"We don't allow holstered weapons or quick draw Shooting, so don't even try it. I don't care if you have a blog or a column or whatever the hell it is you're telling me," says the owner of the Shooting Range when I called yesterday. "Anyway, weren't you supposed to come in a few weeks ago? What the hell happened to you?"
I'd like an answer to that one, too. The question is valid and one I've been asking for days. I explained about having two moves and bed bugs and a kid on summer break. "I don't know, Gun Guy," I said, "August was really tough. At this point, I don't even know who I am but I know who I want to be and that's a cowgirl, so this no holster business is bullshit."
"Tough," he says.
"Any pink guns, yet?" I ask.
"No," he says, "Stop askin."
He's as soft and cuddly as an armored tank but I like him. I ask him how he came to own a shooting range and he says, "I used to work in Fashion." Just like that. Period. No more explanation necessary. I had no idea the path from the rag trade to gunslinging was so direct. I imagine Wild Bill Hickock dressing a mannequin at his frontier shop and Wyatt Earp measuring Clyde Barrow's inseam. I imagine Charlton Heston, backstage at a fashion show, pacing and chewing his nails to the quick. It's his big night. His first full collection. Every couple of minutes, he furtively peeks through the curtains to see if Anna Wintour has shown up yet. Or Andre Talley. He'd even settle for a junior editor at W. "Just someone," he prays to God, "let someone show tonight."
So, Gun Guy used to work "in fashion." It was so out of left field and I just kept thinking about how much I love people. We're all so weird and wonderful.
He tells me, "I had a dress store here in LA and my manager was attacked so I decided to teach all of my employees how to shoot a gun but there was nowhere to go at that time. You had to drive all the way out to San Bernadino, so I got a permit and opened this place. I mean, technically, I could've taught them on my property but if it's within 300 feet, you have to ask your neighbors and they almost always say no." Yeah, neighbors suck with all their not wanting guns being shot next to their houses, I mean, what's the world coming to?
He said, "Did you know that Mexico has one of the strictest Gun Laws in the world?" I assured him I did not - I just like Cabo - but that it sounded wrong to me since the whole country is basically just a shooting range at this point. "Since the 1960's," he says, "it's been near impossible for a citizen to register a gun. Of course, if you are a criminal, you get whole arsenals and the cops have 'em too but they've been corrupt since the word andele so, it's just a mess."
I ask him how he knows so much about gun laws in Mexico when he's here in the states and it turns out his grandparents emigrated to Mexico, from Korea, in 1805. So he's your basic Korean-Mexican-American Gun Guy who used to work in fashion. Swing a cat.
His father opened a grocery in Tijuana and had five sons, all of whom hightailed it to the US and now they won't go back. "My dad wanted us to go down last year for a family reunion but no way. A bunch of Koreans in a nice car? We'd be kidnapped as soon as we crossed the border. It's High Noon in Mexico every minute of the day." I tell him I love the beaches and the food and the architecture. "You go then," he says.
"It's $37.00 for two and that includes your ammunition and training and weapon rental. We're open til 11pm but don't get any ideas about drinking and shooting. It's not allowed." I tell him I'll be there this week. Next week, latest. "Bring a friend," he says, "it's the number one rule here. You may not come alone. No exceptions." He'd raised his voice and was clearly very serious but I explained that I was all grown up and could take care of myself. "I have a kid and a blog and everything," I say, "why do I need someone to hold my hand?" He laughed, "Oh jeez, again with the blog. It's simple, lady, suicides. I'm tired of cleaning up the mess. Bring a friend or don't come at all." I tell him about Family Crisis 2010 and he says, "So you know what I'm talking about." Yes, I do. But my mess was different. Internal, not literal. He sighs and says, "I'm sorry to hear about it."
I could tell he was sorry about all of it - the manager's attack, the fact that he can't go home, my news, the messiness of depression staining his clean floors - but he was also funny without knowing it and calm and totally clear about who he is. I realize I'm a little jealous. It's not a life I would want for myself but his demeanor is what I seek. I think if you know who you are and have made peace with it, you are home free. I want to meet him and see if my suspicions about him are true. I want to learn his secret. "I'm only here to teach you how to fire a gun," he says," I'm not your parents and I'm not a priest." Fair enough, but will he be there when I come? "IF you come," he says. I promise him I won't try to kill myself. He says, "Good. You sound like a nice lady."
I offer to send him a copy of the post and even though, at first, he says he doesn't "give a shit" what I write, at the end of the call he gives me his e-mail address three times. I tell him that I hope I get the chance to meet him and he says,"You too, I guess. We have free parking, too, so no more excuses." Then he hangs up. Swoon.
Roni and I are going tonight, if she can get off work early enough. If not, I'm going next week with my parents who will be back in town for part two of our tidy little drama. They like the idea - the Buddhist and the Shrink - they want to go. We're all heartbroken and angry about what happened and need something to shake us loose. The mess wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but still, I've been cleaning for weeks and need something new to do.
I'd like an answer to that one, too. The question is valid and one I've been asking for days. I explained about having two moves and bed bugs and a kid on summer break. "I don't know, Gun Guy," I said, "August was really tough. At this point, I don't even know who I am but I know who I want to be and that's a cowgirl, so this no holster business is bullshit."
"Tough," he says.
"Any pink guns, yet?" I ask.
"No," he says, "Stop askin."
He's as soft and cuddly as an armored tank but I like him. I ask him how he came to own a shooting range and he says, "I used to work in Fashion." Just like that. Period. No more explanation necessary. I had no idea the path from the rag trade to gunslinging was so direct. I imagine Wild Bill Hickock dressing a mannequin at his frontier shop and Wyatt Earp measuring Clyde Barrow's inseam. I imagine Charlton Heston, backstage at a fashion show, pacing and chewing his nails to the quick. It's his big night. His first full collection. Every couple of minutes, he furtively peeks through the curtains to see if Anna Wintour has shown up yet. Or Andre Talley. He'd even settle for a junior editor at W. "Just someone," he prays to God, "let someone show tonight."
So, Gun Guy used to work "in fashion." It was so out of left field and I just kept thinking about how much I love people. We're all so weird and wonderful.
He tells me, "I had a dress store here in LA and my manager was attacked so I decided to teach all of my employees how to shoot a gun but there was nowhere to go at that time. You had to drive all the way out to San Bernadino, so I got a permit and opened this place. I mean, technically, I could've taught them on my property but if it's within 300 feet, you have to ask your neighbors and they almost always say no." Yeah, neighbors suck with all their not wanting guns being shot next to their houses, I mean, what's the world coming to?
He said, "Did you know that Mexico has one of the strictest Gun Laws in the world?" I assured him I did not - I just like Cabo - but that it sounded wrong to me since the whole country is basically just a shooting range at this point. "Since the 1960's," he says, "it's been near impossible for a citizen to register a gun. Of course, if you are a criminal, you get whole arsenals and the cops have 'em too but they've been corrupt since the word andele so, it's just a mess."
I ask him how he knows so much about gun laws in Mexico when he's here in the states and it turns out his grandparents emigrated to Mexico, from Korea, in 1805. So he's your basic Korean-Mexican-American Gun Guy who used to work in fashion. Swing a cat.
His father opened a grocery in Tijuana and had five sons, all of whom hightailed it to the US and now they won't go back. "My dad wanted us to go down last year for a family reunion but no way. A bunch of Koreans in a nice car? We'd be kidnapped as soon as we crossed the border. It's High Noon in Mexico every minute of the day." I tell him I love the beaches and the food and the architecture. "You go then," he says.
"It's $37.00 for two and that includes your ammunition and training and weapon rental. We're open til 11pm but don't get any ideas about drinking and shooting. It's not allowed." I tell him I'll be there this week. Next week, latest. "Bring a friend," he says, "it's the number one rule here. You may not come alone. No exceptions." He'd raised his voice and was clearly very serious but I explained that I was all grown up and could take care of myself. "I have a kid and a blog and everything," I say, "why do I need someone to hold my hand?" He laughed, "Oh jeez, again with the blog. It's simple, lady, suicides. I'm tired of cleaning up the mess. Bring a friend or don't come at all." I tell him about Family Crisis 2010 and he says, "So you know what I'm talking about." Yes, I do. But my mess was different. Internal, not literal. He sighs and says, "I'm sorry to hear about it."
I could tell he was sorry about all of it - the manager's attack, the fact that he can't go home, my news, the messiness of depression staining his clean floors - but he was also funny without knowing it and calm and totally clear about who he is. I realize I'm a little jealous. It's not a life I would want for myself but his demeanor is what I seek. I think if you know who you are and have made peace with it, you are home free. I want to meet him and see if my suspicions about him are true. I want to learn his secret. "I'm only here to teach you how to fire a gun," he says," I'm not your parents and I'm not a priest." Fair enough, but will he be there when I come? "IF you come," he says. I promise him I won't try to kill myself. He says, "Good. You sound like a nice lady."
I offer to send him a copy of the post and even though, at first, he says he doesn't "give a shit" what I write, at the end of the call he gives me his e-mail address three times. I tell him that I hope I get the chance to meet him and he says,"You too, I guess. We have free parking, too, so no more excuses." Then he hangs up. Swoon.
Roni and I are going tonight, if she can get off work early enough. If not, I'm going next week with my parents who will be back in town for part two of our tidy little drama. They like the idea - the Buddhist and the Shrink - they want to go. We're all heartbroken and angry about what happened and need something to shake us loose. The mess wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, but still, I've been cleaning for weeks and need something new to do.
