April 12, 2003
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Soldier of FortuneEven though I had a buttload of work to do at the end of business day Friday, I took off promptly at 5, resisting the urge to inform my boss "I'm going to the firing range." Yes, uptown to the Westside Pistol and Firing Range (which, contrary to my earlier suspicions, isn't located near the docks and hookers on 12th Avenue but rather in the Flatiron neighborhood, just down the street from Fleur du Sel. Funny.) to meet up with my friends for our introduction to .22 Ruger rifles. For a modest fee of fifty bucks, we got an hour-long instruction class (which took place in a room reminiscent of a driver's ed academy), free pens (!!!), free beverages, 50 bullets, three targets, and unlimited time on the firing range. The instructors were all friendly and helpful to the point of being solicitous, an odd thing considering the fact that we were a group of 3 crusties, 2 hipsters, and a (self-described) Mansonesque leader. You'd think these guys dealt with malcontents in Crimpshrine t-shirts on a daily basis. We were all remarkable marksmen, it turned out, upon examination of our holey targets. I briefly contemplated what sort of career change I could make with such a realization. But no joke--the basic bull's eye target, the professional 50-foot target, and the Scary Mugger Guy were all impressively and accurately riddled. My only shortcoming came with the Scary Hostage Taker with Hostage (which actually resembled less a police drama stillframe and more a '70s gay S&M porno.) at 50 feet--I took 'em both down, which I gather is frowned on in the law enforcement community. I left my pals at the range after going through 100 bullets, because I was beginning to feel some very disquieting stirrings in my id as I looked down the barrel. Not in an "I-Don't-Like-Mondays" way, mind you, but in a sort of "I-could-get-used-to-this" way. Westside also offers a training course for 9mm rifles, which I'm tempted to sign up for. If I go back, it's half-price. At what price my bleeding heart inner opprobrium, though? As I left the range, I saw a sign at the entrance: Gas masks in stock. Posted by Dana at 05:52 PM
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Little Man with a Gun in His HandApril 04, 2003
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It sounds like 1963 but for now it sounds like heavenI love the weather this morning. Even though it makes my hair look more ethnic than Lanie Kazan in a dashiki doing capoiera I still live for misty moisty mornings like these. I was listening to Trace, by Son Volt, which now might seem kinda goofy in its earnestness but it still holds up in its own way. I'll never forget the first time I heard it, though. Ever hear an album that just seems so incredible, so perfect, that your eyes widen and you look at the person next to you and the look on your face and the feeling in your heart--your awe and reverence--wordlessly communicate Wow? Well, that's how I felt when I first heard Trace. I first heard that Jay Farrar had a new band from my friend M, who called me one morning, interrupting some sort of weighty postcoital philosophical inventory, to tell me that I had to get up and go get the new Son Volt album right away; that it was that good. So I woke up whatshisname--let's call him Number 40, 'cause it's, um, a nice round number--and told him we had to run an errand. We stopped at the Krispy Kreme on the way to placate him with glucose and caffiene. A half-hour later we were parked in front of the globe on DeRenne, because I was so agog that I didn't want to drive; I just wanted to listen. Number 40 understood. He was a very understanding guy, as I recall. (If you're out there, I'm sorry I never called you.) We sat in the car, our heads lolling on the seat backs, eyes squinty in the morning winter superbright sun, awash in sugar and intense aural beauty. It was a perfect album at that moment. Maybe that kind of shit only happens when you're young. Greil Marcus said something about every punk rock album seemed to say everything in the world there was to say--or something similarly stupid--but in a way, he was right. There's a decadent beauty in music when you're young--it means more, at the time anyhow, and it almost immediately begins to mean less on the next listen. The other night I heard the first Jane's Addiction album at a bar; it was so nonsequitur and it immediately clocked my reverie. I hadn't heard it in probably ten years. It was still quite lovely, but foreign. I couldn't remember why it had been so important to me when I was 15 and stoned and fantasizing all day long about chasing the dragon with Perry Farrell. It would be nice to hear music that way again. Posted by Dana at 12:09 AM
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