Oh please: not Frank Sinatra again!...

Frankie (along with Billie and Vivaldi) is played daily in every café, American and European, this side of creation, and I don't ever, EVER need to hear him again in a Morning Edition piece.

In this particular Morning Edition offering, Mr. I-Got-You-Under-My-Skin (Cue: Big band trumpets) seemed to pop up here, there, and everywhere almost at random--and was mixed far too LOUDLY under Jay Allison's voice. (Or so it sounded on RealPlayer.)

That's my technical gripe. As for content: I got a mite confused. Did Jay Allison really interview his kids for a potential public radio feature as he was showing them his new gun purchases? And did his minidisk recorder just happen to be running as Jay spontaneously, in some sort of Apocalypse Now-like episode, fired his empty pistol at the wall (Cue: "Click... click...click...")? And did Jay truly and honestly feel more--ahem--"manly" after his divorce by buying a few more guns?

Gosh, if so, then I must say that this strange and funny piece--which comes across as part true confession and part artistic confection--leaves me wondering if Jay Allison is a strange and funny person. (Or is he just an ordinary American with a little thing about guns?)

The good part about this radio essay is that it reminded me of two strange and funny gun episodes from my own life. Decades ago, I overheard a housemate--a pacifist, vegetarian philosophy student--talking on the telephone with his girlfriend.

"I've decided." he said, "to eat meat again."

Ah!, I thought--and pricked up my ears.

"But I'm not going to buy it," he continued. "I'm gonna hunt it and kill it and clean it myself. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah...I do have a gun. Got it yesterday. It's out in the car..."

And so forth. That's the philosophical approach to gun possession.

Now for the second story: Fast forward a few decades to the 1980s when I worked at NPR. One day I went shooting with a Russian language teacher of mine and my brother (who is a member of the NRA and has hunted a lot). First we went trap-shooting and then fired at targets on a range. This was my first time with a gun.

Range shooting was real boring: a bunch of guys with rifles on supports, shooting at targets, observing the results through binoculars--and then jotting down notes. I was expecting a dramatic scene from High Noon and this was more like a methodical rocket-launch. I couldn't hit targets, but was quite good at trap-shooting, which involves quick pointing and firing. In fact, I actually bagged more skeets--clay pigeons--than did my rifle-owning brother.

"That is because target-shooting is science," said my Russian language instructor, Natasha. "But skeet-shooting...is ART!"

The next day, I boasted about my shooting exploits to my (then) colleagues at All Things Considered. To my astonishment, they were not impressed. Indeed, they heartily disapproved.

"Alex!" they scolded, "How could you--of all people--shoot those poor little DEFENSELESS skeets?

Because, I explained, weary of do-goodism. Skeets are tasty--especially four and twenty of them...baked in a pie...
.