There was something so enticing about the phrase
Ladies Night at the Gun Range that even though every fear receptor in my body cautioned me against it, I immediately began researching to find out the earliest possible date I could attend and participate. Then I remembered a few things that I thought could be of minor importance:
- First - I had never physically touched a real handgun in my life
- Second - I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with a gun once I did touch it
- Third - Guns scare me almost more than anything else in life
- Fourth – My political ideology doesn’t really match up so well with squeezing off a few rounds of ammo while standing between, who I honestly believed would most likely be the female versions of Ted Nugent and Dick Cheney
Yielding ever so slightly to those annoyingly practical points, the levelheaded engineer in me decided it would be prudent to first enroll in a gun safety class instead of simply haphazardly reaching for a potentially lethal weapon and bustin’ caps all over the east side of Puget Sound. Luckily for me (and the rest of the range) my good friend was willing to take the class with me. So off we went, Thelma and Louise, to the gun range.
In the safety class, I quickly discovered that the first lesson would not consist of teaching me the John Woo style side falling, double gun blasting, going out in a blaze of glory move. Instead, I learned universal gun safety rules, heard terrifying stories of guns gone wrong, wondered what freak accident caused my instructor to have a cast on his right arm from the elbow all the way up to the top of his thumb (any why he didn’t freely volunteer that information the second he walked in the class), and became increasingly paranoid that at any moment a stray bullet would be penetrating one of the freshly painted classroom walls and lodge itself in my spine somewhere below the base of my skull. Break time could not have come as more of a relief to me.
When we did actually get out on the gun range to shoot, something strange happened—I became very emotional, almost overwhelmed. I felt like I might cry at any second. As I looked around, I realized I wasn’t the only one. I saw my friend pull her hands in close to her body and haunch her shoulders in. I saw people change their breathing from the normal rhythm to long, deep inhales and slow, almost apprehensive exhales. I felt my own stomach knot up.
Our instructor, experienced in dealing with this phenomenon, quickly addressed it in the best way he knew possible, by telling us to deal with it. After we were allotted 2.8 seconds to deal with it, we were instructed to step up to one of the six guns he had placed in the lanes, check it’s readiness, load it, aim it at the target, place our finger on the trigger, fire, repeat until all of the ammunition had been fired, empty the used cartridges, put the gun down, move to a different lane and do it all again with a different gun.
The arsenal of the guns used in the class included various types of single and double action revolvers (the models of which I can’t remember due in part to the continuous stream of adrenaline squirting directly into my throat for a solid 45 minutes) and two types of semi-automatics, the single action M1911 and the 9 mm Luger Glock. Every one was different and there were definitely some that were easier to use than others.
As a reward for not accidentally maiming any of our classmates, our instructor brought in a special weapon and made it available for anyone who promised not to crap their pants if they tried it: the Smith & Wesson Model 500 Revolver. Sure, it sounds innocent enough, but this is the gun that separates, well, it will fucking separate anything it touches. It’s the largest handgun manufactured to date and is made for hunting big game—I don’t mean deer, I mean
bear. The barrel is 10 and a half inches long. It weighs over four pounds. The bullets are the size of IHOP breakfast sausages. My head told me there was no earthly need for a handgun of this size and power. My heart thumped hard. Then, I think it may have stopped. But my feet, having not yet received the message from above, moved forward, bringing my body along with them.
The gun fired so easily that I barely had time to prepare for the canon blast that vibrated all of my inner organs on discharge. My arm was thrust upward and I involuntarily screamed "WHOA!!!" Then, in an instant, it was over. I was drained.
My first time on the gun range was frightening, exhilarating, stimulating, and exhausting. I left full of unexpected emotions and dizzy with internal conflict. I have not yet decided if I’ll go shooting again, but one thing’s for sure: I won’t soon be forgetting this experience.
I’ve admired SHAG’s work for years, buying stationary sets, post cards, wrapping paper and even personalized checks with his art on them. So seeing him in person wearing an adorable little leopard spotted fez as he mingled with the crowd made my palms sweat with nervous admiration. Had I not already been trying as hard as possible to maintain some semblance of composure while standing in between two other artists I also totally adore, pin up artist Krysztof Nemeth and photographer Rob Butler, I might’ve worked up the courage to introduce myself—but not this time.
Introductions or not, I really enjoyed the exhibit. Seeing original works of art is always thrilling to me. It is SHAG’s crisp, clean lines and brilliant colors that catch my eye first. And when I look deeper into the work, I find myself becoming involved in the scenario displayed before me. More often than not, I seem to want to climb right into the painting, have someone pour me a drink in a tiki glass and hop on the back of a scooter for a ride through the jungle.
At the time, I had no idea who Van Halen were or what they would sound like, but the tape’s cover art was so enticing...so daring...so bad. It was the embodiment of rebellion. I was mesmerized by the picture of the little boy with angel wings on the cover. He was doing the forbidden: smoking cigarettes. I simply had to listen to it. So when the opening chords of “Jump” punched their way out of the portable ghetto blaster and into my young eardrums, the hurricane force instantly obliterated my petty little girl crush on Michael Jackson and forever hooked me into the defiant world of Rock & Roll.
So I figured, what better way to get into the holiday spirit than by spending an evening with friends at the 