Fatale Abstraction

Phlegmmy's Shooty Spa

Sunday coming home from late lunch with Holly, I stopped off at the range and squoze some rounds through several .22s just for giggles. JPG loaned me a kit gun (what does that mean-- kit?) which is the .22 sister of my .38 snubbie, only without the 50-poundish trigger pull. This .22 is fun fun fun. I also shot the Ruger Mark II a lovely couple generously loaned me until I get my own. This one's sweet and one of my favorites. Dad's .22 revolver was the one I shot most, though. This was the first time I've gone to the range entirely alone, not meeting someone, etc. It was great, actually, and medatative, even. I set up the guns on the table, got the cartridges arrayed and everything was by my dictate. Shooting in a state of solitude is a zen exercise, which is a roundabout bullcrap way of saying it's good fer ya. I intend to rinse, lather and repeat this version of therapy more often in future.

I set up in one of the bays with 5 steel plate targets. I apparently shoot better when I have targets that give an audio response. Kind of whack-a-mole or something - I need to hear it hitting. Once I've got a handle on where to shoot that makes the noise, I can usually hit the spot over and over.

I thought I had enough callous on my trigger finger, but apparently not so: I have a blister from Sunday's exploits. Clearly I need to be practicing more.

I am also happy to announce I've officially shot through an entire brick of .22 LR by my lonesome, now. I should have passed that milestone weeks ago, but things have been hectic. Anyway, my next brick will go much faster, I expect.

After shooting, I stopped by my apartment and picked up the doglet and took her with me to my folks' house. I forgot that my parents haven't been seeing doglet as she has declined gradually in recent months. I think they were a little surprised, although they've known recently she's been in a bad way. Anyhoo. She seemed to enjoy getting in the car and going someplace, and I didn't want her home alone any more than could be avoided.

So, dad and I set up all my gun cleaning stuff and set about cleaning all the .22s and my shotgun (it was a dirty dirty girl) and some of dad's weaponry. I told dad this was a fun father-daughter activity, and he said if I enjoy it so much, he has about 50 more guns that could use a cleaning, and I laughed and said I'd love to help. He wasn't kidding, and I wasn't either. I suppose we'll have a marathon cleaning session one day soon. Oh, and he's going to let me take the 1911 I posted here last year so I can practice with it. *Fun!*

Anyhoo, messing with all the unguents and patches and rods and crap, I was thinking how this is sort of like a day-spa for guns. They get de-funked and properly cleaned, and then they get all oiled and spruced up. Some of them get the mani-pedi, and some of them get the Brazilian Wax. I'm happy to announce, though, that no matter how sissified any of my guns ever get, at no time will they be getting any of their personal areas bleached. I'm phlegmmy, and I approved this ad.

Ah, the tantalizing fragrance of Hoppe's 9. They don't teach this in finishing school, but apparently women who daub a bit of Hoppe's behind the ears attract the right sort of fellows. I'll keep you posted.