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Bang Bang

Barbarella
Barbarella

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people, and monkeys do too (if they have a gun). — Eddie Izzard

I exited the freeway 20 or so miles east of San Diego. Noting the prevalence of Bush/Cheney stickers affixed to the bumpers and rear windows of the cars around us, I turned to David and said, “Yo, Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Hillcrest anymore.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a lifted truck pulled ahead of me, a proportionately large pair of flesh-colored truck nuts swinging from its undercarriage. “I believe we’ve reached the heartland,” I said with a sigh, “where even the toys are boys.”

When it comes to masculine gizmos, the pistol is testosterone made tangible. As I thrust my Mini Cooper up a rugged dirt road toward the shooting range, I questioned my decision to fire a gun for the first time. I didn’t really have any interest in handling what I considered to be a little death machine, but when my friend Patricia invited me to join her and a group of women at First Shots (a program designed to introduce gun-free folk like me to firearms), my curiosity eclipsed my apprehension.

A few years ago, my sister Jane underwent training to earn a gun-totin’ license so that she could gift her husband with a new gun for his collection. I asked Jane for tips before heading out to the range, and the petite sales-mommy advised, “Lock ’n’ load, baby. And wear your goggles.” Unfortunately, as I’d later learn, those goggles don’t fit over my glasses; I ended up with the bikini version of eye protection, with only the critical parts covered.

My brother-in-law Brad possesses one gun, issued to him by the California Highway Patrol. Whereas Jane seems blasé about the weapons (mostly because they are kept in a heavy-duty safe), my sister Jenny straight up dislikes them. “They scare me,” she told me. “Even looking at Brad’s gun, I feel like it might go off and hit somebody. Just one mistake and somebody’s dead.” I asked my dad, a Navy man, why he’d never kept a pistol around. “I like them, they’re fun, and I have good aim,” he said. “But I don’t care if you put a gun in melted steel and cover it with concrete. With kids in the house, it’s too dangerous, and if anything ever happened to you girls I could never have forgiven myself.”

David and I greeted Patricia and friends in the dusty parking area inexplicably named Project 2000. Huge roaring machines lifted, sifted, and dropped gravel in the adjacent lot. Patricia, who’d been to the range before, led the way inside.

I was struck by the concentration of mustaches that awaited us on the other side of the door. At the end of the reception line, one of the ’staches offered me coffee and donuts. I regarded a table arrayed with guns, featuring everything from old-school revolvers to the latest semiautomatics, and then returned my gaze to the nice furry-lipped man. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get me all jacked up on caffeine and sugar before handing me a gun. I might get all overexcited and shoot someone,” I said.

It didn’t matter that the guns on the table were not loaded; they still gave me the willies. My only experience with guns was seeing them in movies. As a general rule, when you catch a glimpse of a gat early on in a film, you can bet your bullets it will reappear at a crucial point to wreak some kind of havoc. I could see what Jenny meant. It was 9 a.m. My imagination had everyone dragging their bleeding bodies out of that place by noon.

“When people ask me why someone might need more ’n’ one gun, I say, ‘Why do you need more ’n’ one golf club?’” The man who had offered me coffee was standing behind the table o’ guns and speaking to the crowd. “There’s a different club, and a different gun, for every job you have,” he continued. My mind drifted to mobster movies. “You need one for target shooting, another one for hunting varmints.” Varmints? I was relieved I’d passed on the coffee, for surely it would have come through my nose upon hearing this guy, rifle in hand, unwittingly confirm a cartoon stereotype.

After we were shown how to operate a gun and urged to use “common sense” (Cheney must have missed that last bit in his training session), it was time to shoot. I began with a rifle, heavy enough to give me a hand cramp when I held it properly, perhaps because my “gun muscles” are underdeveloped. I was not surprised when my feeling of dread diminished once the gun was in my grip. It made sense that, like a soccer mom in a Hummer, I’d flush with a sense of security. What unnerved me was the spark of power that lit up my core. When I advanced to the semiautomatic pistol, I had the desire to put one in each hand and shoot at the wall repeatedly while running sideways.

Each of us first-timers was assigned a coach. Mine was a writer for American Cop magazine and a member of the San Diego Police Department. He was tall with an athletic build, bald, mustached (of course), and stood with the proverbial cop stance — feet hip-width apart, thumbs at his belt, and neck extended forward. My coach was cool, scoring me extra bullets when I ran out of the allotted ammo and giving me tips on how to improve my aim. I was proud to get one shot right in the bull’s-eye.

The shotgun caught me off guard. After the easygoing rifle, I wasn’t expecting the pigeon-hitter to recoil so violently. I was instructed to lean forward and put my cheek against the wooden handle, with the stock pressed firmly against my collarbone. The shock of the blast caused obscenities to fly from my mouth, blushing the cheeks around more than one mustache. A conspicuous, hickey-like bruise was quick to form on my neck. I imagined Sarah Palin back in her “abstinence” days: “No, Daddy, that ain’t a love bite, it’s just the kickback from my Browning.”

When it was time to leave, I pondered my perspective on guns. The shooting range was kind of like a bowling alley, only instead of throwing a big urethane ball toward a target, I was discharging tiny metal slugs at one. I could understand the sport of it, but I’ve never been one for sports. As I gathered my things, a middle-aged gent, this one with facial hair like David’s — a goatee to keep the ’stache company — asked me how I felt after plugging the target.

“Honestly?” I answered. “I’m pretty sure my penis got bigger.”

After taking a moment to let my words soak in, the guy responded, “Oh yeah? In that case, I think I’m going to go back in there and do some more shooting.”

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Barbarella
Barbarella

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people, and monkeys do too (if they have a gun). — Eddie Izzard

I exited the freeway 20 or so miles east of San Diego. Noting the prevalence of Bush/Cheney stickers affixed to the bumpers and rear windows of the cars around us, I turned to David and said, “Yo, Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Hillcrest anymore.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a lifted truck pulled ahead of me, a proportionately large pair of flesh-colored truck nuts swinging from its undercarriage. “I believe we’ve reached the heartland,” I said with a sigh, “where even the toys are boys.”

When it comes to masculine gizmos, the pistol is testosterone made tangible. As I thrust my Mini Cooper up a rugged dirt road toward the shooting range, I questioned my decision to fire a gun for the first time. I didn’t really have any interest in handling what I considered to be a little death machine, but when my friend Patricia invited me to join her and a group of women at First Shots (a program designed to introduce gun-free folk like me to firearms), my curiosity eclipsed my apprehension.

A few years ago, my sister Jane underwent training to earn a gun-totin’ license so that she could gift her husband with a new gun for his collection. I asked Jane for tips before heading out to the range, and the petite sales-mommy advised, “Lock ’n’ load, baby. And wear your goggles.” Unfortunately, as I’d later learn, those goggles don’t fit over my glasses; I ended up with the bikini version of eye protection, with only the critical parts covered.

My brother-in-law Brad possesses one gun, issued to him by the California Highway Patrol. Whereas Jane seems blasé about the weapons (mostly because they are kept in a heavy-duty safe), my sister Jenny straight up dislikes them. “They scare me,” she told me. “Even looking at Brad’s gun, I feel like it might go off and hit somebody. Just one mistake and somebody’s dead.” I asked my dad, a Navy man, why he’d never kept a pistol around. “I like them, they’re fun, and I have good aim,” he said. “But I don’t care if you put a gun in melted steel and cover it with concrete. With kids in the house, it’s too dangerous, and if anything ever happened to you girls I could never have forgiven myself.”

David and I greeted Patricia and friends in the dusty parking area inexplicably named Project 2000. Huge roaring machines lifted, sifted, and dropped gravel in the adjacent lot. Patricia, who’d been to the range before, led the way inside.

I was struck by the concentration of mustaches that awaited us on the other side of the door. At the end of the reception line, one of the ’staches offered me coffee and donuts. I regarded a table arrayed with guns, featuring everything from old-school revolvers to the latest semiautomatics, and then returned my gaze to the nice furry-lipped man. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get me all jacked up on caffeine and sugar before handing me a gun. I might get all overexcited and shoot someone,” I said.

It didn’t matter that the guns on the table were not loaded; they still gave me the willies. My only experience with guns was seeing them in movies. As a general rule, when you catch a glimpse of a gat early on in a film, you can bet your bullets it will reappear at a crucial point to wreak some kind of havoc. I could see what Jenny meant. It was 9 a.m. My imagination had everyone dragging their bleeding bodies out of that place by noon.

“When people ask me why someone might need more ’n’ one gun, I say, ‘Why do you need more ’n’ one golf club?’” The man who had offered me coffee was standing behind the table o’ guns and speaking to the crowd. “There’s a different club, and a different gun, for every job you have,” he continued. My mind drifted to mobster movies. “You need one for target shooting, another one for hunting varmints.” Varmints? I was relieved I’d passed on the coffee, for surely it would have come through my nose upon hearing this guy, rifle in hand, unwittingly confirm a cartoon stereotype.

After we were shown how to operate a gun and urged to use “common sense” (Cheney must have missed that last bit in his training session), it was time to shoot. I began with a rifle, heavy enough to give me a hand cramp when I held it properly, perhaps because my “gun muscles” are underdeveloped. I was not surprised when my feeling of dread diminished once the gun was in my grip. It made sense that, like a soccer mom in a Hummer, I’d flush with a sense of security. What unnerved me was the spark of power that lit up my core. When I advanced to the semiautomatic pistol, I had the desire to put one in each hand and shoot at the wall repeatedly while running sideways.

Each of us first-timers was assigned a coach. Mine was a writer for American Cop magazine and a member of the San Diego Police Department. He was tall with an athletic build, bald, mustached (of course), and stood with the proverbial cop stance — feet hip-width apart, thumbs at his belt, and neck extended forward. My coach was cool, scoring me extra bullets when I ran out of the allotted ammo and giving me tips on how to improve my aim. I was proud to get one shot right in the bull’s-eye.

The shotgun caught me off guard. After the easygoing rifle, I wasn’t expecting the pigeon-hitter to recoil so violently. I was instructed to lean forward and put my cheek against the wooden handle, with the stock pressed firmly against my collarbone. The shock of the blast caused obscenities to fly from my mouth, blushing the cheeks around more than one mustache. A conspicuous, hickey-like bruise was quick to form on my neck. I imagined Sarah Palin back in her “abstinence” days: “No, Daddy, that ain’t a love bite, it’s just the kickback from my Browning.”

When it was time to leave, I pondered my perspective on guns. The shooting range was kind of like a bowling alley, only instead of throwing a big urethane ball toward a target, I was discharging tiny metal slugs at one. I could understand the sport of it, but I’ve never been one for sports. As I gathered my things, a middle-aged gent, this one with facial hair like David’s — a goatee to keep the ’stache company — asked me how I felt after plugging the target.

“Honestly?” I answered. “I’m pretty sure my penis got bigger.”

After taking a moment to let my words soak in, the guy responded, “Oh yeah? In that case, I think I’m going to go back in there and do some more shooting.”

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Comments
16

Your target-spread is high: Stop anticipating the recoil!

I enjoyed this. And good luck with your large penis, it now qualifies you to graduate to paint-ball wars ;)

June 3, 2009

I had no idea my recently-inflated "member" guaranteed me a spot on the paint-ball team, refried. Awesome. I'm happy you liked the story!

June 3, 2009

Oh yeah. In fact, you, Josh, Matt, and Ernie ought to team up! Challenge some of the (remaining) staff from the U-T. Then, I'll look forward to a story, written in a revelatory narrative circle. Sort of Kingsolver meets Faulkner except with neon paint ;)

June 3, 2009

Yo Barb,

My Uncle Vinny in Jersey read this and would like to offer you a job.

Pat

June 3, 2009

Ha! Pat, that might just be an offer I can't refuse. ;)

June 3, 2009

First, it was Dr. Horrible, now Eddie Izzard. You're freaking me out lady-we like a lot (A LOT) of the same stuff. I love reading your columns (obviously, as I've commented on several)but I'm starting to feel like a star-frakker! "Oh, you like that? So do I!"

I say that out of love. ;)

June 4, 2009

That was a really funny story!! I loved the two semi-autos fantasy! I could actually see you doing that, all Laura Croft and sh*t.

June 4, 2009

Got a good laugh. Could only picture you shooting in your stiletto heels. I don't know what's more dangerous, you with those heels or those guns????

June 5, 2009

Catty, I bet we fit into some kind of cattygory. ;) Either that, or we both like cool stuff!

MsGrant, I'm so happy you liked the story! That's right, all I need now is a really long knife and Angelina's body.

John, if you thought those heels were dangerous, you should see my new kickers. ;)

June 6, 2009

Liked it? I LOVED it! I swear, as I read this story over, every paragraph has a hilarious wit. "As I thrust my Mini Cooper" after witnessing the "truck nuts" had me laughing my a*s off! It just got better from there. You have a knack for comedy that just kills. Congrats on the bulls-eye!!

June 6, 2009

Except for the spread on the target Ms. Grant. Too much thrusting. Don't anticipate the recoil. Squeeze that trigger, make love to it, don't thrust like some reckless teenager at the drive-in. Pull it gently, that trigger, like it's the only thing you'll ever touch again.

Wait, what were we talking about again?

I look forward to Barb on the radio; I admit it, I'm hooked. Such a pretty and honest voice, and the giggle sends me. Hope you talk about this experience on Wednesday, Barbarella.

June 6, 2009

Hey Barb, I think that was a great column. I am a regular at the range and have done alot of trap shooting (aka shotguns) and also shoot my 357 magnum. By the way you look fabulous. I haven't seen you in a long time but you were beautiful to me before. Phil says hi. He is the one who told me about the column and the video. Keep up the good work. And don' worry, I have enough guns for the both of us ! Kam your old neighbor in Mission Hills

June 7, 2009

Congratulations on your first range trip! I hope your perception of guns has changed for the better and the love for your 2nd Amendment rights (nay, all the Amendments!) grows!

I think that learning to shoot is a very practical skill, right up there with learning to drive a stick shift. Good for you for taking the plunge.

CARRY ON! -N8 http://caopencarry.blogspot.com

June 7, 2009

Refried, I'm happy you're listening to the show! I have a lot of fun with Jack in studio.

Kam, hi, long time no see! Thank you for the sweet words, and for dropping in to say hello. :D

June 8, 2009

N8, that's an interesting viewpoint, I never viewed guns as "practical," at least not in my day to day life. Then again, I buy my meat pre-killed. ;) Thank you for commenting!

June 8, 2009

love your stories,

Aug. 30, 2009

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