September 26, 2010
I'm a newly reborn gun enthusiast. It took a few days and many hours of trial and error with learning how to blow the piss out of clay pigeons in the sky, but I have never felt anything nearly as liberating as firing wildly into the sky on an open range. The kick of a 12 gauge against my shoulder, the slight smell of sulfur on my fingertips, and the shattering of an orange disc in the sky sounds a bit dumb and unintelligent to the more Eastward urban dwellers who have never experienced it. Let me tell you this, from having my origins and my mind built around suburban fuck head sentiment, I too shared a disdain for skeet shooting. Until I tried it. There is a bit of a frustrating learning curve, as I mentally can wrap my mind around something fast, but my hand-eye coordination lags a bit. This causes me to lash out like some frantic animal, but after I get it, I usually fall in love with what I'm trying to learn.
I don't want to keep talking about firing guns though. They're amazing devices, and just holding a shotgun (like the double barrel I used at one point) is an orgasmic experience. Once it fires, for that fragment of a second, it's an awe-inspiring moment of zen that shatters any city stigmatism one may have. Standing out in the open desert, breathing fresh air, blasting away at clay discs - it's heavenly and an embodiment of one ideal of freedom.
However, I promised I'd move on to some other topic.
Today was the day the group packed up and left Hidden Springs. We slept in, had a large breakfast, talked greatly, and fired more guns. The parting was too soon, as always, and as always, today was the day I felt the strongest connection to these people. They have their flaws. They're human. They're normal, dysfunctional twits like me, and I can resonate strongly with that vibe. The men have their fun in wolf packs, and they come back, heads lowered, to their controlling, baby-sprouting wives like a typical 1950s picturesque family. But also like this ancient magazine cover image, they generate warmth and a welcoming nature, even after seeing me indulge in a few beers and imbibing herbs. My jokes and good-natured humor seemed to outweigh this breach of their perfect, manipulated social order reminiscent of some archaic way of thinking.
There was a man there (young guy a bit older than myself) who looked like Bill from 'Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure'. Let's just call him 'Bill' after his namesake. On the surface, in front of his wife, kids, father, mother, and other relatives, he's this good-natured Mormon who lowers his head at the dinner prayer. But when the family stays indoors and he leaves the house, Bill entertains his true, rebellious nature - cracking open a bottle of booze, strapping on a backpack of small supplies, and jumping on a four-wheeler with a mini-cooler to tread out into the untamed countryside, adhering to the beckoning of the awakened beast inside. He's chill. Calm. Kind. With a twisted smirk reminiscent of a devious Willem DaFoe as Norman Osborn.
He's American.
I've never delved much into patriotism as the kind of patriotism that is often displayed through the media is the exact kind of patriotism I find disgusting. It's not about supporting an overbearing government, a military peon home from his latest tour, or any other sort of political establishment. It's about living the ideals. It's about unleashing that Lynrd Skynrd 'Free Bird' lying deep within the human soul. To sing. To howl into the night like some sort of grizzled mad man with a bottle of booze, a dime of pot, and a handful of energy pills. To growl at those boring oppressors when they feel the need to press their greasy thumbs down on you.
"All we are is dust in the wind, dude."
We left Hidden Springs with smiles all around and a weekend that will go down in memory. It was many firsts for me, and it shall not be the last. It unleashed that fire deep within, blowing the embers to a wild blaze - much like the blaze started by the National Guard in Utah that incinerated many trees and houses.
I'm in a Studio 6 hotel in Vernal now. The town with all smiley, kind faces that say "sir" to you when you buy or order something from them. This is the best room I've ever stayed in. It's the price of a regular hotel room anywhere else (just under $100), but it's the size of a small apartment in Chicago - just an infinitesimally times cleaner. It's relatively new and still has that new building smell down the halls.
Sure, like most places, they skimp on some things. The toilet paper is ultra thin as expected, but it's better at Studio 6. It's got some padding that's soft on my ass - like sweet-talking politicians campaigning for a bit part in government theatre. Unlike these politicians, this toilet paper has no about face. It does the job, and you toss it away, whereas with politicians, once elected, that softness turns to rampant sodomizing with no lubricant.
Sincerely yours,
Doctor Nonsensical
