This weekend, I went to a party at a private club that offered an unusual party game - a turn at a rifle range, which was located in the basement of this New York City establishment in Greenwich Village. When I heard there would be guns, I was not enthusiastic. I hadn't even held a gun since I took riflery at summer camp as a child.
But I went along with it, and a funny thing happened when I had that gun in my hand. It felt great. There was an instructor there, who explained how to hold the rifle, how to use the scope, how to pull the trigger, slowly and gently. But gentle or not, the feeling of the bullets leaving that 22 was powerful. I picked this target on the left of a menacing looking guy. If you look carefully, you can see I plugged him in the eye, ear, chin, and smack in the middle of his gun. On my first try.
I do not want to own a gun, let alone have one sitting around the house. I know that I am much more likely to be killed by my own gun than ever use it to protect myself. And it's one thing taking pride in some small, well-placed holes on a piece of paper, and another to think about shooting a human being. But for a few minutes there, I sure felt the power.
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