Me and a Gun
Over the weekend, there was this insane sort of standoff in a nearby neighborhood involving some dude after he got into a fight with his girlfriend. They fought, he was angry and so naturally he walked outside with his handgun, fired off a couple of rounds, and casually went about his day. I guess it freaked her out a little, she went running to the cops and it escalated. Next thing you know, there is a SWAT team and a K-9 crew outside their house wearing fatigues and screaming at him to surrender his weapon and come out, come out, wherever he is! Which was, I feel compelled to remind you, probably at the 7-11 having a Slurpee, not in the house surrounded by the SWAT team.
In discussing this today, a friend and I were marveling at the stupidity of the entire thing and she pointed out that in her neighborhood, people step outside and shoot handguns all the time. You know, they just pop outside the front door, let loose with a round of bullets to blow off some steam, and head back in for another go at the bean dip. And what’s scarier is that I had to agree, because me too. I mean, I’m not shooting outside, but people have gone out to shoot behind our house with their children (CHILDREN) for no apparent reason, and what’s sad? What’s really, really sad? I’ve stopped noticing. I spend hours agonizing over whether my ear eczema is life-threatening, and meanwhile, I’m going to get taken out by a rogue bullet before the week is out because I am just used to hearing the sound of gunfire out here. I did call the cops last week on a kid running through the streets with a paintball gun, because you could shoot your eye out, you know, with those pellets. But in handguns, I guess I am apparently entirely desensitized.
At a recent group lunch, out of nowhere it surfaced that every single one of them had a concealed weapon permit. They had Glocks in their glove compartments, for chrissake. I drove back to my car with one of them, my eyes glued to the glove box the entire time thinking, wow, she could shoot me now, bury me behind the hardware store and no one would notice.
I’ve always been terrified of guns, andI won’t own one, but somewhat recently, I went to the local shooting range with my father-in-law, and I am somewhat shamed to admit: It was a lot of fun. There is something so…sexy about holding a gun, I can’t even pretend to feel otherwise. I totally dig why people have them, because, truthfully, it’s hot, dude. In particular, I had a great time with a Walther, which is smooth, easy to shoot and, well, just hell yes. At a public shooting range, however, the strange fetishist reverie is easily broken when you turn your head to see some freakish survivalist not far from you firing off machine guns towards human-shaped targets, and suddenly you realize, oh my God, I’m holding a gun and holy shit, I could totally kill someone, who cares how sexy it is? (But again: Walthers are totally hot and yes, quite sexy, in an abstract kind of way, and maybe children shouldn’t read this, because it sounds like I’m suggesting guns as foreplay, and I’m not. Well, not really. Maybe unloaded? Kid! I kid! No really!)
My point is…hell, I don’t think I have a point right now, except to say that this whole experience was already scary, and now we can add gun-toting wild citizens to the whole shenanigan. Not only am I torturing myself with this most ridiculous discussion of the sex appeal of guns, of which there shouldn’t be any (there totally is), but I am apparently completely and totally desensitized to anything gun-related unless it relates to sex, I live near an entire cadre of gun-toting fools, and I have seen more uzis in action than I ever thought possible. Oh, and I live near an area where SWAT teams are used on a regular basis for small-time domestic disputes. And people shoot guns outside their front doors to cool down after an argument. And I’m acting like I find the whole thing strangely arousing, which means, hoo boy, it is time to go.
An interesting aside to this is that after that day where I shot the Hot Walther, my purse was filled with spent shells from being near the range and, well, it didn’t go over well with airport security when I went to get on a plane, but that’s a story for another day.
And lastly, and speaking of hot, unattainable crushes (uh, guns?), the majority of mine have been dropping like flies for me lately. It’s no secret that I’m a sucker for a slightly effeminate musician in eyeliner (we can explore the bizarre implications of this another day, but I promise you that my husband is neither of these things. No eyeliner here, and yet, I still find him superhot.) Until now, Brandon Flowers (of The Killers) has been almost everything my depraved little heart could possibly hope for, but lately, his performances have been leaving me cold, and the VMAs was no exception. Hot in photos, killer voice, but the performances and movement? Cold. I’m cold. Maybe he needs a gun. I mean, not really of course. God.
Link to the performance on YouTube, if you care, here.
*Tori Amos. And please, I’m not advocating gun totage, really, and of course, I advocate responsible gun ownership, but really, that’s not my job, and I wouldn’t be very good at it, since I do not own a gun, okay? And if I actually thought I was in any danger on a daily basis, I would buy entire outfits of Kevlar. I’m still thinking about it.
17 comments September 18th, 2006