Gun Clubbing

While it should hardly be surprising to anyone following along that somebody at All Fired Up in the Big Smoke eventually became a gun nut hobbyist, it’s probably something of a shocker which one of us it was. Urban Sophisticat. Yeah. Him.

Now wintering in southern Florida, somewhere north of Fort Lauderdale, he has fully embraced what he calls ‘The Fear’.

“It’s a fearful world we live in,” he rationalizes. “Why not go where they do fear the best? Learn how to deal with it.”

Surely there are more fearful places on the globe than Florida, even some within the United States itself but none so beautifully overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Let’s call it fear with a to-die-for view.

And apparently, with an ease of access to guns.

“Gentleman. You’re down here, bearing witness to the reaction to Obama’s re-election. These people aren’t going to take it lying down. A working knowledge of firearm use will be necessary. Mark my words.”

I’d grown used to such hyperbole coming from the mouth of our colleague Acaphlegmic. Biblical in its proportions, with a wide-eyed strain of Revelations. But this was new terrain for Urban Sophisticat. Unhinged almost. Especially accompanying the cache of weaponry he now proudly touted. All legally purchased with the appropriate paperwork to prove it. You want a concealed gun permit? I’ll show you a conceal gun permit.

“Why do you need to carry a concealed weapon?” Acaphlegmic asked him.

“Because you never know,” came the response. “You never know.”

Acaphlegmic stepped back, keeping his distance. I must confess, I’ve never seen him do that before. He eyed me, stroking his chin like it might be some sort of signal that I’d missed. Was he ready to bolt and wanted to give me the heads-up?

We were down crashing with Urban Sophisticat to celebrate a milestone birthday of his. At the moment however, the plethora of booze we brought seemed like something of a liability, what with his arsenal in arms reach. Things could get real ugly, real fast.

Our obvious concern was waved off impatiently as the result of an inherent anti-gun bias we as visitors from Canada possessed.

“It’s not like I just went out and bought all these, willy-nilly. I took lessons. I am a trained… firearm enthusiast. Nothing to fear here.”

“Is that an uzi?” Acaphlegmic asked.

Again, Urban Sophisticat waved him off like he’d just asked the most ridiculous question an adult could ever ask in the situation. Following where Acaphlegmic was pointing, the killing apparatus looked pretty much like an uzi to me. But I really only had the movies and TV to go by.

“I’m not insane,” Urban Sophisticat assured us. “An uzi would be overkill at this point. But that little sweetheart would do the trick in a pinch.” He began gathering up the various fire arms.

“Come on. Let’s go. Let me show you how it’s done.”

At this point? What on earth could he mean by that? In a pinch?!

*  *  *

The shooting range was something of a disappointment, mostly because Urban Sophisticat’s behaviour had heightened our expectations for a hepped-up, Tarantino, bring out the gimp kind of experience. We’d pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript, side street unit on the other side of a southeast Florida interstate, mixed in with no-name auto parts stores, lawn furniture outlets and ubiquitous gentlemen’s clubs. A strip mall’s poor cousin; its anchor coffee shop, Dunkin Donuts, a couple blocks away.

The staff was very friendly. Clearly Urban Sophisticat had become something of a regular. No one was put out by us novices in their midst although the rules of the place were cited as if we were grade schoolers. That was OK since we were both too intimidated to take any umbrage. Results of not adhering to the rules around here could be fatal.

Not only was the place a shooting range but also a gun shop. There were lots of guns. Machine guns hung up on the walls behind one of the counters. Shotgun teepees positioned in a couple places on the floor. Cabinet after cabinet of hand guns, ranging from the tiniest of pistols favoured by riverboat gamblers to Dirty Harry’s very own Magnum opus. (Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk? More ill-informed gun references generated from the movies.) Firearm accessories filled much of the remaining floor space.

Urban Sophisticat led us — now tricked out in protective eye and ear wear — through a set of double doors into what I’d call the shooting gallery. We were the early birds but were quickly joined by a surprising number of fellow marksmen, what with it being a Tuesday morning and all. Aside from that, nothing out of the ordinary or overly cinema-esque.

There was an older couple, three lanes to the right of us both of whom smiled kindly in our direction when they entered. The man twice giving me an encouraging thumbs up in a sort of, ain’t this a whole lot of fun kind of way. Another older woman soon occupied the lane beside them. Beyond her, a suspendered business man type popped in for a few rounds.

On the other side of us, there were a couple dudes you might find in a movie version of this. Deadly serious about the business of shooting, if I were to guess, I’d say they conducted an IT consulting business out of their respective basements or maybe ran a comic book store. A young guy further along seemed to be having a lot of trouble sorting things out. He had to go out for assistance a number of times during our stay. The last one ended with the staff member, mildly irritated, stating he had no idea what was wrong with the kid’s gun and suggesting he take it back to where he bought it for a refund.

No one else seemed too concerned over the fact there was someone within (a-hem.. a-hem) shooting range who wasn’t expertly handling what might be a faulty hand gun. So I tried to push the thought from my mind.

For his part, Urban Sophisticat was the model of patience and cool-headedness. Nothing like the wild-eyed, Ted Nugent zealot we thought he might be. We had a go with four guns he’d brought, a couple Ruger 22s, a magnum and a charger, and two handguns, a Ruger 22 Take Down and a Smith & Wesson 22.

Shooting with my first ever, non-air rifle I’d like to say I had some sort of epiphany about gun use. That I’d clicked into understanding the appeal and rabid devotion many have to the past time. But no. No, I did not.

I’ll take most of the blame for that. I’m just not relaxed or calm enough to ready, take a breath, follow the little red dot, aim, exhale, fire. My main concern was keeping all my digits away from any moving parts and not sustaining any injuries from, what did they call it again?, the kickback.

Acaphlegmic turned out to be much more sanguine about our outing, taking to the long guns like a natural. “His archery training,” he later claimed. He and Urban Sophisticat conversed about the ins-and-outs of proper technique, if the thing was drawing left and how to compensate, etc., etc.

At least I think that’s what they were talking about. It was hard to follow along, what will all the noise around us and my searing lack of interest. But mostly, the noise.

That was the main take away from my morning with guns. It was loud. Fucking loud. I gave up trying to talk much as to really hear anything, you needed to lift one of the protectors from your ear. If someone anywhere on the range pulled the trigger while you did so, it was deafening. Fucking deafening.

It all left me very jumpy. I couldn’t wait to finish up. In fact, I left the other two behind to empty their cartridges in order to head out to try and relax in the sunshine.

When we were all in the car, heading back to Urban Sophisticat’s place, I asked him how many times a week did this.

“A couple. Three times maybe. It’s an expensive habit to develop.”

“And fucking loud, too,” I added. “Aren’t you jittery all the time after doing it? Startling at any loud sound?”

Urban Sophisticat smiled, nodded his head for a bit. In the backseat, Acaphlegmic took aim at passing cars with a pretend rifle.

“You got to get used to being jumpy, my friend,” Urban Sophisticat finally answered. “We’re living in jittery times.”


I decided not to pursue the conversation and settled into the passenger seat to watch the passing scenery. Hopefully, this was just another phase Urban Sophisticat was prone to go through. Like that time he took up smoking a pipe. I far preferred him smoking a pipe.

gun shyly submitted by Cityslikr

Angry Rant #2 (He Said #2. Hee, hee. Hee, hee.)

(In a bid to be seen as less partisan and as fair and balanced as the next guy, we here at All Fired Up in the Big Smoke periodically hand over blog space to some Angry Torontonian who has something to vent about. We take no responsibility for the content of said rants and look upon it like a public service on our part. You’re welcome, Toronto.)

OK, so how many ways to Sunday do we have to be told here in Toronto that we suck?

First by God with an earthquake and then a monsoon rain and then a blistering heat wave you normally have to go someplace like the tropics to get. Next comes the politicians and police from all over the country and the world, strutting into town and kicking some serious butt and showing them who’s who and what’s what. Take that, you protesting hippie freaks. (And don’t kid yourself, every one of you involved in protesting. You’re all hippie freaks to us right thinking, meat and potatoes, hardworking, ‘other’ Torontonians who have better things to do than ‘protest’ like keep down a job. As our man said, the police were too nice.)

Finally, another overpaid American superstar jock has told us to get lost. He’s taking his act down to the Heat of Miami where he plans on winning himself a boatload of championship titles. Totally his right but it’s at times like these when I wish I believed in the whole global warming garbage. The oceans would rise and wash away all those players’ mansions in south Florida and they would come running back here, begging to play where it’s nice and cozy and dry.

But it could be worse, Toronto. It could always be worse if you lived in Cleveland.

Personally speaking, I’ve stopped watching sports. Why bother? The Leafs haven’t won a Cup since before my dad was born. The Jays play in a warehouse not a baseball diamond. Toronto FC just flat out scares me because, I mean, how can all those people get so excited about a game like that? Hasn’t the World Cup taught us anything? Soccer’s boring!

And forget basketball. Why? Just because of this whole Chris Bosh thing. Another example of the fact that good American basketball players come up here to play only if they absolutely have to or if we pay them way too much. And if good American basketball players won’t play up here we don’t have a hope in hell of ever winning anything aside from high placed lottery picks who all just piss off at the first opportunity. It’s what they call a ‘vicious circle’.

Of course, that means European players love to play basketball in Toronto because there’s no pressure on them to try and win. They’re just in it for the love of the game (or to get away from whatever backwater hellhole they call home). They all look pretty but don’t want to get their hands dirty in the messy business of winning in the NBA. Another case of a ‘vicious circle’ where we can’t win because we can’t keep players who want to win and anybody who wants to play here wants to play here because they don’t have to win.

So I say, why bother? If everybody on the playing field is only looking out for #1, why shouldn’t we? Besides, it’s not as if any of them actually come from here anyways. This is their office. They’re just doing their jobs. We shouldn’t judge ourselves by what our sports’ teams are doing. Just because they’re losers, doesn’t mean that we’re losers.

I mean, we are losers but not because our teams suck but because a lot of us suck. Like most of our politicians who show us taxpayers no respect. They throw themselves retirement parties and expect us to pay the bill! Those people suck. And do nothing unions suck who think it’s their right to pick up our garbage whenever they want. Or drive our buses while loaded. Or fall asleep at the ticket counter. No wonder they can’t keep on schedule. All union members suck.

People who ride bikes everywhere suck. Grow up and get your license already. Police haters suck. You can only hate the police because they let you hate the police. If the police didn’t let you hate them then you’d be living in someplace like Chile or wherever you can’t criticize anybody without going to jail. So you police haters suck.

Gay people suck, and I don’t mean it like that. We shouldn’t be giving them all that money so they can march and prove to everybody they’re gay. Yeah, we get it, OK? Where’s my money so I can parade around and tell everybody I’m not gay aside from that one year at summer camp? In fact, I tried to do that just the other day and the Shriners told me to take a hike. So the Shriners suck.

So you see, Toronto. It’s not that you don’t suck. You do. It’s just that you don’t suck because all your sports’ teams suck. That’s got nothing to do with it so you should just stop worrying about it. There’s plenty of other suck in the city to go around. We don’t need to go out and find more reasons why we do.

So let’s all stop crying over being jilted or whatever by Chris Bosh. Toronto sucked before he came along. Hell, we sucked before the Raptors came along. We will continue to suck long after he’s retired from basketball with all his money and championship rings. Stop blaming other people for why we suck. As my crazy aunt used to say, it’s all so downright undignified.

angrily submitted by an Angry Torontonian