Man Boy Stuff

So I'm planning to take my son shooting tomorrow mainly because we need to do more stuff together but also because when I mentioned it once he was all into it. Plus he got me a gun cleaning pad for Father's Day. Now, I'm not much into guns. They're kind of neat but just not my cup of tea (yes that was a very lame joke and quite deliberate). But I was sort of into the whole thing when in my early twenties and I still own the legally-registered monster of a firearm my friends talked me into buying back in 1981. And of course I want to take the thing. But it occurs to me they've passed a few laws since I was last going to the range. The standard twenty-round magazines are not California-legal any more. Maybe they never were -- I have a vague memory of taking the stops out that limited them to five rounds, and throwing them away. Kind of like when I ripped the smog control out of my second car and threw it away before getting the stupid thing registered. At any rate, I need new magazines if I'm to go to a range. So I called around and am therefore going to a gun shop after work today. And look at this place. I will be a kid in a candy store all over again, thrown back into that weird era transitioning from Carter to Reagan when we were reading Soldier of Fortune magazine and cruising army surplus stores. Whyn't we just join the service? I dunno. I probably should have. Little else of what I did between 1976 and 1982 was of much damn use.

My other man boy story today is about an idiot on a motorcycle. I used to ride, so I tend to give bikers the benefit of the doubt. But there has to be doubt. As I came up the road this morning I saw the guy speeding up behind me just as I was getting into the right-hand lane. I signaled, but I wasn't feeling charitable over the fact he chose to ignore me and zoom up into the same right-hand lane. After all he was going about twice the limit. So I slowly went over -- no sudden moves, I'm not THAT passive-aggressive -- and to maintain course he had to pass me in the bicycle lane. Stupid idiot fucker. And he just kept going, in between moving cars, which I don't know if it's legal or not but it is pretty stupid. I ended up right behind him at the light, and he had no rear-views else we could have stared at each other. He had a Marine patch on his jacket but from back here looked too young and fat to have been in the Corps. Just another poser, and the line changed and off he went. I wish him safe riding, of course, but if he ever gets greased by a vehicle of mine it will be his doing, not mine, and I'll be mighty pissed for having my day ruined.

p.s. - Speaking of magazines, I also have a vague memory of loading banana clips with .223 rounds while riding BART one evening. I was a strangely innocent kid.