Why I like guns.

I had the opportunity to slowly walk by a Japanese police officer yesterday and surreptitiously gaze at his sidearm. This was strangely a little disappointing. It's not that the pistol was too weak for my taste (although it was just a dinky .38), but rather that it was tethered to the officer's belt by a thin rubber-coated cable, not unlike the kind one might use to lock up a bicycle. When I saw this, I frowned, likely made a funny face, and walked away grumpily.

It wasn't until later that I started to wonder why I became annoyed. It was then that I realized, yet again, as I had realized for millionth time, that I'm strongly attracted to and fascinated by guns. There's no discernable reason for this outside of the fact that guns are metallic and menacing, dark yet shiny, and capable of making cool noises. Unless they're "silenced", and then they make really fucking cool noises!

(Note: I've never actually heard a silenced gun being discharged; I'm basing my judgement on the positive sonic properties of silenced handguns strictly on films, Carlito's Way being the most influential among them, not because it was a great movie but rather because the silenced pistols it featured sounded much cooler than in any other film I've seen.)

Although my family ran in apocalyptic social circles where guns were stockpiled in the event of one-world government takeover, the only weapon we had when I was growing up was an antique .22 rifle that my dad kept hidden in the attic. The bolt for the rifle as well as a box of ammunition was safely kept separate from the gun in a dusty shoebox in my dad's closet. That I knew this and still vividly remember the details are testament to the long-lasting nature of my fascination.

When I got into college, it occurred to me many times that I could purchase a firearm of my own should I strongly desire to do so. And I did desire to do so, many times, but held back because I rarely had enough money to get a decent pistol, and when I did have the money there were other, more important things that I felt more compelled to purchase--like video games.

As a result, I never really indulged my desire to play with guns. But when I would see a police officer standing close to me, my eyes would automatically stray to his sidearm. The holstered gun always seemed to silently snarl at me from its leather pocket, like a badass doberman chained to the fence of a junkyard. I always wondered if the cop ever truly "got used" to having an instrument of death strapped to his waist, or if the weight of the gun was a constant source of confidence ready to be tapped if the man was feeling scared, weak, or self-conscious. Regardless, I would always envy the officer, but my jealousy was tempered by the notion that, with some deft fingerwork and balls of steel, I could slide the gun from its holster and obtain the power for myself. That thought alone, that silly fantasy, always made me feel good, like I was tapping the confidence power of the weapon through my sheer proximity.

And perhaps that's why I didn't like how the Japanese police officer's gun was connected to his belt. Citizens are not allowed to bear arms in this country, and, as a result, most of the guns that are here would be difficult to disentangle from a cop. That might be a relief to some people, but not to me. But perhaps this is ultimately a good thing, as, if I had a gun, I would likely walk around everywhere with it tucked away, secretly smiling in the knowlege that I could easily scare, wound, or even kill if I felt so compelled.

Sigh. I miss America.

And I miss my friend, Errol. We rarely discussed guns, but occasionally, while we would be driving around Fort Collins, he would extend index and middle finger to simulate an uzi barrel, and then spray imaginary bullets out the car window. He'd do this by making sound effects with his mouth and holding the imaginary gun in a horizontal "gangsta" fashion. Whenever he'd do this, I'd know we were on the same page with regard to the second amendment. This picture's for Errol.