Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Let’s Talk About Guns.

Let me tell you what little interaction I have had with guns over my life.

Growing up, my best friend’s Dad was a gunsmith.  I assume he still is, but I haven’t asked him about it in years.  They had all sorts of toy guns around the house.  I never saw an actual firearm.  I also never went looking for them, because I wasn’t that interested.

My father is a Vietnam Vet.  He is also a gun owner.  I never saw a gun in the house growing up.  I know where they are now. 

I have fired my father’s guns at a firing range.  A small caliber gun (I forget what kind) and a .45.  The .45 had such power, that I always hit the “perp target” in the crotch.  That’s not where I was aiming.  My father said in the old west no one would mess with me.  Apparently people didn’t like to be shot in the crotch back then either.

As a kid the A-Team was my favorite show.  They shot at people all the time using m16 rifles.  No one ever died on the show.  Even when someone would flipped their jeep (in some of the worst stock footage floating around Hollywood), the “victim” would get out of the jeep to reveal they were alright.  The casualty rate on the A-Team was 0.

I played with toy guns growing up.  They looked real.  They weren’t orange with red caps the way they are now.  I was never dumb enough to point them at someone in a situation to make them think it was real. 

Playing with guns in my youth did not make me want to play with REAL guns as I was older.  Ironically, I love women and have enjoyed “playing” with them all of my life.  However I never played with Barbie dolls…so I’m not sure that playing with a toy as a kid has a great affect on you as an adult.  At least it didn’t to me.

On our honeymoon, Julie bought a bracelet at a cute little shop in the Florida Keys.  The woman working behind the counter was insistent I get something once she knew it was my honeymoon.  I don’t wear jewelry other than my wedding ring.  I said, “OK.  I’ll take the Flintlock.”  The gun was a decoration in the display case representing a pirate theme.  The store didn’t sell flintlocks.  The woman, who had tried to put me on the spot, was now on the spot herself.  She sold it to me for $15 and shipped it to our apartment in West Chester as I had doubts I could get it on the plane ride home.  I have used it in a short film (Damsel in Distress) and a play (Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson).  It’s not real.

I am a vegetarian.  I have been for going on 6 years.  I have never, nor will I ever hunt. 

Before you claim I am "coming for your guns," can we talk about them?

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