Ah, October, October, the time of pretty girls, golden beer, football hopes and hoop dreams-brilliant colors lightening leaves that bounce brightness into the eyes of booby beauties bustling and trundling toward an intemperate arena.
But baseball dies every October, the springtime hope of April squished.
Now, our fantasy fall has fallen. As October crawls toward the contradiction of Thanksgiving, some will wait forever for next year.
I partook of community sorrow at long distance. I knew no one at Sparks Middle School. The name of the ex-Marine murdered trying to stop a south Reno bank robbery was unfamiliar. I suffered little collateral damage from the guns of autumn.
I could sit shiva as pirate laureate of the High Desert Outback of the American Dream, spraying innocuous words like rain on an impersonal ocean, all sensibility and sensitivity subsumed by the enormity of the task of sorting salty tears from seawater.
The best I could contribute was suggesting that our newest imported corporate welfare queen make weapons with the same fingerprint safety device as an i-Phone.
Before daylight hit Tribune delivery trucks, the moonhowlers bayed at the newspaper's website, united in wounded macho while missing the point entirely.
I appreciated one nameless guy who stated "Wow! The author has managed to combine anti-gun rhetoric with anti-Christian rhetoric. A polemical tour-de-force!"
Nobody ever accused me of that before. Firearms as a religious experience. (He left out potentially offended Oldsmobile and Sony Walkman owners.)
The point of the Oct. 24 i-Gun piece was that Apple knows how to market things as cool and fashionable. That's how previously shunned practices like tattoos (ow), body piercing (ouch) and even gunlocks (oops) unlock the pocketbooks of the impressionable public.
Alas and alack, little seems to stem the momentum of increasingly efficient killing machines like Oldsmobiles and dumb guns. Our ingenuity at destroying people, as reflected in the resources devoted to the task, dwarfs our desire to heal or cure them. Check the relevant budgets.
As that soulless reaper named deadline approached, there came news of more encroaching winter chill: Three local union workers were hit Tuesday by a motorist on Interstate 80 near Beowawe. Two lie in hospitals, a 53-year-old sister lies dead as November extends Nevada's bloody October.
This comes on top of another recent revelation. The person shot to death during the Bank of America robbery was well-known to me. Media called him Charles Sperry but I knew him as Bob, a kind and generous man. His wife, Milka, brilliantly sculpted my late wife's hair for our wedding all those years ago.
And so the sorrows of October finally engulfed my house.
Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living.
Esté bien. Haga infierno.
Be well. Raise hell.
Andrew Barbano is a 45-year Nevadan and editor of NevadaLabor.com. Barbwire by Barbano has originated in the Tribune since 1988. E-mail