More mass shootings this year so far than days passed on the calendar.

Will we get the war weapons off the streets? Will the leaders lead?

No, we won't. No, they won't.

We will stack the bodies like cordwood using children as the mortar to build our real wall, the one between our humanity and ourselves. The TV will be sad for a few days and then Justin Bieber will drive too fast somewhere, and we'll roll those bones under the rug with all the others.

When 20 dead children at Sandy Hook changed nothing and almost 90,000 have died by gun violence since, we crossed a moral Rubicon. There is no coming back. This is what we are.

We are the Monster State. We stack the bodies and stroke the bullets until they are greasy with sweat. We are heroes, proud in the thunder of our guns, because this is freedom.

This is freedom.

This is freedom.

Not with a whimper, but a bang.

This is freedom.

I dreamed of my father last night. He died in February, but in the dream he was coming to visit. It was one of those frustration dreams where you can't get anything done, and also one of those dreams that keeps coming back after it wakes you up and you go back to sleep. I finally gave up and went out to watch some TV. That's when I learned Muhammad Ali was gone.

My father and I met Ali in the lobby of the Parker House Hotel in Boston. I was seven years old, and my Dad was a rabid Ali fan. Ali was, of course, standing in a crowd, so my father hoisted me onto his shoulders and bulled through the mob ... and there I was, face to face with The Greatest. He glowered at me, went "Boo!" and then smiled that megawatt smile. I said "Hi Champ!" and shook his massive hand.

My father and I made many memories together, but I think he'd agree that meeting Muhammad Ali was our mutual all-time favorite. Now, I'm no moonbeamer, but as I sat and watched the coverage in the darkness of the early morning, I remembered the dream I'd had and realized something: My father did visit me last night to bring me the news. I could even hear his voice: "Son ... wake up, son ... The Champ went down."

Losing Muhammad Ali was a little like losing my father all over again, but I have that Parker House memory along with a new one: An unexpected visit in the night. I can live with that.

Rest easy, Champ.