Let's Talk About Guns

Well, I had to do it. I really did. Anyone who's going to write a novel which employs firearms needs to handle them so they can get a general idea of what they're talking about. Writing a crime novel without ever actually handling a gun is a lot like writing about the Tour De France without ever having ridden a bike. In order to get my savvy together I went to the Los Angeles Gun Club in downtown Los Angeles, an excellent indoor shooting range where you can either rent a gun and buy bullets or BYOG (Bring Your Own Gun).

I went with my friend Alex (aka Axis) not only because he was into it but also because the Gun Club has a mandatory buddy system. There are no lone wolves allowed to shoot - you must bring a friend in order to use the facilities.

Showcases of guns are by the front desk and you're presented with a very large choice of pistols (there may have been rifles, too) to choose from. Axis chose a 9mm. Glock and I chose the Sig Sauer 1911-45, the 1911 because it looked powerful and intimidating.

I saw the legendary .357 Magnum made popular in the Dirty Harry film series and couldn't see myself firing a gun with a barrel that large. I learned later on that the Magnum was originally designed as a hunting pistol meant to shoot deer and other wood creatures and not psychopathic killers in San Francisco.

After a quick safety lesson on how to fire a gun and a brief tutorial on how to load bullets into the magazine we were off and running to the firing range. The Gun Club also had a wild selection of targets to choose from, varying from the standard round bullseye target to a drawing of a zombie girl in a string bikini whose skull and arms were decayed but still managed to have a prodigious set of breasts and legs.

We were given headphones because the combined gunfire blasting from a dozen firing booths is positively deafening! I went first and have to confess that the experience was fairly intimidating at first. My gun felt heavy in my hands and just squeezing the trigger felt like I was shaking hands with Death. And it was!

The Sig Sauer 1911-45 is a powerful piece of work. The gunshots were deafening and with every shot a burst of flame leaped out of the barrel of my gun, followed by the bullet shell flying out of the breech like crazy right by my face. An attendant walked by every five minutes with a garden rake pushing all the spent bullet shells off the floor. Too many bullet shells on the floor would have sent everyone slipping and sliding all over the place.

While I was firing the gun it dawned on me at how frightening and powerful a gun can be and how ridiculously flippant it gets treated on TV shows and the movies. When you see guns tossed around as if they were toys and fired with one hand oh so casually it defies credibility. Once a pistol is held in your hand you realize it takes both your hands to fire it properly.

Axis let me try out his 9mm. Glock and it was a much lighter pistol that was easier to load and fire. The action was a lot smoother than the Sig Sauer but the sheer terror that the SS struck me and the other shooters - people were staring at me with the fear of God, no small feat at a firing range - was enough to sell me on using it again when I return to the firing range.

Like a lot of ignoramuses I expected to see a lot of fatsos in Army fatigues busting caps to their heart's delight but that wasn't the case. I saw a lot of young couples, mostly Asian, making it their Sunday afternoon dating rendezvous having fun shooting zombie targets and laughing. I don't think anyone there fantasized about shooting the President. Sorry.

I'm glad I spent some quality time with a gun, a good, scary one - I honestly believe it helped me with the novel I just completed (out soon!). Any asshole can write about guns as if they're just an average tool like a monkey wrench but they're nothing of the sort. When a gun's fired it seriously demands the drama it's inspired through the years in books and film. Like shaking hands with Death.

Bicentennial Summer With The Sex Pistols

When Bicentennial Summer (July 4, 1976) was just around the corner everybody was unfurling their flags and fireworks, but I was reading about fireworks far, far away. A band in England called The Sex Pistols who looked like four Richard Hells were screaming at apathetic rock fans all over their country and raising hell. During an era when bands basically pissed on their audience with a snobby holier-than-thou attitude it was refreshing to hear kids in England saying fuck you to bands like The Eagles, Yes and Led Zeppelin. Even the pompous pussies in New York like Lou Reed, Television and The Talking Heads thought their shit didn’t stink. I was going to celebrate America’s 200th birthday by going to Europe.

After visiting obnoxious cities like Amsterdam, with their smelly hippies smoking their smellier dope, the French Riviera, where they still have Hitler’s sperm on their lips, and Venice, the world’s biggest church yard, I was ready for the angriest band in England. My first show was at a movie theatre that began at midnight and was going to go all through the night. Tickets were only one pound ($2.50) and the opening acts for The Sex Pistols were The Buzzcocks and The Clash. All I’ll say about The Buzzcocks was that Pete Shelley had the crankiest guitar sound and Howard Devoto reminded me of Frank Gorshin (The Riddler). All I’ll say about The Clash was that they looked like five G.I. Joes on stage. (Keith Levene was the third guitarist).

Intermission consisted of watching endless Kenneth Anger film loops between bands and glitter records played over the PA. Since the first punk rock record (“New Rose” by The Damned) wouldn’t be released for another few months glitter records like Roxy Music, Gary Glitter and Mud played while Siouxsie Sioux danced topless on stage. (FYI: I’ve seen farm animals with better knockers). Billy Idol at the time wore vintage suits with little Ray-Ban sunglasses poking through his short black hair, and enjoyed shoving people at the slightest provocation. (20 years later I saw him at a book release party with a beer belly and a slobby Star Trek t-shirt on. Ha!)

The movie theater was packed with fans but irony of ironies, a show that begins at midnight after two great openers and Siouxsie Sioux half-naked (“Peek-A-Boo” indeed) leaves Johnny Rotten and yobs on stage for show time by 4 a.m. It would be fair to say half the audience was already crashed out in their seats in a Punk Slumberland! They opened up with “Anarchy In The U.K.” flashpots exploding and Johnny so excited to be let loose he knocked the cap off his front tooth with his microphone. After the song was over Johnny sent Nils The Roadie (future Banshees manager) over to the front of the stage to search for his cap. This delayed their "concert" by about ten minutes but it was funny watching Rotten cuss Nils The Roadie out.

Next song was “Liar”, a blatant rip-off the NY Dolls’ “Puss N Boots”, and after many more songs and taunts from Johnny Rotten they left the stage, only to return for a barely asked for encore of “No Fun” (“You didn’t ask us back but we’re going to play anyway”). Fans were getting woken up and kicked out of the theatre by the ushers. I walked back to my hotel room as the sun rose, dawn's early light shining on British garbage cans.

A week later I saw the boys play The 100 Club and met Malcolm MacLaren who gave me a cool press-kit (pictured below) and also met his then girlfriend, Vivienne Westwood. She designed clothes for their store in Chelsea, “SEX”. Malcolm introduced me to drummer Paul Cook and guitarist Steve Jones (“Jonesey’s Jukebox”), great guys, down to earth, fuck yeah.

The day after the show I went to “SEX” and bought a rubber t-shirt and a leather t-shirt, as well. The rubber t-shirt lasted about two years because I didn’t keep it in a refrigerator, so it ended up melting! The leather t-shirt I eventually gave to a Scotsman named Owen. I still have photographs of myself modeling them. It was actually a great week in London; I can understand why several of my American friends moved there. Music and fashion is more important there than television.

It was exciting watching The Sex Pistols early on because they hadn’t made a record yet and Sid Vicious was still in the audience (I eventually met him a year later and he did me and my friend a big favor; he was a lot of fun). And, of course, Malcolm hadn’t yet become the big thief he turned into, stealing from The Pistols and my band***Arthur J. And The Gold Cups, we did punk covers of old standards. When Malcolm was in town during the infamous Winterland show (Jan 1978) he saw us play, and surprise, soon after put out “The Great Rock ‘N Roll Swindle”, an album of punk versions of old standards. Thanks for the steal. No, he didn’t remember me. I didn’t expect him to. Fame makes a fellow nearsighted, don’t you know?