Friday, September 27, 2002

Today was a good shooting day. Not in usual sense. In firearms sense. Got to take aim and FIRE an MP5 9mm, an MP5 10mm, a glock, a shotgun and a revolver. Hung with two Boy Colleagues, one who conveniently studied at University of Texas so he knew a shitload about firearms, or at least that's how he explained it all. I had, like darts and my profession, exquisite aim, as did Bobby Kirkham. The FBI guys were truly dazzled by our marksmanship... Bobby would have great groupings in the head region whereas my style is to group them in the belly. Women always aim for the BALLS, one of the firing range FBI guys told Bobby, watching me shoot. I thought it was more belly than balls but no matter what, the fucking evildoer I'm aiming at won't be bragging over Sunday dinner about his exploits. So I dig shooting guns. It was way better than my past 22 experiences, my cyber-gun video shooting. The FBI men saw my excitement and skill and asked if I'd consider the FBI as a career. In talking it was duly noted the cutoff age is 37 so I'm done in their eyes. I said What about Special Ops. They sort of just gazed at me unsure if I was serious or not.
There are shots of me made by Kirkham shooting all the above and then later wearing a whole load of FBI gear: kevlar vest, FBI cap, limited edition FBI jacket with special stitched-on letters emblazoned across the chest only it's hard to see the I, sort of tucked under the left armpit.
Rockstars shoot a lot of guns. Badasses shoot guns.
Of course I dig shooting.
Bullets of love.

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