But I'm not really complaining. It was a good day today: I went to the range and shot the hell out of my Glock (I traded in my Taurus on a Glock 30; this was an Excellent Idea). Did I tell you I joined a gun club? Well, I did. No more cramped indoor range half a mile from my house for this boy. No, I'm driving half an hour to a remote area by a small airport to enjoy a good few acres of gunpowder goodness. Multiple pistol ranges, multiple rifle ranges, clay throwers for shotgun, reactive steel targets -- lemme tell ya, it was a good day. The RSO (Range Safety Officer) came by and offered, as I was a new member, to give me some instruction if I needed it. I'm always up for pointers, so I said, "Great!" Then I put up a target at seven yards and put my first three through the X-ring. He grinned and said, "You don't need any help!"
The fifteen-yard range was next. Better for me, too: most defensive exchanges take place at seven yards or under, but fifteen yards or more is better for seeing what you're doing wrong, and what works. There the RSO gave me some pointers, and a few exercises I could try to improve my skills. We found the Glock shoots best with a six-o'clock hold (where you put the front sight right below what you want to hit, rather than resting it on center mass). He asked me if I shot in competition, and I said, "Not yet." He said, "Well, you could."
I've got a ways to go before I try to put myself up against any serious shooters. But it's good to know somebody thinks the potential's there!
(Then I watched the RSO check somebody's Beretta 92 for accuracy by firing overlapping holes. One-handed. Well. Um. Yeah, I have a ways to go, for sure.)
ETA: I forgot another highlight of my day! I was driving along, when my iPod chimed in with Ben Folds covering Dre's paean to Eazy E and women, "Bitches Ain't Shit." The lyrics caught my attention, because it was the first time I'd listened to the song since I'd acquired the Glock, and one features in the lyrics, and when I realized what I'd heard I damn near wrecked the car laughing.
Check it: Snoop Dogg, just off a six-month stretch behind bars, is informed on his release by his friends D.O.C. and Dr. Dre that Snoop's girlfriend has been unfaithful to him. Snoop is a little annoyed that "I ain't been out a second, and already I got to do some chin-checkin'," but a Dogg's gotta do what a Dogg's gotta do. Quoth Snoop:
Move up the clock as we groove down the block
I see my girl's house, Dre -- pass the Glock
I kick in the do', and I look on the flo'
It's my little cousin Daz and he's fuckin' my ho.
I uncock my shit. I'm heart-broke... but I'm still loc'ed.
Ahhahahahahah. Okay, here's the thing: *the Glock is a striker-fired pistol lacking an external hammer.* There's no decocker; the striker goes partially back when you rack the slide, and the trigger pulls it back the rest of the way. Um, sorry, that may be too gun-geeky. You know those scenes in the movies where the hero points his gun at somebody, realizes he's been startled by his cat, and then uncocks the gun and shoves it down the front of his pants? Usually, he's got a 1911 or some other single-action semiautomatic. When he decocks it, he 1) puts his thumb on the hammer, which sticks out the back, to keep it under control 2) pulls the trigger 3) GENTLY lowers the hammer so that the gun does not fire. When ready to fire, Snoop's Glock is basically in a half-cock state, and he can't decock it because he doesn't have an external hammer (or a decock lever, for that matter). Snoop *cannot,* in fact, uncock his shit. If Snoop wanted to get the Glock totally out of cock, he would 1) remove the magazine 2) eject the round in the chamber and then 3) pull the trigger of the empty gun to lock the trigger back; he wouldn't be uncocking his shit so much as unloading it.
...my faith in the world has taken a hit. Dre and Snoop, you *posers.*