Nothing Like Duck Hunt

The Client sponsored a team-building afternoon event of clay pigeon shooting today. We assembled at noon at a shooting range near the mall, a few minutes from the house; I'd driven by the area countless times and never realized there was a shooting range nearby.

I arrived at the range, driving solo, because I'd opted to work remotely from home in the morning since the house was so close. Pulling into the parking lot was like entering a new country; there was an evident change in culture -- a people and a way of life that I knew existed somewhere in the state of Texas but had never actually witnessed firsthand.

There were Hummers and pick-ups adorned with Confederate emblems, scruffy overweight men in trucker hats and sleeveless denim vests. And camo.

There were guys in camo. At a place where you shoot clay discs.

-

The team was split into four groups of four and one group of five.

I was teamed up with the infrastructures lead, the solutions architect, one of the business analysts, and the new SSIS developer. We named our team "The Fraggers" -- because we probably won't hit anything with our guns, but we're sure to get something with errant frag grenades.

-

The sporting clays course consisted of ten stations of alternationg four- and six-count targets, totalling fifty targets.

The first station was a four-count with two clay pigeons being launched from both sides at a distance going toward the shooting stall. Having never held a shotgun before, I stepped into the stall cluelessly and dropped two 12-gauge shells into the chamber.

I mounted the shotgun, hesitated, and then yelled, "Pull!"

The first pigeon launched, and I pointed the barrel in the general direction. Lined up the near and far beads on top of the barrel onto the pigeon, followed it for a second, held my breath, and pulled the trigger.

The shotgun kicked and left a dull pain on my shoulder. The clay pigeon survived my fire.

I mounted the shotgun again, pressing the stock snug against my shoulder this time. I used to go to the batting cages when I worked farther north and needed to burn time to avoid rush-hour traffic. I learned to snug the butt of the bat against the hand to keep the vibration from bruising and blistering my hands and arms. I figured the same would probably be true for a gun.

"Pull!" I yelled again.

The pigeon launched from the opposite side of the field this time, and I lined the beads up on the disc. Exhaled. And squeezed.

This time, the pigeon shattered, and my shoulder absorbed the recoil. I beamed a little, and ejected the shells. The odor of gun powder was inexplicably refreshing.

I proceeded to hit my next two targets at that station, and with a bit of swagger, I balked, "Just like Rainbow Six, baby!"

-

The first station was the only station in which the pigeons launched toward the shooting stall. Every other station launched the pigeons toward the field.

Out of the remaining forty-six targets in the course, I managed to hit only one. And I kind of cheated a little, because both pigeons were pulled simultaneously, and I squeezed both rounds at only one pigeon instead of trying to chase the second.

The solutions architect and SSIS developer both had around eighteen hits apiece. The business analyst had four hits. And the infrastructures lead, at the end of the day, was awarded a certificate for personal worst performance of zero hits.

My team, despite having a one-man advantage, had the least total number of hits. By double digits.

Age is a Status

My birthday weekend started with dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Midtown that's famous for its blue margaritas. Had a small dinner with Don, Kenneth, Slim, Claudia, and Brad. Bingo was my volunteer designated driver.

The margaritas are well-known because the tequila and the blue liqueur mask a douse of Everclear. First-time patrons are often oblivious to the potency of the drink, and will consume several glasses before the demon creeps out.

I had three margaritas.

-

With my face nice and warm rouge, but before the full extent of the alcohol had taken effect, we met up with Nick, a buddy of mine from back in high school who now contracts for the same client as I do. We walked a few blocks out to a dueling piano bar, also in Midtown, the locale that I'd publicly let all my friends know that I would be at.

Nick came through with a mission, and we champed drinks all night at the bar.

The margaritas were more than enough to put me in the gutter for the night, but its effects hadn't done its job yet, and in the meantime, I'd left inhibition at home -- something I've lately found myself doing too often -- and I wasn't saying no to anyone.

-

As the night wore on, more folks showed up. Trinh and Julian made their appearances. Krys and Gene showed up as they got out of work. Richard, Anton, and Binh came through. Brandon and Fletcher made their arrival. Even some chicks that I'd met only few days prior at a sushi bar came through.

And with each group that showed up, everybody went through the same lines about how I had to take shots with them. I willed through the night and refused to decline a drink from anybody. I was intent on drying out that bar if it took the life from me.

-

Chilling by the bar with Nick, late in the night, drunk out or our minds, we had an incoherent rambling session.

NICK: Dude, I have to tell you man ... I have to tell you. Dude...

ME: Yeah, man, yeah. Thanks for comin' out, man!

NICK: Yeah, man, life is good, man. Work is good, life is good. Shit's good, man.

ME: Naw, man, Lemme tell ya. You're a fuckin' champ, man, you're the fuckin' man.

NICK: Dude, I have to tell you. Dude, you're the only Web geek like me that I know that can throw down with me.

We exchanged rants for maybe a good ten minutes before we realized that neither of us were really making any sense, and we decided to roam the floor. We wandered around from group to group, table to table, casually using my birthday as an excuse to engage in conversation and dance with random chicks.

We danced and made incoherent babblings with random drunk chicks, waitresses, the girls that walk around with glowing test tube shots, anything that moved, we pimped it. I even danced with this on behemoth of a girl; she was the size of a house.

When asked why I was dancing with such a big girl, I responded, "Why do men climb mountains? 'Cause they're there, motherfuckers, I wanna know what's at the fuckin' top."

-

When the lights flickered on, we were herded out the door. The boys went their separate ways, and Bingo and I made our walk across Midtown back to his car.

A homeless guy stopped me at a street corner, asking for change. When I refused, he asked me for directions. I started to map out some of the streets for him, but he interrupted to correct me. We got into a little debate about where certain streets were, and he was probably right because I was sloshed out of my fucking mind. But then I got impatient with him and told him to fuck off because -- really, what the hell does he need directions for; it's not as if he has a home he's trying to get back to, right?