow, the liquor ceased but the beer did not. Six to eight light beers immediately became a nightly routine. Living in a Kansas City apartment with another “just as drunk” fraternity brother was like fire and gasoline. The neighborhood bar less than a hundred steps away saw us plenty when I wasn’t drinking alone at home. The days went on like this with nonexistent splendor. Living to drink would pin it on the tail.

In 2017, I received a DUI charge in a small Kansas town after driving on the wrong side of the road. This would’ve scared most into sobriety, especially after a night in jail, but for me it was only about fifteen days. I was court ordered to keep and maintain an interlock device in my vehicle for 6 months, attend a day long drug and alcohol session, and pay a few thousand dollars in fines (not including lawyer fees). The interlock was cheatable though, I put it in a vehicle I didn’t normally drive and took in each month for calibration. When I did need to drive with it, I could use a plastic trash bag to satisfy the device with sober air. Lying, deceiving, and manipulating became my native tongue. Whatever it took to enable my drinking, as it was the first and foremost priority. For family trips, I’d bring enough to get me through or sneak away to the liquor store for a pint. When going out to eat, I’d excuse myself to the restroom only to sneak a shot at the adjoining bar.

As time moved on, my alcoholism progressively got worse, yet my success carried on. The progression of alcoholism, to most, may seem to be downward sloping in relation to the alcoholic’s achievements and successes. For me, it was not, at least at first. Toward the end, I had a good job, grain trading in the Kansas City area, making nearly six figures. I also owned a three hundred- and fifty-thousand-dollar home with 15 acres and a pond. Most notably, however, I had a seemingly stable relationship and was engaged to be married. One could say I had it all, or at least many reasons to be happy. Yet alcohol remained in my life like a snake in the grass, waiting for the deadly effects of its venom to take hold before moving in with the big swallow. It began to infect everything. After only 9 months,I quit my job after being mandated for poor performance. I couldn’t possibly take accountability for the daily hangover culprit. Instead, I blamed my boss for being verbally abusive.

Not just at work, but my home life was becoming even more unmanageable. My fiancée quickly noticed my unhidden drinking habits, and commented, “those [half gallon tequila] bottles sure don’t last long.” She was right. During the peak, I had been drinking a quarter gallon per night. Around this time, our new relationship quickly fell from the honeymoon phase into utter instability. I could not hide from the guilt and shame of my drunken angry outbursts and emotional instability, so I decided to stop drinking. I was prescribed Disulfiram, commonly known as Antabuse, which makes you sicker than a dog if alcohol is consumed within 21 days, or so the label says. It’s good medicine, if taken each day as a supplement to regular attendance at AA meetings of course. For me though, I didn’t see the beauty in being sober. I was a “dry drunk,” just as miserable as I had been while drinking. I had never been to an AA meeting even though my fiancée often urged me to. I thought that all I needed was sobriety, and the only way to be sober was to take the medicine.

I made it roughly 45 days sober and then got complacent, “I just quit for 45 days, I’m no alcoholic!”, I thought. So, my cunning and baffling alcoholic mind decided to test that medicine label for myself, “21 days... we’ll see about that.” Ten days after taking another dose, I found out the severity of the alcohol/disulfiram interaction the hard way. Throwing up in the sink, laying on the bathroom floor in a fetal position, and a headache I’ve never imagined. A couple days later, I tried again. 12 was the lucky number, with only minimal headache the day after. Of course, saving my relationship was still important to me, so I made sure my fiancée was under the impression I was still taking the meds, in turn believing I was sober. I quickly learned that a pint of tequila or vodka was the max I could drink to still appear sober, nothing more, and nothing less. The daily amphetamines, which I had convinced a doctor to prescribe for a put-on ADHD diagnosis, proved useful for combating the alcohol withdrawal fog in the AM, but enhanced my alcohol tolerance in the evenings. I got away with it well, hiding it in unimaginable places across the house. I would open NA beers, pour them out in the sink, fill a pint glass with a regular beer, and leave the empty NA can on the counter. I would also disperse a pint of liquor between different rooms of the house to avoid suspicion of going to the same room a dozen times in an evening. If there were times when my supply went dry, I’d “forget” my phone at home so my location couldn’t be tracked at the liquor store. Tequila and vodka were ideal too because you couldn’t smell them. You can hide it perfectly, with zero mistakes. I did it, but alcohol isn’t just alcohol. Its more than just a smell, it’s more than just slurred speech, and it’s more than just a buzz. It’s much, much more.

Drinking and isolating soon took its effect on my mind, but not before my physical health. A rash developed on my abdomen in the liver area, and drinking began to hurt. A stomach ulcer developed and caused me much pain after eating. Sleep became evasive as my body itched all night long. Bloody stools, which I haven’t disclosed to anyone until now, were also a common occurrence.

Without a job, and only seasonal farm work, I had too much time alone with my thoughts. Each day felt like just another date. “Today is shot, maybe tomorrow will better” I thought for several months. Depression, which I’ve battled my whole life, took its mighty hold on me in a new and different way that I’d never experienced. After imagining some life situation that I likely couldn’t handle (or so I thought), my mind found comfort in suicidal ideations. For example, I thought if my fiancée ever decided to leave, I truly would have no other choice but to end my own life. Hope of better days, a better life, a better everything, evaded me just like sobriety. My self-worth was nonexistent. These are the things I could not hide. The emotions I’d try to suppress only came out louder. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t think I deserved it. My pool of self-pity was soothed by the alcohol and fueled by it simultaneously. “Who could love a drunk, depressed, suicidal, verbally abusive asshole like me,” I thought almost tormentingly.

As you may have guessed, my fiancée did leave, and I don’t blame her. Maybe I did then, but not now. In retrospect, she saved my life. I would still be drinking to this day, guaranteed. I’m forever grateful for the impact she made on my life. I put her through a lot of shit that she didn’t deserve in the slightest and I’ll have to live with that.

But an alcoholic in their active addiction convinces persecution in himself, and that all are out to get him... how cunning it is. I truly believed that. The morning after was a Sunday and I decided to drive to the farm with one intention in mind, buy a half gallon of tequila and get busy dyin’. Thankfully, God’s hand remained on my shoulder through that night as I sobbed and toyed with my fate.

The next morning, I decided to finally find help for myself. I put some things together, got in the pickup, and drove myself two hours to an inpatient addiction treatment facility in Northwest Kansas.

Upon arrival, I was placed in a detox room for 3 days and was given Valium for alcohol withdrawal symptoms. I later discovered that each time I accepted a Valium dose, I’d be required to stay in detox another 24 hours. With that info, I declined each additional dose as I longed for enough privacy to just lay in bed and cry. My shakes lasted for 5-6 days and then finally dissipated. After detox, I was able to go to a regular room which had more privacy and a roommate. Each passing day seemed harder than the last for the first 10 days. My pockets were never searched during my intake, so I still had the pickup keys and often thought about leaving. That thought scared me though as I was reminded of how I had become upon arrival.

After about 12-15 days, things around me started to brighten. With daily chapel and Chaplain sessions, I rediscovered my faith in God. Through daily lectures and books, I’ve discovered the power of the Twelve Steps and how they can free me from my chains.

The patient group has changed drastically from 27 days ago. I count only one patient that’s been here longer than me, as he’s on a 45-day program. Being here, I’ve come to know how addiction doesn’t discriminate. People from all walks of life, people from all demographics... many for alcohol, many for meth, and many for fentanyl. Humility is easy to find here. Me, a depressed alcoholic whose fiancée dumped him, is a rather tame patient profile compared to most. There are addicts who face lengthy prison sentences when they leave. There are those who solicit themselves for prostitution as a sole stream of income. There are pregnant women who know they’ll have to forfeit their child to DCF. There are those that don’t have homes to return to. There are those whose families have abandoned them entirely due to their addiction. There are those who simultaneously battle a debilitating mental illness.

What’s also sad, however, are those who can’t let go of their addiction after arriving. On two occasions, two patients were found with fentanyl in their rooms, and both were subsequently discharged. The first was a young Caucasian woman in her mid 30’s. After the discovery, I witnessed her sobbing and asking for the drugs to be returned to her. The nurses replied with, “No, you’re abusing it!” Meanwhile, a severe thunderstorm warning had been issued, and heavy rain commenced outside. The young woman, clad with all her belongings, walked off the property and into the rain. I never saw her again after that.

The second patient, a young Hispanic woman in her mid-twenties, was also found with fentanyl. She had been sick the morning prior, which I speculate to be the opioid/suboxone interaction. Both women I talked to, laughed with, played board games in a group with, shared stories with. They are normal beautiful people like you and me. I will pray for those who continue to suffer and that they will come to follow God’s path.

As my time in this facility nears its end, I’ve come to accept who I am. I’ve come to accept the wrong I’ve done and acknowledge the people I’ve hurt. If you’re one of those, then I am truly sorry. I have forgiven myself, and wish to not forget the past, but to learn from it. I no longer bear a resentful and vengeful heart. I am not ashamed of where I am or who I am, for this is the plan God has made for me. I’m Jake, and I’m an alcoholic.

Gun Show Woes

I’m writing this blog for informative purposes only.

For those that don’t know me personally, I really like guns. From childhood, toy guns were by far the toy of choice. So much so that my mom would secretly congregate them into a duffel bag that she hid in her closet. I really don’t blame her, seeing how the world is as an adult. 3 years ago, I obtained my Federal Firearms License and have since become semi versed in federal and state gun laws to remain in compliance as a dealer. I say this because many who critique the short comings of anything gun related are largely misinformed. I’ve scoured the internet for an article containing what I’m about to write and haven’t found one. Today I want to share what others won’t, or can’t do effectively.

Yesterday, I decided to attend the gun show in Kansas City at the KCI Expo Center. It’s a Saturday/Sunday event that usually happens every couple months. Huge billboards clad with flintlock muskets can be seen along the freeways. Turns out, that’s the most innocent item one can purchase at such a show. I went for a couple reasons, one of which was to find an upper receiver chambered in .300 AAC Blackout for one of my AR-15’s. Reason being, the .300 Blackout cartridge yields better subsonic performance for suppressor use when compared to 5.56mm NATO. Or in layman’s terms, this suppressed caliber sounds ‘movie quiet’ while still cycling in a semi automatic… an added perk for my vested interests in coyote hunting.

The other reason for going was to see something I could later write about, and boy was I right. I didn’t know if I’d see protests outside, or the event cancelled altogether. Surely those ‘ripples’ would show, I thought.

After driving 45 minutes, I pulled up to KCI Expo right off the airport exit. Vehicle’s plastered with “Fuck Biden” bumper stickers lined the roadway, reminding me that the gun show crowd was just the way I remembered. Luckily, I found a parking space within walking distance and made my way in. Signs all over the entrance doors said the following:

No loaded firearms/magazines permitted

Check firearms in at front desk

Absolutely no recording devices (No Picture & Video) allowed inside

The third struck me as odd, what don’t they want getting out?

Walking in, I noticed the desk where you’re “supposed” to check firearms. Sitting there was some security guard scrolling on his phone, too busy to care. A woman stamped my hand after paying admission and I was inside.

For background, there are two types of sellers at a gun show. The first is those who have FFL’s and require background checks (like me). The other is private sellers who don’t require background checks. In fact, the latter aren’t even capable of doing one if they wanted to. Such private transfers are completely legal in most states, as long as they aren’t in the business of selling firearms. Behold the “gun show loophole.” A violent felon can buy one of these guns pictured below, a true statement.

Many (right wing twitter users) deny the loophole even exists. It’s wild to me. They’re convinced it’s a liberal media buzzword designed to villainize their beloved redneck craft shows.

*sips coffee with two hands*

Back to the show, I walked down several aisles in search of AR uppers and found some more interesting sights along the way.

Oil filter “solvent traps” - effectively unregistered suppressors.

At the same private sale table, I noticed several oil filters with thread adapters advertised as “solvent traps.” In theory, they’re used to collect used oil during cleaning, signified by the handwritten sign, “Keep your solvent off the ground.” I imagine the seller thinks that handwritten sign will grant him immunity from prosecution if an undercover ATF agent were to walk by. I laugh under my breath as I type this because the oil trap theory is hardly believable yet such a commonly used loophole. Once a hole is drilled or shot through the opposite end, it becomes a fully functional suppressor. Of course, one could buy one of these “solvent traps,” and file a form 1 which requires fingerprints, passport photo, background check, and a $200 tax payment. Once approved, several months later might I add, they could then shoot or drill a hole through the end to legally possess a homemade suppressor. Maybe that happens, who knows.

Now, I’ve been to KC gun shows in the past and saw most if not all of these things. But what surprises me the most, is each show has at least one extremist table. It’s like an unwritten gun show bylaw. Last year, I went to the same show with a college friend and stumbled across a table with a Neo-Nazi theme. They sold things like replica Hitler Youth knives, replica SS uniforms, and copies of Mein Kampf.

The show yesterday was much different.

Chasing my true crime interests, I’ve read a few books on Tim McVeigh and the Oklahoma City Bombing. Long story short, Mcveigh’s gun shows in the early 90’s granted him access to a couple like-minded accomplices and bomb making materials. I thought those days were over for lawless gun shows.

At this particular table, there was a whole collection of The Anarchist Cookbook style literature. Books on how to make improvised explosives, how to rearm Vietnam-era bazookas, booby trap manuals, etc. These are a dime a dozen at every show I’ve been to, yet still phase someone like me. What surprised me the most, however, was the other side of this very same table.

At first glance, it appeared they were selling cheap firecrackers and tracer rounds. More heinous items suddenly caught my attention. Cannon fuse by the 5,000 foot roll, similar to the style of fuse Mcveigh lit before stepping away from his truck bomb.

The bomb maker’s grocery aisle kept going. Hexamine is a substance commonly used to make blasting caps (detonators.) In 2016, would-be domestic terrorists assembled blasting caps using Hexamine for their Somali targeted bomb plot in Garden City, Kansas.

Potassium Nitrate… maybe the least innocent ingredient. Mcveigh mixed two tons of it with diesel fuel to build his weapon of mass destruction. I could google the other chemicals shown to provide you with more insight, but I simply don’t want to be placed on a watchlist today.

After seeing this show’s exremist table, I was ready to leave. That’s why they don’t want patrons taking pictures or videos. They’re running a Cambodian swap meet, and with all those vendor fees and ticket sales… RK gun shows is making a killing.

Chiefs Parade

Leading up to Super Bowl LVIII, I’d find myself knocking on wood before even mentioning the parade we may or may not have. My fiancé and I decided to attend with a couple of her friends, one of whom lives in a downtown loft apartment where we met up.

After eating donuts and reminiscing on the contrasts of last year’s parade, we headed down to Grand Ave around 10am. Droves of people, many carrying open containers, signified they were enjoying their mid-week day off to the fullest… even if it meant a noon hour hangover. We grabbed coffee in some corner cafe and headed into the red sea. A little ways down from 11th Street seemed sufficient to watch the parade, as the crowd seemed to densely congregate at each Grand Ave. intersection.

Standing there for an hour, we people watched, took pics, you know the drill. Hearing casual expletives and actively trying not to bump into nearby fans who might take it as disrespect, I could’ve been standing in Arrowhead (Ha!). At one point, I read this dude’s text over his shoulder, not because I’m nosey but rather just to see if I could. It said, “I got the stick in the trunk, and a KCPD shirt under [this jersey] in case it go down (laughing emoji).” For those that don’t know, “stick” is a slang term for a long gun. I’m not certain what he was referring to as going down, but one can assume being at a sporting event - a riot? I thought to myself, “how could it get there? how could this turn into needing a rifle?”

After about an hour, the parade started. Lots of people we didn’t know went by, signing autographs.

And of course, the players, coaches, owners, families etc. Talk about a great experience, seeing how excited people got when anyone they knew came by. My first parade went pretty well and I couldn’t wait to share my pics to friends and family ASAP.

The parade wrapped up and we made our way back to the loft apartment to watch the subsequent rally on TV. Maybe it’s just me, but the general consensus is that you attend the parade OR the rally, it’s just too much of a logistical nightmare to do both.

The rally at Union Station went about as expected, lots of peacocking from the owners/managers, and then a few short minutes of long awaited talking from the (rightfully) inebriated star players. The rally ended about 1:45p or so, my phone was dead and we were getting ready to leave. To check the time, I looked at the microwave’s display which read 1:50. “Is that how much time is left on the microwave or is that the actual time?” I thought. It was the actual time, and little did I know, it was the exact moment shooting had erupted at the rally 11 blocks south.

We made our way down to the parking garage, and heard blaring sirens from seemingly all directions. Granted, parking garage’s echo. My fiancé mentioned something about it, “Wow that’s a lot of sirens!”, but I thought to myself, “I bet they always blare them so they don’t have to sit in traffic.”

Driving down I-35, passing Union Station, and all the cars parked every which way they could find a place, I noticed several ambulances weaving their way from the south on the west side of the WW1 museum’s grassy hill. A couple minutes later, my brother sent me a news article screenshot and a text saying “You guys okay?.” That was the moment I had realized our great experience had been enveloped in darkness like a dark storm cloud. How could we still be joyful after that? How could we ignore the breaking details and just be happy with our own version of the event? It felt ruined… stained, as if we should’ve just stayed home.

One thing I’ve taken away from the Chiefs parade shooting is that every tragic event has its ripple effect. Those who are changed by it, those who aren't, and then the degree to which change occurs. So many shootings I’ve been privy to, but never one in my own square. Of course, I was 11 blocks away and well out of range for this one, but the fact that I could’ve been there sort of haunts me. I'm sure teachers across the country feel this same way when one happens in a school. It’s that feeling of familiarity that can change the way we take it. Maybe it’s one of the last ripples of the ‘effect,’ but a ripple nonethless. Pride and beliefs aside, I’d imagine my view on gun accessibility would change quite tremendously had I witnessed first hand or became a victim myself, but maybe it still has changed in some way. Maybe we don’t need to get shot at for our minds to change.

Intro

I never thought I’d get into blogging. After long text message rants to my brother about current events, he mentioned the idea and well… here I am. Is it possible to blog without cradling a coffee cup two handed like a Folgers commercial? Damn I sure hope so.

Anyway, I want this to be a place where I can share thoughts, stories, and whatever else that doesn’t fit the social media cast. For the blog’s theme, I initially thought about true crime, but so many sleuths are already out there doing the Lord’s work. Another one I thought of was Kansas City’s gang/gun violence, but that might make this too short lived. The theme I can settle on though, at least temporarily, is purely bipartisan conversation of partisan issues. In layman’s terms, disregarding what I think I know and exploring what I don’t. With that, I want to challenge myself and my audience to think differently, and most importantly ignore the stance society expects us to take.

Anyway, I’m sure this blog will be about a lot more, including my experiences and day-to-day, but for right now there’s a lot I want to unfold.