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Trying to work in PSL

OK, I’m getting some work done today. But I can’t help keeping TV news on in the corner of the office. And there’s a kind of shroud over everything. Everything moves a little slow.

Thoughts come of loved ones who might have been at Pulse nightclub Saturday night, celebrating into last call around 2 a.m. Sunday morning. Someone filled with love—for themselves, for others, for the world. Someone whose seat was still warm where they sat. Whose chair may have swiveled slightly when the first shots rang out. When they fell.

Was it the song? The crazy soundtrack?

The President was properly somber. I didn’t feel he was angry enough. I’m hoping he has something up his sleeve.

And now, while I try to work, on the TV in the corner is a retired New York City cop, who now owns St. Lucie Shooting Center. All the t’s were crossed, he says; all the i’s were dotted. The cop looks like a nice fellow. He looks like he’s moving a little slow today. He looks like there’s a shroud over everything.

PSL gunshop

Right up the street from me, a retired NYC cop matter-of-factly explains the incomprehensible.


It’s a warm, sunny day in Port St. Lucie. My heart goes everywhere, to everyone, but for some reason I’m feeling it right now for this retired cop, who probably helped a slew of people in the Big Apple, moved south in retirement, and ended up selling weapons that Omar Mateen bought, entirely legally, and the warm blood flowed in Florida. Maybe that’s what Obama has up his sleeve. Something that will uncross the t’s and undot the i’s and prevent the next mass shooting with an assault weapon that no one ever needed who was not assaulting something, something that was assaulting back.

Omar Mateen

Omar Mateen, entirely legal, entirely dead.


The St. Lucie Shooting Center is right up the street, and the retired cop may be a few degrees away from being my bunkmate at Fort Dix and a few more degrees away from being the soldier Kevin Bacon accompanied home in Taking Chance. A few degrees away from being as warm as blood, dripping off a barstool at Pulse after a loving night out with friends and family and lovers.

Moving a little slow, trying to get back to work, glad I don’t own a gun shop. Now there’s a crazy business. I wonder how many people would trade the Second Amendment to have their loved one back. I’m pretty sure I would.

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