Volume 4, Issue 10
May 16 - May 29, 2002
by Rob Williams
A friend of mine once said, "Son,shootin' machine guns and driving race cars is the most fun you can have with your clothes on." Well, he left out salsa dancing with a hot latina and banging your rear sets in a sliding turn, but he wasn't too far off the mark.
This past weekend not only heralded the celebration of Cinco De Mayo, it was also a good weekend to blow stuff up with heavy ordinance, thanks to the Rocky Mountain Fifty Caliber Shooter's Association (www.rmfcsa.org) and Rocky Mountain Gun Owners' annual fifty-caliber and machine gun shoot in Fort Morgan.
It was a long drive out of Denver to the prairie badlands outside of Fort Morgan, but the promise of cordite and mayhem kept my hammer down and my spirits high. The flyer read like a shooter's wet dream: targets to 600+ yards, long-range sniper rifles, cannons, and an arsenal of machine guns for rent.
Truth be told, I'm no stranger to firearms. I've been shooting most of my life. I've fired sub-guns, assault rifles, shotguns, safari rifles and a vast array of handguns. But I've never had the pleasure of handling belt-fed big caliber stuff. You know, the stuff you only see in movies, or courtesy of the Government.
My shooting compadre Mr. Bill and I happily paid our $5 entry fee and approached the firing line. Over a loudspeaker a voice warned us to put on our hearing protection as a 37mm Bofors cannon would signal the start of the shooting. Across a low valley 600 yards across lay an army of propane tanks, 5 foot tall gas cylinders, burned out cars and gallon jugs filled with gasoline. There were close in targets of barricaded bowling pins and steel plates. A shooter's paradise indeed.
When the Bofors fired I nearly bit my tongue off. You FEEL the explosion rather than hear it, followed by a cloud of ammonia-laced gunsmoke. Suddenly, the whole line opened up. MAC-10s, M-16s, Uzis, Grease guns, MG-42s and honest to goodness Ma-Deuce '50s. Tracers zipped across the range like lasers, blowing half filled propane tanks 40 feet in the air. Explosive shells rained and fire balls flung themselves skyward with Kubrickian glee.
Before Mr. Bill could stammer "wow" I had slapped down $20 for two magazines from a WW2 era Browning Automatic Rifle (B.A.R.). The B.A.R. is a full auto 30-06 that uses a magazine the size of an 8 track tape, and weighs a whopping 26 pounds loaded. (If you have 20 grand or so laying around, you, too, can afford one.) I locked a magazine in the open bolt weapon and hefted it like a shotgun, keeping my left knee bent and leaning into the target. BOOM BOOM BOOM --my first burst split a bowling pin in half at 10 yards and I moved my aim to farther targets. By the time I reached the burning car at 200 yards the magazine was empty. All the while there was a deafening roar of gunshots, cannon fire and bowling ball mortars lighting off around me. More fun? You have no idea! I repressed a desire to let out a rebel yell as I slapped the second magazine home and lit up the car at 200, spinning a burning propane cylinder like a catherine wheel. The big rifle barked and bucked but I stayed on target. I looked over at Mr. Bill with a Cheshire Cat grin and noted he was handing the vendor a fistful of cash.
We weren't finished yet. We had come to shoot the Big Stuff. We at last found a scoped Barrett Model 82A1, a 10 shot '50 caliber semi-auto that was zeroed in at 2500 yards. (That's over a mile, citizen.) Gingerly I approached the black steel beast, picking a target some 600 yards away . . a bright orange smiley face applied to a 5-foot high propane tank. Each shot was $3, I managed to put two out of three armor piercing rounds through the ten-inch smiley face. Best nine bucks I've spent that didn't involve a cocktail onion. Every man and woman who fired it left with a big smiley face of their own. Sadly, though smiling, Mr. Bill and I had to hightail it back to town, so we didn't get to stay for the night shooting. Suffice it to say, at next year's "Battle of Fort Morgan," we're going at night. (After all, this is Nightlife.)
Feeling high on gunsmoke but with a dry throat (there is no alcohol allowed at the shoot) we motored back into Denver. My cell phone was ringing before I crossed the county line. Much to my surprise it was a soon-to-be Fort Morgan High School counselor named Laura who was in the mood for karaoke and cocktails. So, sunburned but unbowed, I quickly agreed to karaoke at Armida's. (The fact that she's got some big guns of her own helped.) Laura picked me up at my place in her shiny white Chrysler Lebaron with cup-holder armrests (no joke) and away we went.
The place is soaked in Mexican flavor, from the polished wood floors to the sombreros decorating the walls. The KJ, Todd, was warming up the post-Cinco De Mayo crowd with his rendition of a Creed tune. Not wanting to miss a beat, we ordered thirst quenching tonics of vodka and gin. Scanning the songbook, Laura was quick to scribble down her fave Dusty Springfield number while I dropped off my selections. (I still haven't figured out how Todd chooses the song order . . but I'm convinced it involves higher math, a chicken foot and some incantations.) We gleefully watched the usual cast of star-search wanna-bes and booze-addled lounge acts hoping to croon their way into some drunken secretary's bedroom. A note . . Karaoke is not about being good, it's about having fun. You are supposed to have a drunken rollicking good time. Which explains the need for everyone and her brother to sing "Summer Days" or Creed tunes. Luckily, at Armida's there are some people who CAN actually carry a tune. Country favorites are often mixed in with hard rock hits like "Bodies" which Todd screams into the mike with disdain for eardrums or taste. Luckily my eardrums were pre-warmed with staccato gunfire. Before long I was on stage, attempting to sound like Jack Bruce belting out "White Room." Karaoke is like seeing a garage band, the more you drink the better you sound. We drank a lot. And we sounded great .
Laura managed to get stage fright thanks to a table full of singing cowgirls screeching Dixie Chicks lullabies. She also noted that her red velvet shirt may have been a tad tight for center stage. A word of advice . "don't get intimidated at karaoke, it's not like your audience paid to get in. Two more rounds and I was up again, a man in black singing "Paint It Black" and having a blast . . after all, girls are starting to walk by dressed in their summer clothes.
I couldn't turn my head and quickly look away when the waiter arrived. Thank John Moses Browning I wasn't driving. The service was prompt and the drinks were strong like the bark of a Garand. By the time my third song was up I . d had 5 vodka tonics and was feeling no pain. Of course, that always makes it easier for me to attempt Bowie's "Young Americans." This time I didn't have gay men attempting to push dollar bills into my waistband when I had finished. (I usually take that as a sign of a good performance.) By midnight, Laura requested that I finish out the evening with my rendition of "Dope Show," a song not in the book, but one Todd can provide if you ask nicely. Soon the crowd of drunken blonde cowgirls were all singing along to my best Marilyn Manson impression and Laura had thrown her underwear on the stage. That's not something you see every night. Check it out.
All Rights Reserved © 2002 Go Go Media, LLC, Denver, Colorado