The Rachel Maddow Case for Gun Rights

This piece originally appeared in The American Moderate (Nov. 2017) under the title “Gun Rights Are Rights, Too.”

This conversation would be easier if it were about sex. I would propose to my fellow liberals that we get serious about rape culture through simple, commonsense regulations: No one could take a new sex partner without a background check and a 10-day waiting period, with a limit of one new partner per month. Why does anyone need more than that? (Very progressive states might even choose to require that you show police a legitimate reason for needing a new partner.) Rape would not disappear under my plan, but surely it would plummet.

The other liberals would crucify me—as well they should. But I would feign incomprehension: My plan promises to uproot an infamous scourge. How could any person be indignant?

When it comes to sexual and reproductive rights, my fellow liberals quickly re-discover their civil libertarian principles. They acknowledge a right to sleep with whom one chooses, to conceive a child, or choose an abortion. Even if someone promised social improvements if we, say, rationed abortions or required licenses for prospective parents, we would have none of it. And not simply from caution about the social science claims involved. Even if the science were a slam dunk (in a way that is rare), we would not buy some improved social measures at the cost of a woman’s sexual rights. We would stand fast on principle and repeat with Rachel Maddow, “Here’s the thing about rights. They’re not actually supposed to be voted on. That’s why they’re called rights.”

I am an armed liberal. A registered Democrat, I have never voted Republican, nor has any member of my family. I am a devout Buddhist. I also belong to two gun clubs and three rifle and pistol leagues and, like meditating, I handle guns every day. (Well, maybe not Christmas.)

Let me be clear: I support background checks, waiting periods, safe storage laws, and many of the same policies you do. I have never lived in a state without those laws, and there is a good chance that you have not either. (Guns are regulated mainly by the states, not Washington, and few people without guns know how loose or tight their states’ laws are.) In California we have universal background checks; drop-safety and storage regulations; limits on magazine capacities and semiautomatic rifles; and much more. In this we are entirely typical of all jurisdictions from Boston to DC and other Democratic strongholds like Illinois. I find these strictures nuisances, but mostly necessary and livable. Ordered liberty requires limits and I know virtually no one who disagrees. The question is what liberties and what limits.

We are all readier to limit other people’s freedoms. None of us finds a utilitarian calculus—a statistical weighing up of net costs and net benefits to society—so compelling when it concerns freedoms that we ourselves value. And in my leftist circles, it is lately popular to propose reducing gun crimes by reducing the gross number of guns: If the populace had 50% fewer guns, says this argument, there might be 50% less misuse. This appeals to the social planner in all of us, unless we ourselves will be affected.

Easy Wins

An easy way to make a big difference would be to enforce existing gun laws wholeheartedly. The ones we already have. Gun owners LOVE this idea. Our favorite example is “straw-man sales,” in which ex-convicts buy guns through an intermediary with no convictions, a “straw man.” This is hugely illegal and often easy to spot, but it is extremely common with guns used in crimes and almost never prosecuted. Both NPR and the National Review have published calls for crackdowns. Talk about strange bedfellows! This is a true win-win, and it is easy because the laws are already on the books.

Since we have an unequivocal, black-letter Constitutional right to bear arms, if we circumvent it, we set a precedent that others will try out on freedoms that we do care about and lack explicit Constitutional protection. They could promise to improve public health through commonsense measures concerning sex, parenting, abortion, and privacy.

If forced to, I doubt that I could make a utilitarian argument to defend allowing just anyone to bear a child, regardless of addictions, mental stability, family support, and income. I could easily be convinced statistically that we could eliminate most social ills (and many environmental ones) if we limited the right to have children to eligible people who could show a legitimate purpose. I could be persuaded of the same thing concerning panoptic surveillance or police profiling. But those things are not open to negotiation for better social indicators, or anything else. I hope.

Do we really want better morbidity rates? Through shared sacrifice? We could always revive the 55mph speed limit. It would affect Reds and Blues equally, save 12,500 lives annually (more than all gun homicides), and have zero Constitutional implications.

We are scared of you

This may surprise you, but we gun people are terrified of you. “But why?” you may ask in sincere wonder. “You have a powerful lobby in Congress. And a ton of guns!” First, even if we feel safe in Congress, the courts are another matter. Just as with abortion, we fear the day when the Supreme Court’s composition will change and yesterday’s right is reinterpreted. This fear is our sword of Damocles. Second, Congress has less power over us than our state laws. Here in California, as on the east coast, the legislature is solidly anti-gun and adds strictures every year. Some are laudable, but we do not know where they will stop. We suspect they will tighten the noose every year and choke off gun ownership by adding nuisances, much as red state legislatures could make abortions unavailable by shackling abortion clinics.

Above all, it terrifies us if you have no personal familiarity with guns and gun laws. So many of you have passionate convictions about guns and how to regulate them and you vote on those convictions but—I say this lovingly—get your impressions of guns and gun laws from entertainment, third-hand lore, and journalists who try hard but commit a lot of howling blunders. This is even true of high-profile gun legislators. Often they make hilarious terminological mistakes that make us doubt they understand the bills they are sponsoring. We gun people exchange those video clips and chortle at the legislators’ ignorance. (Admit it, you laugh at the idiots on our side too—it’s OK!) But it is nervous, queasy laughter: these people have the power to change our lives.

Sports Spirituality: How to Get “In the Zone” the Russian Way

Part 3 in our series on physical culturist Alexey Faleev. Please find links to all installments here.

“Athletes don’t lift with their muscles,” writes Alexey Faleev. “They lift with their heads.” He makes zero effort to separate physical performance from the athlete’s thoughts, moods, and happiness. In this, he is following some other great Russian physical culturists. The “father of Russian hockey,” Anatoli Tarasov, tracked key statistical indicators like a true scientifically Marxist Soviet planner long before the Moneyball revolution in America, but he trained his players to approach their hockey as a beautiful act of creativity. He kept them mindful that playing hockey is supposed to give you joy. Otherwise, why play games at all? Famously, he would call out to his players on the ice, “Smile! You’re playing hockey!”

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Anatoli Tarasov, father of the Russian hockey program

Accordingly, Faleev loves to talk about how to get into “the zone.” Except he calls it vdokhnoveniye, “inspiration.” I love it!

“There are different practices to achieve ‘inspiration,’” he says, “but they all boil down to regulating the pulse.” (Remember what we said? Faleev doesn’t differentiate between mental readiness and physical readiness!) To get “inspired,” you need to maintain your pulse in its optimal range. Above that range you can get ragged and sloppy. Worse still, below that range you’ll be understimulated and too sluggish and unfocused to do your best.

He illustrates with a story from sports psychologist Anatoly Alexeev about his work with the Soviet shooting teams.

At the national trap shooting championship, Alexeev approached one of his athletes as she stood on the firing line shortly before the final round. He noticed something “off” about the athlete, so Alexeev took her pulse. “As expected,” he wrote later, “it was just 88 beats per minute,” much lower than her optimal 124 bpm. “Quick, give me the gun!” he snapped. “See that birch tree over there? Sprint there and back. Now! Go!” Confused, afraid, and a little irritated with Alexeev, the athlete did as ordered, came back with her pulse suitably elevated, and went on to demolish her opponent.

What’s your optimal range for “inspiration?” It differs by sport and athlete, but if you want my opinion, a good formula for strength sports is 160 beats per minute minus your age. Stay within +/- 5 beats per minute and you’ll be good. (Keep in mind, I’m nobody. This is just one mid-level amateur’s opinion.)

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Four-time world champion and author of eight books, including a three-volume novel! Can you tell I heart Yuri Vlasov? Well so did Arnold Schwarzenegger, so deal with it.

“So,” you ask, “does that story mean I should do sprints before a workout or competition?” No! That was an emergency measure. Faleev says that you should get up to your sweet spot in some way that doesn’t involve using your legs, which would tire you out.

How creative can you get? Weightlifter Yuri Vlasov, the great Soviet sportsman of his generation, was a bespectacled poetry fan. Just the kind of “muscular intellectual” we like here at Lean, Solid Dogs! To bump up his heart rate before big attempts, Vlasov would silently recite macho, stoic verse like Emile Verhaeren’s poem “The Sword” (Le Glaive): “Your body, where the blood of unsullied ancestors sours, / fragile and clumsy, will break itself with each effort / You will be the febrile man bent upon the windows (??) / whence we can see leaping life and its golden chariots.” Damn, get me to a barbell! I’m inspired!

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The “Austrian Oak” meets his childhood idol, Yuri Vlasov. (1988)

If you are not as literary as Comrade Yuri Petrovich, who did wear pop-bottle glasses after all, Faleev recommends shadow-boxing or “fast and loose” drills. They will elevate your heart rate suitably without fatiguing you.

In our next installment, Faleev’s dark arts of applied yoga.

Of Sapogi and Sixguns

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“我不下地獄,誰下地獄?” (“If I do not descend into hell, who will?”)

During the Buddhist Backpack Pilgrimage, I acted as your personal bodhisattva, dear readers, and compassionately offered myself as a sacrifice for your welfare. How? By venturing out to do the whole 34 miles in jackboots (sapogi) and footwraps. In our previous field test we’d shown their value in wet conditions, but we still didn’t know how they would compete with hiking boots on hard, dry roads and rocky moonscapes. And who else would be lunatic enough to do so?

Hyperbole aside, I really was a little leery about this. It’s one thing to don strange footwear for a walk in the park, it’s another commit to them irrevocably for two days of hard walking.

Bundeswehr_Knobelbecher_OriginalThe boots I chose were surplus West German “Knobelbecher” (“dice-cups”). They’re heavy (1.1kg each), older than I am, and I bought them for $20.

My feet I wrapped in my homemade Russian-style portyanki. (In the world of footwraps, there is a Russian style and a very different German style called Fußlappen. Don’t worry, we’ll experiment with those too in due time!)

What did we learn? First, jackboots are awesome on roads, hardpack, and the forest floor. I’ve remarked before on how they make me walk by swinging my foot from the knee instead of from the hip. For whatever reason, on flat surfaces I sometimes felt like the jackboots were walking me or like I was a Bionic Marching Man. Not for nothing do Germans call them Marschstiefel, “marching boots!”

The jackboots also performed nearly as well as hiking boots on loose gravel and decaying roads. The only time I really wished I could change into hiking boots was on certain stretches of Mad Max-level rubble where your ankle rolled a different way with each step. With hiking boots you can plow straight over the rocks, if the ground is stable, as if you had little ATVs on your feet. With jackboots, you have to do a little extra work with your own foot and leg muscles, and I have to think that over time your knees absorb more torque.

The footwraps were positively delightful. They stayed put on every kind of terrain, and it was nice to refresh my feet by sitting down every few miles, turning the portyanki around, and rewrapping them. I also tried out wearing a pair of wool socks with the footwraps over them, something common in winter, and found that very comfortable too.

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You know how I treasure revolvers, but this is too ugly even to be Russian. And yet now I can see the genius of it.

A final thought on trail guns. I’d always wondered why someone would buy the Ruger LCRx, a misshapen 5-shot airweight .357 with a 3” barrel. It seemed like an overpowered pocket rocket that won’t even fit in your pocket! But after my close encounter with the bears, when I’d almost been too lazy to carry a gun at all, I saw the LCRx in a whole different light. It looks like a perfect “just in case” backwoods beater gun for when you’re weighing the annoyance of a real belt gun against the pathos of your family getting your remains back in a wet, 2-quart Ziploc bag.

The Buddhist Backpack, Beads (and Bears!) Pilgrimage

Following an idea from the Manly Monk of Vilnius, I declared this weekend the Great Buddhist Backpack & Beads Pilgrimage. The idea was, one step, one mantra, and in 27 miles that would make fifty-five thousand mantra reps. That’s got to be enough to make you a buddha in this very lifetime (即身成佛), right?

But a meditation retreat is always a hilarious circus of human foibles. My mind took the the last song I heard, “Billy Jean,” and for three miles it composed ribald lyrics.

Then came the bears. A mother and two cubs CHARGED across the trail, 20 yards in front of me, like OJ and his blockers. Thank heaven they kept going and started crashing around in the bush. But I couldn’t tell from the noise where they were going—“Do bears circle around and take people from behind?” I wondered—so I walked the next stretch very quickly and “mindfully,” shall we say, before I took my hand off my gun and remembered anything about a mantra.

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Also, without armed Buddhists we wouldn’t have kung-fu movies. Case closed.

Yes, there is a tradition of Buddhist pilgrims with weapons, and we just saw why. Bears eat you alive and screaming, even if you’re Buddhist. Mama Bear begins her meal as soon as you’re pinned down, without so much as a break-your-neck.

Wait,” you ask, you would really shoot a charging bear, Mr. Buddhist?” It’s “Dr. Buddhist,” thank you very much, and HELL YES! Ain’t no precept tells you to yield meekly while The Three Bears eat your liver.

Some wiseacre will now point to folklore where bodhisattvas (superhero-saints) offer their flesh to starving carnivores as an act of compassion. (Sigh.) But those are hyperbolic hero tales, like a Wonder Woman comic, not practical instructions for conducting yourself on a camping trip.

Much gratitude to Remi Warren for his lesson about this, or I’d have been lazy and carried my gun in my pack. As they say, “You almost never need a gun, but when you do, you need it real bad.” This whole thing started and finished in 2 seconds.

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Read this book if you’re intrigued by anything I’ve written here, other than the stuff about getting mauled by bears.

For a few miles after the bear encounter, the only mantra I was repeating was “HF!! WTF!!!” which is not officially sanctioned. But after that I settled my breath and my feet back into a happy rhythm, and in 5 miles I almost forgot that it ever happened. Feet, breath, mantra, all thumping along cheerfully in time with each other, far from the proverbial smoke and fire of human settlements (人间烟火)–well, it’s pretty close to heaven.

Between the bears and Billie Jean, I only got in maybe 30,000 good reps, but I’ll take it! Svaha!

US Soil Literally Ground Under Heel of Communist Jackboots

Since our posts on footwraps and jackboots, Lean Solid Dogs has been flooded with queries from peace-loving people of all fraternal nations. In response, I conducted harsh field trials on the Russian-style jackboots and footwraps, equipment worth over $20.05, assuming a value of one nickel for the remnants of my old pillowcase. Nothing but the best for you, dear readers!

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To me they still look like I should be rounding up Polish hostages.

I’d been told that where jackboots and footwraps excel is in water and damp. However, I had doubts. Sure, jackboots have high sides, and no doubt some of them are well sealed too. But it seemed like once they did flood, you would be doomed and your feet stuck for your whole walk in knee-high water buckets. At the recent GORUCK challenge, I’d chosen exactly the opposite strategy, wearing a second-hand pair of “Moab Ventilators,” so named because of the mesh sides intended to let water drain out like from scuppers on a ship’s deck. But whatever the designers’ intended, the Moabs stayed wet all night, encrusted on the outside with a thin cement of caked-on sand and moistened from the inside by my waterlogged wool socks.

20180815_121935And just as Krushchev predicted, the Communist jackboots buried their pricey, effete capitalist counterparts. I tried to flood them all the way and could not! First I stood in a creek up to my ankles, patiently waiting for water to find its way through the seal, but it never did. Impressed, I knelt down in the creek hoping that water would rush over the boot tops like Soviet tanks through the Fulda Gap. Still no joy. As I have mentioned before, the portyanki are so long (90cm/36”) that you wind half the fabric around your calves, and to my amazement this sealed the boot tops so thickly that water could not cascade in. I had to wiggle and fishtail around, trying to coax water into the jackboots, til after about 30 seconds I had to be satisfied with getting my feet about 40% soaked.

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See the ring of creek filth around the calf? The portyanki created a thick cloth seal there that kept out the dirt, and most of the water too.

I walked the next mile that way and found it perfectly satisfactory. I had wondered whether water would continue to drip down my calf and slowly make a sopping, sucking fishbowl around my feet, but this never happened. Either the footwraps pack up all the loose space around your feet and leave little room for water to gather, or as Lars from Survival Russia suggests, maybe the footwraps really do wick it up and out.

Certainly I was amazed at how well the wraps dried out. After a mile, I stopped to turn the wraps around. This is something that portyanki fans like Lars are always try to sell you on: “Instead of changing into dry socks,” they’ll say, “you can turn portyanki around and wrap your feet from the other, drier end. The wet end will get a chance to dry out, now being wrapped around your calf or even sticking out your boot top. It’s like having a dry pair of socks built right in.” Without impugning Lars’ integrity, I must confess I thought that sounded almost as fishy as Lenin’s “democratic centralism,” but he was right. After a mile, not only had the top end of my footwraps dried enough to be comfortable, they were also drier than my pant legs, which were directly exposed to the air!

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Turned around, re-wrapped, and almost as good as dry socks. The wet end is now poking out the top.

Score one for East then. No, the footwraps did not dry out completely until I took them off at home and hung them up, but now I was inspired to try some serious Marxist science. I soaked the portyanki and my favorite wool socks and hung them in the sun, side by side to make a fair trial, but the outcome was never in doubt. Unsurprisingly the thin, single-ply footwraps with their huge surface area dried in half the time.

So will I seriously wear these things in place of hiking boots? I certainly would in wet muck. I might even wear them on other terrain just for the fun of doing things the old-fashioned way, just like I prefer to shoot revolvers. Loyal readers of this blog know that I am a sucker for the seductions of kludgy but ingeniously designed Communist gear, and friends know that I suffer from Ostalgie, an aesthetic nostalgia for the lost world of the socialist Eastern Bloc. The city of my young adulthood was an actual Stalinist metropole, and it left me with a sentimental fondness for the blocky, heavy, dim, cheap, kitschy material culture and aesthetic that—as far as I can tell—originated in Moscow and was exported to all corners of the Second World as part of what might be called the “Stalinist cultural package.”

Jokes aside, let me be clear: Lenin, Stalin, and the state they made were evil, an evil unsurpassed in the 20thcentury, and it’s bizarre that they get a pass from so many bien-pensants in the West. I’m just saying that if (Heaven forbid) I were going to conquer and enslave half the peoples of Europe, I would definitely consider doing it in actual Communist jackboots.