July 29th, 2009

Maybe They Just Have Really High Expectations…

On my way to work this morning, I ended up behind a person with one of those “Don’t Let the Car Fool You, My Treasure is in Heaven.” bumper stickers.

The automobile that featured this sticker was, I swear to you, an Audi A4. It was maybe four or five years old, that’s all the slack I can cut the driver. It was clearly in perfectly good condition.

There’s nothing else I can say about this scenario. Let’s just let that sink in.

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July 8th, 2009

Guns ‘N’ Poses

My friend Seth is getting married this weekend and for his bachelor party last week he had myself and a few other dudes out to a farm to engage in that manliest of activities: shooting guns. Specifically, shooting some 12-gauge shotguns at clay pigeons and shooting a World War II-era Russian rifle that was so powerful that it required us to climb onto a bulldozer on the property and fire diagonally down to the ground because, if we shot it straight, the bullet could keep on whizzing for a full mile.

Beforehand, I was pretty nervous about this concept. Not in a “guns aren’t safe and I’m scared” sort of way. I knew a few of the guys attending the party and knew they were intelligent, responsible people who wouldn’t let any dangerous situations develop. My nervousness was more about uncertainty. I was uncertain of how much of an idiot I was going to look like because I didn’t know my way around firearms whatsoever.

Your average male, I’ve always gotten the impression, is familiar with firearms. Even those who don’t come from gun-toting families get the experience somehow, like in scouts or when that one brother of dad’s who mom never seemed very fond of and who kind of had crazy eyes would come to visit.

All the information I’ve gleaned about ballistics has come from my brother-in-law James. He’s got plenty to share when it comes to this particular subject, but it’s hard for me to absorb it, as the whole time we’re talking I’m painfully aware that knowledge is being “handed down” to me by someone who is 12 years my junior.

James (as he’s getting his stuff together to go after some deer the next morning): “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

Me: “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ve shot a 22.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “Ok, that came across as way too confident. If he has any follow-up questions I’m going to be pedaling backwards all the way to Humbletown.”

James: “Oh really, what kind?”

Me (to myself, in my head): “Damn.”

Me: “Welllll it was a long time ago. I really don’t remember.”

James: “Oh, well 22s are good for hunting squirrel and rabbit. Gotta use a 30-30 to take deer.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “Take them where? Oh, right.”

Me: “I see.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “Why did he say ‘30’ twice? Was he stuttering or is that, like, two separate guns?”

James: “And for anything bigger I’d need an aught-six.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “Did he just say ‘aught’? As in ‘old-timey slang for zero’? With a straight face? Is he pulling my leg?”

Me (nodding knowingly): “Mm-hmm.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “And another thing, how come in the movies people are always pulling back the tops of their handguns and letting them go. Is it just ’cause it makes that ‘click-clack’ noise and looks really bad-ass?”

James: “Though I can go after turkey with my 20-gauge chamber slugs action Winchester rimfire [Note: It's possible that I’m paraphrasing here.] round buckshot auto-loader.”

Me (to myself, in my head): “I think it’s time for me to go back to the city.”

Me (just continuing to nod): “Git’r’done.”

Yes, prior to Seth’s guncentric get-together I had pulled the trigger of a real gun exactly once. I was 11 or 12 and my dad and some of the family in Alabama were trying a 22 out because it was new or something and they called me over to take a turn. It was your basic “here take this thing, hold it like this, point it this way, mash that thing, good job, give it here” operation. I didn’t even shoot at anything in particular. And I didn’t load it or even notice how that was done. And, while I’m at it, I’ll just go full-confessional and tell you that I was close to tears because all I knew was that guns were used to murdered people, and, though I knew they weren’t killers themselves, I could scarcely believe any of my kinfolk even owned one.

Since then I’ve spent a lot more time in the country. I’ve met a good number of people who hunt and observed how they use what they bag for food, how they strictly adhere to the game laws, and how the crux of what they do is simply spending time outdoors, not blowing every living thing to kingdom come. I’ve also come to understand that calling animal control for farm-raiding pests or feral animals is not an option in many areas. To this day, almost every rural family owns a gun or two and practices their marksmanship occasionally, even if they aren’t hunters, or crow or coyote exterminators, because their parents and grandparents were. All of our ancestors were at one time or another, and for that reason it does seem worthwhile to learn something about guns.

Still it’s hard to imagine a worse place to begin your education than in front of a group of spectators, all in bachelor party, ready-to-tease-the-crap-out-of-each-other mode. Especially when over half of them had stated on the Evite that they were bringing their own personal weapons.

Of course is the reality of the situation ever as bad as what you imagine? No.

One thing we suburban kids do know is how to handle a BB gun, and, as I gave shooting a shot, it became apparent that many of the principles — sighting, clicking the safety on and off, practicing “muzzle control”— are very similar. I had to get a tutorial on how to load shells the first time or two with each different mechanism that came along, but by the end of the day they were all second-nature. I arrived at the farm that morning fully prepared to miss every single target put in front of me, but, as it turns out, with a shotgun, at 50 yards, that is harder than it sounds.

Even if I hadn’t hit a thing, I would have considered the day a success as I now appear in this picture:

Actually hold on. I’ve got to earn some more of my “man’s man” cred back. Did I say that picture? I meant this picture:

Or wait, better yet, this picture:

Yeah, that’s the stuff.

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June 2nd, 2009

Leaves of Three, Let It Bleed

Sometime during the summer of 2004 Steph and I went to a cook-out and did a lot of standing around near a heavily-wooded area in sandals. A few days later we discovered that our feet had been infected with red bugs, or, as they are affectionately known in many parts of the US, “chiggers,” or perhaps you know them by their scientific name Satanus Intinybugformus.

Here’s a scientifically-accurate rendering of what they look like:

Ok, yes, this illustration says “the gout” at the bottom. A while back a friend of mine had the misfortune of developing “the gout” and, in doing some research on the subject, he came across this album-cover-or-ironic-t-shirt-worthy visual depiction. Gout, I have no doubt, is worse than chiggers. Still, based on my experience, this is the image could just as easily represent the latter affliction.

I’d dealt with bee and fire ant stings; flea, tick, and mosquito bites; and even a case of scabies before chiggers, but none of these could prepare me for them. It was a traumatizing ordeal on many levels, yet I’m currently drawing on the strength and wisdom I acquired during that experience, as I now have the worst case of poison ivy I’ve had in my life. It’s all over my forearms and calves. I have no idea how I came into contact with it, though there are instances of the plant on the perimeter of our backyard.

The most annoying thing about those tiny bugs and this common fauna — other than the constant skin irritation — is that you can prevent them from infecting you by giving the compromised area a good scrubbing before you break out in hives. Of course, when does it even cross your mind that that you’ve been infected? When you break out in hives. All I can do at this point, they¹ tell me, is “let it run its course” and “don’t scratch.” That’s actually why I’m typing right now. Gotta keep the fingers busy. I really don’t want to scratch.

During The Chigging of Aught-Four, Steph showed remarkable will-power with her case. Meanwhile I was a complete and total slave to the itch. The result, it turned out, of constantly dragging my fingernails over my rash, were bloody open sores littering the tops of my feet. (I’m a repulsive human being, by the way. Have we discussed this before?) After my fingernails were worn to uselessness I should have given it a rest. Instead I went sculking around the house, or Steph’s apartment, searching for guitar picks, sandpaper, or garden implements that could do the job even more effectively. After about two weeks Steph took to physically assaulting me — from dope slaps to full-fledged shoulder punches — every time I so much as glanced at my lower extremities. This may seem like an excessive reaction, but at that point I had left permanent reddish-brown stains on her floor, the coffee table where I propped my feet up, and every pair of sheets she owned, on account of my chig-mata. And Steph’s skin problems? They’d all but disappeared.

So Steph taught me a thing or two that summer. Though one could argue that I might just react more strongly to red bugs and that I spent a lot more time nearer the forest where we contracted them and that, c’mon, my feet are huge. They’re like water skis, which would give chiggers a lot more surface area to attack.

Yes, one could argue these fine points. But it wouldn’t change the fact that it was six months before one could play kickball again.

¹ Oprah Wikipedia

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