Sunday, June 05, 2005
Shoot me, Gavrilo
Soundtrack: "Two Shoes" by The Cat Empire
Good evening this evening.
Blake took Elaine and I to the shooting range yesterday. His father is the president of Adelaide Rich Bloodthirsty Psychos Association i.e. the gun club. I really really object to that shit, but I went along because it's another life experience, and I wanted to see if they really were rich bloodthirsty psychos. They did spend the whole time trying to prove to me that they weren't. Blake's father, Mr Wadlow, kept on going on and on about how safety was paramount. Some random French guy called Fabian who turned up on a motorbike kept on going on about how gun clubs taught people how to be responsible with the bastard machines, and just proved how lunatics shouldn't be allowed near the things. "That's Simon Ridgeway," said Blake. "He's the head of a company who makes submarines, an engineer."
Yeah right.
Nothing can detract from the looks of determination and grim satisfaction every time one of those men pulls a trigger, hits a metal rabbit target, blows up some rocks with his brand new big eff-off police rifle.
I battled long and hard with myself, and I did actually have a go. It felt horrible. Every time I pulled the trigger, an unpleasant movement of revulsion squirmed inside me. I'm disgusted with myself now, but at least I've done it now. So now I've not just shot a gun, I've shot a big eff-off police rifle, a smaller rifle which is much quieter and has hardly any recoil, and a revolver. Those men totally get off on the whole gunfire thing, but it just made me feel ugly and depressed and reminded me just how fragile everything is.
The firing range itself made me feel really edgy, mostly due to the fact that it emcompassed two of my three fundamental fears: dying and sudden loud noises. To hold that power in my hands... Urgh. It didn't help that I had plugs embedded deep into my ear canals, thus blocking out normal background noises, like the birdies singing and the wind blowing through the trees and the grass. It was eery - feeling the breeze but not being able to hear its effects.
I needed some serious grease afterwards. Just as well Aunty Wendy came back from some protest march in Sydney with Krispie Kreme doughnuts - so so good.
Today is the 59th anniversary of the Italian Republic, so there was a whole bunch of Italian people at Mass this morning, many of them in national dress or old-timers in their old army uniforms. Half the service was in Italian, which was quite cool, and they got all these cute little Italian kids to do the readings. Aw.
Aunty Wendy, Elaine, Blake and I had dim sum for lunch today. "Chicken feet?" asked the waitress. "Yes please!" I said. She came to plonk a basket of the things on the table, and somehow spilt the whole tray of the boiling things on my feet. Argh! Pain! Fortunately, I wasn't burnt, but it did hurt. The poor waitress was so upset, she gave me a whole lot of ice and serviettes to clean up, and then we got the chicken feet on the house, some egg tarts on the house (which were gorgeous), and some coconut jelly on the house. So it seems that the pain paid off.
Hoggard's just got Tapash out. One more wicket for victory. Poor old Bangladesh.
Good evening this evening.
Blake took Elaine and I to the shooting range yesterday. His father is the president of Adelaide Rich Bloodthirsty Psychos Association i.e. the gun club. I really really object to that shit, but I went along because it's another life experience, and I wanted to see if they really were rich bloodthirsty psychos. They did spend the whole time trying to prove to me that they weren't. Blake's father, Mr Wadlow, kept on going on and on about how safety was paramount. Some random French guy called Fabian who turned up on a motorbike kept on going on about how gun clubs taught people how to be responsible with the bastard machines, and just proved how lunatics shouldn't be allowed near the things. "That's Simon Ridgeway," said Blake. "He's the head of a company who makes submarines, an engineer."
Yeah right.
Nothing can detract from the looks of determination and grim satisfaction every time one of those men pulls a trigger, hits a metal rabbit target, blows up some rocks with his brand new big eff-off police rifle.
I battled long and hard with myself, and I did actually have a go. It felt horrible. Every time I pulled the trigger, an unpleasant movement of revulsion squirmed inside me. I'm disgusted with myself now, but at least I've done it now. So now I've not just shot a gun, I've shot a big eff-off police rifle, a smaller rifle which is much quieter and has hardly any recoil, and a revolver. Those men totally get off on the whole gunfire thing, but it just made me feel ugly and depressed and reminded me just how fragile everything is.
The firing range itself made me feel really edgy, mostly due to the fact that it emcompassed two of my three fundamental fears: dying and sudden loud noises. To hold that power in my hands... Urgh. It didn't help that I had plugs embedded deep into my ear canals, thus blocking out normal background noises, like the birdies singing and the wind blowing through the trees and the grass. It was eery - feeling the breeze but not being able to hear its effects.
I needed some serious grease afterwards. Just as well Aunty Wendy came back from some protest march in Sydney with Krispie Kreme doughnuts - so so good.
Today is the 59th anniversary of the Italian Republic, so there was a whole bunch of Italian people at Mass this morning, many of them in national dress or old-timers in their old army uniforms. Half the service was in Italian, which was quite cool, and they got all these cute little Italian kids to do the readings. Aw.
Aunty Wendy, Elaine, Blake and I had dim sum for lunch today. "Chicken feet?" asked the waitress. "Yes please!" I said. She came to plonk a basket of the things on the table, and somehow spilt the whole tray of the boiling things on my feet. Argh! Pain! Fortunately, I wasn't burnt, but it did hurt. The poor waitress was so upset, she gave me a whole lot of ice and serviettes to clean up, and then we got the chicken feet on the house, some egg tarts on the house (which were gorgeous), and some coconut jelly on the house. So it seems that the pain paid off.
Hoggard's just got Tapash out. One more wicket for victory. Poor old Bangladesh.
