The Thangs We Do For Love November 20, 2008

Before you think me a monster for portraying him unjustly, please know I find The Father-in-Law to be a sweet, sweet man. And the thing I love about him the most is that The Hubster is a Xerox copy of him. (A younger, chubbier copy; but a copy no less.) They both have shocking exteriors that mask these tender, delicate souls. As you continue, know that these words are dipped in rainbow sprinkles of love and respect for the guy that made my guy who he is.

The FIL is an experience. Like eating crème brulée in a 8″ Tiffany & Co. Brasher Bowl on an ivory linen cloth at biker rally. Al Borland meets Al Bundy. The Go-To Guy for when you need shit fixed or decide you want to build a picket fence before it gets dark. Squiggly lines your TV? No problem! Dog has a chicken bone stuck in it’s intestine? Just jimmy the thing out! The man has an endless supply of second-hand tools, duct tape, flannel, and stories. “Did I tell you about the time I got shot and contracted Hepatitis B? Yeah, they didn’t screen for blood back then. Wuttayougonnado? That’s why I don’t plan things anymore. Me and my wife had plans that night, so I left my gun and home. Bes’ believe if I had my gun that fucker wouldinnah left my store. Not walkin’, anyway.”

He’s what you think a 1970s single dad with a motorcycle looks like. All chrome and mustache, leather and cigarettes, homemade half-naked lady tattoos and dirty fingernails. Beneath the talk of pussies and guns is a man who would lay down on train tracks for his family, including me. A man who talks about his cats as if they were walking, talking people (clearly a genetic trait passed like heroin to The Hubster). A man who moves a little slower but can always help his kids. Even the big married one. When we met, I was a little worried about the race thing but he just lit up a cigarette and said, “My dad was a prejudiced as hell. I never understood it. You love who you love. (Exhale)” He didn’t learn to read until he was in the military and came out owning his own motorcycle repair shop. It’s a pretty amazing bootstrap pull of a story, but I’m not entirely sure Oprah would ever forgive him if he went on her show and smudged her fluffy white couches.

The FIL has wanted a particular gun all his life. A gun that 6 kids, 7 grandkids, and a stay-at-home wife has not afforded him. A gun that The Hubster also wanted, so The FIL was in town to spec the gun and show the The Hubster how to use it. When I say ‘gun’, I’m not talking about one of those cute pearl-handled diddies with a stubby nose that only holds 2 bullets. I’m talking about the kind that every gun freak enthusiast ran out and bought 2 seconds after the President-Elect was announced. The DEMOCRATIC President-Elect. The gun that turns the weirdos hobbyist into 2nd Amendment experts. So I will shrowd myself in the protections of the First Amendment that allow my liberal ass talk about marrying my lesbian friend, peeing on bibles, and waiting for my government assistance check to arrive in the mail. And my experience at the gun show.

THE GUN SHOW

If you’ve never been to one, I highly recommend grabbing some popcorn and heading down to nearest one. For $5, this shit is better than a matinee at the multiplex. You’ll find yourself shouting in your head “No, don’t go in that door!” or “No, that CAN’T be!”. The Hubster dragged me to a few gun shows back in California and would always piss and moan about how much better they were in Texas. I guess a California Gun Show is Banana Republic and a Texas Gun Show is it’s redheaded stepchild of a discount store where the labels are blacked out or cut off. California is a coke party at a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and Texas is a dark alley in Detroit. California is Playboy. Texas is one of those escort magazines you find on the street in Vegas. You never know what you’re gonna get. California’s is too clean, too neat, too sterile. Texas is where the real stuff is.

I think my front tooth just fell out.

The Gun People are a community all their own. Clothes (mainly cammo); language (abbreviations, grunts, lots of ‘historical’ references); food (nuts and things on a stick); physical archetypes (beer bellies, mustaches, clip-on ponytails, the occasional clear heel). I came THISCLOSE to wearing an Obama ‘08 shirt but decided not to poke the sleeping bears, especially when said bear chooses to allocate its disposable income on Sig Sauers and Glocks rather than floss or a set of veneers. You’ll overhear conversations like “…yeah, it looks like Pops has Oldheimer’s afterall” or “Honey! They’re selling dubya-dubya 2 guns with original bayonets! I am in second heaven!!”. Shirts with the big red slash through ACLU that read “The Real Threat to Homeland Security”. (Did a mention I saw this on a couple? Shoppers at http://www.theressomeoneforeveryoneeventheignorantones.com perhaps?) Or shirts that read “If Guns Kill People Do Pencils Misspell Words?” or “If You Outlaw Guns Only Outlaws Have Guns”. Then there were the bumper stickers- The ACLU: A Jihad With A Law Degree; Gun control means using both hands; If you woke up today, thank the Lord. If you woke up speaking English, thank a soldier; Ted Kennedy’s car has killed more people than my car.

What’s weird (beyond the fact that men walk around freely with rifles slung over their shoulders) is the randomness of the booths. You can, literally, go from a table of Federal Hydra-Shok pistol ammo to the Black Cat keychains (with the advanced DNA-catcher!) to beef jerky to 6′ tall fireproof safes to jewelry to ‘collector’s edition’ Confederate flags. Although I only counted 5 other black people, including a stripper and a man so desperate to talk to another brown person, he walked up to me and said, “Does the name Visalia mean anything to you?” I think it was code for “How the fuck did I end up here? If we leave together, The Gun People may not notice we’re here. Wanna make a break for it??”

Of course there were patrons with all their teeth in Armani suit jackets and Kenneth Cole frameless glasses, but they’re no fun to talk about.

The Gun People probably thought they were gay, anyway.

UPDATE: The Hubster wanted me to clarify his preference to Texas vs. California Gun Shows. And I quote:

Wait, is this for your Banana Chronicles? Make sure you quote me right. (clears throat) California shows are more like a knife and trinket show than a gun show. There have more crap than guns. And the guns are just thrown on the table, they”re not labeled properly. The guns have to be stripped down and you can’t have any bells and whistles like night vision scopes and flash suppressors. There’s just no pride in the guns like there is in other states.

So, internet friends, if I am ever found dead in my home at night, the neighbors didn’t hear anything and the bullet dissolves in my bloodstream, you know where to lead the authorities.