Tough as nails

That's not necessarily me, but my blisters are toughening up. And all it took was patience and, for the right big toe, a nice big bleed that didn't leak too much but left it with a black-purple mark the size and shape of a malignant melinoma. My toes aren't completely ache-free, but now it's more irritating than debilitating.

The proof was in the nearly eight mile run I took Sunday. It was a test run of the Sound to Narrows, but I messed up the exit route so I ran longer than absolutely necessary. Which, at mile 7.5, is a big "bleah." The course isn't as horribly hilly as it could be, I'm glad to report, but it is a little confusing. Although my dogs were barking at me (and my face had turned spotty red in places that are not normally heat-ejection areas) so were my calves, hips and shoulders and everything else.

Today in the Y class I went about four miles on the "hill course," other, non-remedial runners might have gone about five.

After running eight miles I was stiff the rest of the day; it didn't put a damper on Miss Anora's christening party. Brownies, booze and lawn chairs are great post-run if you can't move hardly at all. She's cute, too, all cheeks and blue eyes.

What else is worthy of comment? Oh, this is pretty awesome. Saw another crummy Bollywood, "Kuch Kuch Hota Hai," which translates to "Something happens" and that's about right. I wrote a somewhat grumpy Netflix review and judging by the low numbers of recs on the third top-rated user review, means if my peeps hit it up I may just get the only grumpy Bollywood review on the rec list. That's a hint, Netflix users among us. And if that doesn't get you juiced up perhaps the fact that I point out the incest vibe will.

Presumptious much?

I was cleaning out my purse when I saw a strip of Safeway coupons — you know, the kind the store prints for you based on whatever you've bought — and noticed that one of them was for Always pads.

The kicker? At the bottom it says: "MAY WE SUGGEST: Ultra Long Extras with wings."

Presumptious much?

I would have been inclined to believe the suggestion was because the product was a source of professional pride by the Always people — or perhaps they're overstocked — but Michelle pointed out to me that all those coupons are very targeted and focused.

If she's right, that is a little too much corporate focus on my personal business for my taste.

OMG KFC

So gross.

Somehow I doubt "extensive" testing went into this. The picture is enough to make me want to barf. Just because it all ends up in the same place does not mean there is no justification for sides.

Funny, that

On my Flickr page I se I've had 100 views of a photo titled "Symbionese Liberation Callie," because I'm posing with a gun not unlike Ms. Patty Hearst did, followed closely by "Paramilitary Barbie (Well, Midge)" (me with two guns) and "Michelle with Rifle" (self-explanatory). At 80 views, the Russian sailors continue the military theme and "Lucas Skywalker," my previous most-viewed, has slipped to 70 views.

Lesson: If you want people to look at your pictures, put in some chicks posing with guns. Even when it's ironic, it's a draw.

Tacoma double rainbow

I just thought this was pretty cool to wake up to in March. I saw another double rainbow while running Saturday (Sunday? Sunday.) But it was closer together and didn't do the whole horizon stretch like this one.

Ramona wins an award

Here you can see my new haircut, a style I like to think of as Quimby Modern. Also you can see the dress my mom thinks is too inappropriate (a sentiment not shared by non-Puritans). Also in this picture, though it is very unsteadily taken, you can see my SPJ First Place award for spot news (basically, stuff you have to write really fast because it just happened — lots of plane crashes and murders are spot news stories. The story that won happened to be about 40 inches long. Yes, I write wicked fast and get all the good scoop, and that is why I am a winner) for non-dailies (but not alternative weeklies. Funny, but The Stranger didn't appear to enter this year, even after Dan Savage grumped about having to compete with The Peninsula Gateway instead of what rightly is the Stranger's true competition, Willamette Week and the Seattle Weekly. Also Willamette Week didn't really appear to have entered much if at all. Just that Nigel Jaquiss dude who's been racking up the legit journalism awards.

Oh, yes, I did run that day, but my back was what was killing me. Hotel dining chairs plus twisting to see screen plus 8 gajillion awards = lots of pain.

Oh yeah, the Gateway won more awards as a paper than any other in our division, I got the only first place writer finish (Jim Appelgate got design props but he's always a winner because his page design is the SHIZ), though Ric got a headline writing first.

Living the YA novel

The worst part about running is the blisters. I have blisters that have formed under previous blisters, giving one of my toes the appearance of a very young fetus, you know, when it's got a blobby head and all-dark eyes. I've got burst blisters that start oozing at bad times (like the dedication of the new Living War Memorial Park this morning while I was in sandals) and are bloody underneath.

Basically, I feel like one of those girls in the Young Adult novels about tweenies who want to be ballerinas and the main character takes a look at one of the older, more experienced girls' feet and they are reptilian and gnarled. I'm that girl but without the grace and tutu. Indeed, I feel weird running my little trotty, piston-like Shetland pony legs out in public.

Also, who woulda thought the first muscles to wear out when I run are the ones in my forearms. That makes no sense to me. But you can't really run with your arms dangling at your side. Or you could and say you were an Irish dancer, I guess.

More bloody toes

It's my own fault. After running this on Sunday I had blisters the size of potato bugs on my feet. So of course running this today (plus the near-mile to get to the Y, which I look at as a jump-start on my second wind) with my Y group (and Michelle, and really only Michelle since the others are super duper in shape and faster than greased lightning) busted a blister and aggravated the others. Damn my soft feet, unaccustomed to hard labor or drudgery!

If you check out the runs, look at some of the elevation issues. This is only the beginning of what awaits me at Sound To Narrows, I deeply fear.

In other health-related news, I have something on the order of five bags of salad that were on sale at the grocery store in my fridge. Do I want to eat them? Heck no. I want the FMW. But I've got to eat the salad before it goes bad. Damn you, healthy impulse!

Also, the weather is gorgeous. It's 60 degrees and sunny even though it's 7 p.m. If it were like this year-round I'd be a runner or something. I just know it.

Running on a full stomach

It's not the brightest thing in the world, but I'm giong to have to do it tonight. Since I didn't run last night. I was hashed.

The whole running thing is starting to get me down. Not only is the course going to be ridiculously long and dominated by uphill bits (and I am really great at running downhill and on level surfaces but not the uphill) but I'm not acheiving any of the results I wanted. According to people who support me, I'm packing on muscle at an unprecedented rate, not just blooming upwards in weight. Which is what it feels like.

But in the areas where I am excelling, I got my annual review today and I would quote from it and my boss's extoling my work ethic, prize-winningness, super repping skillz for the G------, etc. but I left it on my desk. And I got my annual raise. Let's just say Callie may be buying the six inch BMT on a day when it is *not* the special!!!

Speaking of prize-winning, I found out I'm going to win something from the Western Washington Society of Professional Journalists. But then, so is something the intern wrote. When the Seattle Weekly was in our circulation category — and not relegated to the brand new "alternative weekly" category (thanks, Dan Savage, for mentioning the Peninsula Gateway in your Slog entry on why The Stranger never enters the SPJ contest, as in "that competition is for papers like The Peninsula Gateway, and it's unconscionable that the Weekly puts itself in competition with such pissant papers." And that's not an actual quote, but there was a definite hint of we'd-be-fighting-below-our-weightedness, even though alternative weekly writers are well known for their modesty) — it was a little more special to get that plastic plaque.

So the intersection of work and running is coming up. One is going swimmingly, the other is a rough road, and Jake the sports guy says he's going to cover the S2N. With the camera. I'm running with the special slow people, it's doubtful I'll finish in less than 90 minutes, I tend to get very red in the face and my hair goes all poofy and crazy — this intersection of my competence and incompetence cannot meet or the juju will feel a confluence and infect my working life.

So I have to run harder than ever. 30th Street hill, prepare to be attacked.

4.15 lousy miles?

Apparently that's what it is to run from my apartment down to Old Town up the insane 30th Street hill (well, mostly walked at a brisk pace, that hill was) across Union, down 21st Street to I and then back down 2nd to Tacoma Avenue according to this helpful website. And no, Tacoma streets are not like the East coast, where flatness prevails and the platting was done by visionaries like William Penn so going from 2nd to 30th isn't a big deal.

Running is not my sport. I am so glad I'm not training for a marathon. The thought of doing that just fills me with vicarious nausea in the Sartre sense — the idea that I have the capacity to sign myself up for running a marathon makes me sick to my stomach. Also my left knee, both feet and ankles and my right shoulder (which will take any excuse to hurt) feel bad just thinking about it. Still, the last two miles of running were pretty easy and I didn't even really have breathing problems at all. If only the S2N were as flat.

If only the whole fitness transformation thing were working out in other respects; my body has lost and regained and lost and kinda regained a bit of the same five pounds. I think the real secret is to eat Cheerios instead of FMW for breakfast if you want to shed weight. They have fewer calories. Besides, you can always eat FMW for dinner. I do.

Graduation

Graduated from the Community Academy last night and got a pin with the seven-pointed star of the Pierce County Sheriff's Department. Alas, had I had that pin on when I was pulled over by a state trooper the day before I'm sure I would have got away with a mere warning. Which is always what happened in Arkansas. Which makes me wonder: Am I losing it? Is it the bangs? They're at a crazy in-between stage right now. Or am I just not as hot anymore? Or was it just that my shirt was too high cut? Or are the WSP as ethical as the PCSD and never allow anyone to get off of any speeding ticket ever?

I also took my telephone Spanish test today. Fun fun fun. At one point I had to "interview" the guy about a topic and the tragedy of journalism reared its head: I asked the same question three times in various ways before the examiner told me the interview was over. How BORING was THAT? How humiliating for me, when my job calls for deep understanding, to not be a more interesting questioner for the short term! I could have kicked myself! Gah!

The best part about finishing the test is that I can stop watching so many Spanish movies. Oh, they aren't awful, but lemme tell you, Almodovar only recently figured out how to really do a terrific film. "Talk to Her" is amazing. "What Have I Done to Deserve This" is not. And I can't stand the low talkers that permeate Spanish acting. Combined with the accent, it can be a pill to understand. Of course, I can't stand low talkers of any language, I believe strongly in enunciation and projection. And there are so few movies made outside of Spain to really get packs and packs under the belt — especially ones I haven't seen. I did the whole Gael Garcia Bernal oeuvre, of course, because he's fine and not afraid to take his clothes off, and some Argentinian flicks which were pretty okay, but because of the economy in Latin America the film industry for Spanish language films all comes back to Spain and that crazy Castilian accent with the lisp and the "s"s pronounced a little more like "sh." And I am so over Spanish films, even though I love drag queens and gay guys and Chus Lampreave.

Fun Run 5k

Tackled the YMCA Fun Run for Kids 5k (actually not for kids, except in the sense that the money goes there) at 8:30 this morning and wound it up 33 minutes and 52 seconds later, which means I run a mile in a little over ten minutes. My first mile was 9:56, which was pretty respectable, but the turnaround took us up a hill, and that got me walking a little. Still, I finished strong with a sprint to the end, so that was cool. I was, of course, suffering from early-in-the-morningitis.

I finished behind a lot of much more athletic people but ahead of an elderly blind woman, a guy with a limp, a guy carrying his daughter on his back, women pushing their kids in those tricycle strollers, various and sundry harelips and a few people my age. Do I kid or am I cruel? You decide.

In self-inflicted cruelty, I had to wear the only clean exercise pants I had. And they are leotard-type pants. And I wore a running jacket that wouldn't work with a bulky tee to hide my bum. So there it was, all on display, for like an hour, half of that jiggling up and down Pac Ave. in front of 500 (well, okay, maybe 100) runners.

For those of you who like seeing actual athletic people in action, here you go. Also, I like to think of this video as a depiction of the nihilistic but game spirit of Ukranian youth in a post-Communist dystopia-cum-playground. It's just that deep.

Blood (kinda) on the highway

A good lesson I re-learned Tuesday: cut your toenails before running four hilly miles. The inside of my right shoe looks kind of like an abatoir at the toe. The sock looks worse. But man, that was a killer run. The end, all uphill and partly up stairs, was a squeezy-chest experience.

But the running is paying off with better, higher, flexier kicking in kickboxing, even in such a short time. And the weather is great. If it weren't for the weather year-round up here, I might be in a position to become a runner. Running downtown in the brilliant weather, with the dockyards and cliffs and the architecture (including the so-called "Bridge of Glass," which has what I consider the "Towers of Walmart bag rubbish") is really fantastic. Or it will be when the challenging terrain is less challenging.

Keeping a commitment

I got up this morning and ran (hey, I'm not crazy, I read the paper, ate breakfast and played a little Sudoku before I got outside) about 4 miles in the rain. Ran and walked. Ran and walked and about three times bent over to suck down some air. I kinda hit a stride around mile 4, but then I was back at home and had some errands to run.

It was a good thing, because even though it was only teensily drizzly on the way out, it had started to shower mid-way through the run. I wasn't the only commitment-running person either, no, I live in a very health-conscious neighborhood. I was, however, the only one without a rain slicker. Let's face it, you have to have a special exercise slicker to run in, you can't just wear a raincoat that's all baggy and stuff. Neither can you wear cotton, which is what I had on, so all these other prepared realized what a dork I am. All I needed was a paper sign on my back that said "Sound 2 Narrows or Bust."

It took me about 45 minutes to go four miles; at that rate, it'll be less than two hours for me to complete the 12k. Yeah, 13.5 minutes a mile is pretty sad. I'm hoping that will get better pretty quickly.

Hitting "The Sweet Spot"

Last night was the final class of the Pierce County Sheriff's Dept. Community Academy, and it was super fun. The only blip in the evening was being late because I was giving Hugh a lift and we have different conceptions of Sixth Avenue (though his was more correct in the sense of it being a map, he didn't remember any of the landmarks I gave him to find my apt. building, the rendezvous spot). Hugh was concerned about driving in the dark and rain because he just can't see. This is a man who NEVER concedes primacy in ANYTHING, so his recognizing a failing borne of old age was a pretty big step for him.

Anyway, we had to drive out to Puyallup, which to my mind is a hellscape of five-lane-wide roads flanked by massive stripmall developmental mess that has bloomed out of control and unattractively — like a fungus — in the Puyallup River valley. That valley is one of the prime places that will be wiped out when (not if) Mt. Rainier blows and the river of melted glacier, chunks of ice, mud, ash and uprooted trees come crashing down to the sound, by the by.

So we get to "The Marksman," a gun shop and range, and there are classrooms in the back where the store has some kind of connection to the sheriff's department and teaches firearm stuff. More importantly, it teaches how police make the decision to use deadly force or not. So that's going to be our lesson for tonight.

The way the Marksman teaches is by using a computer-video system where there are a bunch of scenarios on a small movie screen about 12 feet in front of us. We, one by one, hold a fake gun attached to the computer with 13 "rounds" and go through some simulations. We are warned there is "rough language." But last week we saw photos of women who'd been killed by their partners — one particularly gruesome photo was of a hammer buried halfway in a woman's skull — so the swears don't carry much weight anymore, I would hope.

There were a lot of scenarios, and not all of them required us to come back with deadly force (I was SOOOO glad mine did, though. Can you imagine going all that way through the CA and not getting to haul off at the end?), and we all had to justify our actions in the end. The instructor was very negative about the media — later he told me he loved the media, which I also believe he does, people are complicated that way — so when it was my turn, he made sure to give me a hard scenario. Did I mention the class started heckling me?

So I got into character as Mike and Rusty, the instructors, and set off with a security guard who'd heard what he thought was a break in at an office building, gun out. Then we were attacked by two thugs above us on a stairwell. I basically missed one who was protected by the steel banisters of the stairs, but the other one I nailed three times. Once in the head, once in the arm/chest area and once, as the instructor put it, in the "Lorena Bobbit area." When that result popped up the class fell out laughing. Hecklers, I can deliver the goods.

The most interesting moment, though, in my mind was when a former L.A. County cop did not shoot a guy who was getting out his gun; this would be considered a justifiable use of deadly force moment, but he just didn't shoot. In every past scenario, the perp pulling out a gun did it to fire at the cops, this one put it down. The ex-cop said he was reading what basically amounted to the actor's body language, and the actors in this training tape were, as you can imagine, not the best in the world. It was uncanny how well he predicted what was going to happen.

Lessons for today's class: If a cop draws down on you, keep your hands up, up, up. Police have very tough decisions to make when confronting bad cases. If you heckle Callie, she will shoot someone in the gonads and show you what for.

Training Day 1

Well, fitness goals being what they are (nebulous; I try to hit the Y four times a week and honestly, I'm too easy on myself), I gave myself two goals to achieve with deadlines. The first: Lose 10 lbs by the end of the month, which I think I'm sorta behind on having only lost three pounds since the first (and those are debatable since my weight fluctuates anyway). The second: Run the Sound to Narrows on June 10.

Luckily, the downtown Y is doing training for that race, and I found a race partner in Michelle Rogers-Moore (yes, Bond fans, her real name) at work. She's a runner who hasn't in a while, I'm a non-runner who could use some discipline. We ran on similar levels at our first official session today. That is, punked out about 2/3rds through the 3-mile run and had to be given an alternate, shorter route back to the Y. And most of the first 2/3rds were downhill. We are punks.

There were only five runners; me and Michelle, the running trainer guy Ron and two other runners who look like they run before breakfast and take a quick jog at lunch and maybe throw in eine kleine nacht running for the hell of it. We will all be given distances to train on during the week through email. Woo hoo.

We looked a little dorky running as a pack through town. I suggested that we dress up as superheroes to run each week. I think that might make us look like we have a sense of purpose — short-term purpose, that is — as we scoot through town.

I think I will grow to love downtown Tacoma as I run through it each week. Today we did the "around the world run," as it's known at the downtown Y, because it goes down from market to Thea Foss Park (where there is a big globe, hence "Around the World") and across towards the Museum of Glass and UW Tacoma (although we wusses took the stairs on the bridge up to Pacific Avenue and missed the glories of the Bridge of Glass). I think this is a great way to get to know the city. Also, there is a pho place on the way home, so after a big long run I can jump in and get Vietnamese Pho or Bun. Also I learned there is a new pub in my neighborhood that only looks slightly shady — just how I like 'em.

Yep, this is a good thing, training.

The pressure to tan

So I got mocked the other day for my paleness of skin by a colleague who I wouldn't have thought would have noticed, and then pressured to tan by another worker who used to have a job with Pink Coconuts. So I put the fake bake on my legs and wore a skirt today. Honestly, I didn't look like I had any kind of tan at all. That's just how pale I am.

The way people tan in Washington State, you'd think they were Canadians or something. Honestly, they go on vacation and lose their minds with the tanning. And a good deal of people go to tropical places like Hawaii. Don in my kickboxing class goes every so often — so does another woman — and they both come back with tons of melanin. It's like they're stocking up on it because it's a necessity instead of a precursor to skin cancer. My formerly Canadian relatives always had a pretty messed-up perspective on tanning, back in the 80s, with some kind of idea that they needed a base burn to get the tan started (now they live in Florida and are nuttier (in skin tone!) than peanut butter). That's what it's like among the Washingtonians. Washingtonian Statians. Life would have been so much easier had the state convention gone with the original plan to call this state "Columbia." Or else we need a nickname. I propose, "Soggies," which would be short for "Soggy loggies."

But I digress, a part of working today was going to city council, and the story I have always wished I could tell is the incredibly banal celebrity gossip-style story of city council. I would definitely have had a tan watch. And tonight would have been a killer night to update the locals on the tan situation.

- Gig Harbor Mayor Chuck Hunter recently returned from Florida a toasty color. His wife Diane, in the audience, was not nearly as tan but still had a healthy glow.
- Councilmember Tim Payne's tan is faded.
- Former mayor and current frequent contributor to public comment Jake Bujacich was a very deep roasted brown with an undertone of pink. He has been in Palm Springs for the past couple months.
- Much missed are former councilmembers John Picinich and Frank Ruffo, whose ancestry from the plural terminal vowel side of the Spezia-Remini line lent them inordinately dark tans that they'd trade off back and forth throughout the months. Also, they used to make and second virtually half of all the motions and all the easy-peasy ones like the consent agenda.

People, I honestly notice too much.

EVOC Ewok

So I finally got to do the EVOC driving course (it stands for something like Emergency Vehical Operations Course or something, which means calling it an EVOC course is akin to saying the Schuylkill River, since Shuylkill is Dutch for river) out at Cheney Stadium. The Pierce County Sheriff's Department Community Academy all got there bright and early.

I was a little antsy because I had to leave shortly to go to Portland for a National Writer's Workshop conference, but how many times can one listen to Chip Scanlan do that exercise where you write as much as you can in 15 seconds about a story you want to write and then he gives you less and less time until ultimately you have ONE WORD that encapsulates your story (he actually did this at his keynote speech and I was a little bummed because the way he phrased it a couple years ago by the time you had one word to write down you were on your way to be executed, and I thought, "I ain't wasting my time on one stupid word! Callie won't go down like a punk biatch!" and now it was just, "write one word." And lemme tell ya, those one word stories are real winners)? So driving fast in a parking lot held no small appeal.

The first thing we did was give the ABS brakes a workout. Those Crown Victoria Police Interceptors hold no small amount of horsepower, either, so when flooring it at the fences, it's pretty wild, and for any cautious driver, it's very hard to do. Mike, the deputy in the car I was in, said he was sure someone was going through the fence during the course. I asked him if he'd care to make that interesting (I was thinking $1 to $5), but he declined, what with being a cop and all.

So we jammed on the accelerator and then slammed the brakes. Fun city. We all did it twice and the second time we got to do it with the lights and sirens, which you can't hear, really, in the car, the acoustics are just that good. With three people (and a cop) per car, we all took turns swapping seats. Let me say that the rear seats of a police cruiser are horrible. First, forget legroom. Second, the kinds of people that get picked up by the cops are not savory, and there was a weird stain on the back of the vinyl seat. But that wasn't the worst, no, that would be the smell. Ye Gods, rednecks and gangstas and street people who drink too much take a shower! You are leaving your gnarly funk in the back of all the cop cars making it hard for decent people like myself and the other academy jokers to not barf our guts up in the back seat!

And the Chicane will make anyone in the backseat want to heave. Although Chicane ("Shih-KANE") sounds like someone who might work outcall at the Calico Cat Motel in Parkland, it is actually a bunch of cones to drive through like the Crown Vic is a snake. There was a row of cones that was not so close together and another set that was closer, and Mike said the trick was to palm the wheel. I knocked out two cones on the short-set course. Oops. Better than barfing my guts out as the other two learners took their turns.

So having done the stopping and the chicane, the deputies assumed we had learned to stop and swerve and, thus, were ready for the collision avoidance test. Basically, they have the cones set up in a Y and some like there's a car or something in the way and the instructor tells you to go left or right at the last minute and, fwip! there you go around the object. The first person to go was a high school senior and she tapped her brakes, which was a mistake. She spun out and the instructor came over the radio, "Does anyone know if Fred Meyer still has that sale on underwear?" Good times.

I had talked my way into one of the first groups since I had the NWW, and was fortunate to be riding with teenage boys. I did great on the course. I avoid crappy PNW and former Californians all the dang time out here — why do they drive so bad? I couldn't tell you. The boys? Well...

This one 18-year-old high school kid did a real spin-out doozy while I was in the back. His pal was taping the whole thing, I was pretty sure that only inspired the marginally experienced kid to go a little more than 10 percent out of his normal driving comfort zone.

Oh, did I mention that behind the fence across the lot there are stacked steel-reinforced concrete slabs? So if you hit the fence, you hit a bunch of hard stuff? No? Okay.

So the second time the kiddo goes through, instead of being freaked that he spun out the first time and hence more inhibited or some other normal response, he kicks it up a notch on the speed. And he again taps his brake or whatever it is you need to do to spin like crazy. It feels different than the first spin, and I might have said a couple of choice Anglo-Saxon words, they're caught on tape if so. That's me, showing teens how to act when in a crisis. At least I didn't say them loudly, although I was probably laughing a little nervously (isn't that geeky and embarrassing). And then we go ass-end into the fence. Luckily, we went in softly, for what it's worth.

It was a ball. I'm super-jazzed I got to ride with the hyper high school guys. The wreck was hysterical.

I can't decide what is the best part for the kid: it's on the county's tab, it won't go on his insurance record and his pal got the whole thing on tape. Although it was Mike's regular duty car, he was laughing till his Bulgari-sunglassed eyes filled with tears (they were light blue lenses). He shoulda taken the bet. Instead, Mike becomes Cassandra. Which I'm sure he'd find very masculine if he knew about this blog.

At class again today it seemed like everyone had read the columny article I wrote about the incident. It's weird to know people are not only reading but paying attention to something I write.

I got to the conference in time for the afternoon sessions by the skin of my teeth due to bad signage on the part of the organizers and terrible directions to the hotel on the part of a guy who didn't realize he wanted me to get off I-5 onto 405, which I should have known from past trips to Portland. The weirdest experience was going through the Portland State University Student Union building and hearing their piped-in music; it's strictly super-rapid drums, like the Powerpuff Girls are going to pop out and give us all kandy or something.

I'm not a gun nut

But this kinda rocks. Even though you should ALWAYS treat every gun as if it were a LOADED gun.

Newsroom gone wild

Michelle finally snapped. Kidding. After a long week of cranking out another edition, not to mention building up a lot of resentment and bile, we need a release. God help me, I did not realize what I was getting into when I mentioned to Lee, the photog, that I was nervous about looking like a doofus when the Community Academy does the firing range test. After all, I had never fired a gun before in my life.

Lee offered to take me to the firing range and teach me basic gun safety and firing. Colello's head popped up. "You goin' to the range? Where do you shoot?" Next thing I know Michelle is mentioning that she has never fired a gun before and Ric is thinking he'd like to come along. A regular journalism armada is fixing to converge on the shooting range.

Oh, and we didn't go to just any shooting range, no sirree bob, we went to the Bullseye. The Bullseye is one of those gun stores that gets the tag "nuisance." A lot of guns are stolen from there (ahem) every year and end up being used in crimes. Most infamously, the gun that was used by the D.C. sniper pair came from Bullseye. This is not a place where I can feel my dollars were spent bettering the world.

So we get to Bullseye after deadline and Colello rents an AR-15. The AR stands for assault rifle. That's why we're all messing around with this gun. Because we bad.



Indeed, it is bad to pose with guns as if you are a badass. It is particularly bad when you're the product of Quaker schools.



Michelle's from Parkland, and she recently moved from the Gangsta Hellscape of Monterra Apartments so she can get away with this stuff.

So Lee took more photos, which I hope to get copies of to share with you, of us all acting completely inappropriately (all of which was egged on by the Air Force small arms instructor behind the counter). Then we put on our eye and ear protection and went to the range. Well, minus Ric, who had some sort of thing to do with his kids.

Lee and Michael went straight for the gun assembly and loading. Lee fired off a few rounds of his 45 then, because he is a Marine (apparently they're never "former" marines), helped Michael get his rifle loaded and ready to go. Then Lee brought me over to booth 12 to learn to fire a gun.

I learned to load a clip, to hold the gun pointed downrange while I slid that clip up in the magazine with conviction, keeping the trigger finger on the guard until ready to shoot. Then there's this "BRASS" acronym to remember about Breathe, Relax, Sight and Squeeze. Or maybe it's squeeze and shoot and you're just supposed to remember to sight. I dunno. It's about staying calm and then letting the big bang happen.

And a 45 releases a big bang. It didn't kick back as violently as I was expecting, but you feel the vibes go from your wrists to your elbows and through your chest. The brass casings fly out and ping against the stall walls and may pop you on the head or the shoulder or something. There's a killer flash from the barrel. It only takes a moment, and it's very surprising and powerful. I got little red marks between my thumb and index finger on my right hand from the kickback.

I'm not a big fan of the 45.

The AR-15 is a different story. It uses 9mm ammo, so there's no big kickback like the 45 (Lee likes the 45 for its ability to knock over the target. But I think a bullet is a bullet and whatever makes you less freaked out to fire is probably the right handgun to go for, if you're going to go for a handgun). You sight it up, hold the barrel and the grip, put in a ridiculously long clip and boom-boom-boom. The target is toast.

This is how I did with the 45.



I got a little sloppy at the end, when my arms were getting tired, but I like the way that there's a bullet hole nestled under the X in the bullseye. I could be a very good shooter if I wanted. But, I'm not a gun person. I liked shooting that rifle a lot more than I thought I would; I didn't like that it pulled to the left. But I'm not a gun owner, and I don't like the responsibility of holding something that could blow someone's face off, accidently or on purpose. Doesn't mean I won't shoot again, but I'll never be a gun nut.