Kids at Paly know a thing or two about stress. To most of us, it’s that not-so-warm and fuzzy feeling you get when your curricular, extracurricular, and extra-extracurricular activities gather together like zones of high and low pressure air in “The Perfect Storm.”  In hectic times like these, caught between Calculus, College and that pesky cure for Cancer they’ve been working weekends on, even the most laid back kids will chew through their nails like any true Giants fan (Lord have mercy on your cuticles if you should find yourself stressed out during a Giants playoff game).  Generally, it’s not a happy place to be, but since we often have very little control over our agendas, essentially all we can do is find outlets for our stress, and power through the grueling list of “to-dos” before us.

Take, for example, a boy I know named Dustin.  Now, it was not very long ago that Dustin found himself in a bit of a pickle with regards to a column he writes where he and friends venture around the Bay Area to find cool and unusual things to try on behalf of their magazine.  Fancying paintball as a new and excellent adventure, he and his trusted comrade Sam Maliska trekked all the way down to the wooded hinterlands of Los Gatos in search of air-powered, paint-splattering fun.  Sadly, they were turned away (I maintain it was caused by rampant Los Gatos bitterness after being pummeled 42-0 on the football field), and on the long drive home, the black clouds of stress began to accumulate over Dustin’s head.  “Oh, what ever shall I do?” he pondered.  And suddenly, the answer to all his troubles came to him like a lightning bol-actually, more like a white hot .22 round placed perfectly by a tactical scope and a bipod…

GUNS!

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Dustin, guns can’t possibly be the answer to all your problems, that’s idiotic,” but hear me out.  Where else can you find a fun, friendly and safe environment where you can relieve all your pent-up stress one shell-full of birdshot at a time?  Where else can you feel a potent sense of power just by pulling a trigger back a centimeter?  Where else can you use a long, phallic object to compensate for… um, right, never mind there are monster trucks for that too…Guns are incredible stress-relievers (I’ve heard Rambo was a part-time massage therapist) and for all the ballistic therapy you could ever ask for, look no farther than Target Masters West Shooting Range in Milpitas.

Walking into a gun store or shooting range for the first time can certainly be a bit of an intimidating experience.  However, if you’re able to overcome a bit of initial nervousness (much easier with a friend), you’ll see that the gun community is actually very friendly, very safety-oriented and very normal.  Entering Target Masters, which has a front window covered by steel bars and ammo posters, was certainly a bit of a harrowing experience, but once inside, Sam and I found the staff at Target Masters to be both helpful and not at all pretentious (ahempaintballahem).  Meanwhile, the people shooting at the range were both down to earth and, believe it or not, incredibly… ordinary.  I say this because there seems to exist a stigma around “gun people” (not to be confused with Gunn people) as pick-em-up-truck hicks who can’t spell O-B-A-M-A but who will rattle off the Second Amendment with ease.  What we found was far from it.  Our shooting comrades were simply Bay Area, working people blowing off some steam after a long day, as thrilled about the Giants winning the World Series as anyone.

And so, it was at this friendly, normal, and safe place that I shot my first gun.  With my buddy Sam alongside, I slipped a yellow, plastic shell into the chamber of my dad’s old Breda shotgun, which had been sitting in my attic for as long as I can remember.  Standing in a room that smelled like a heavily leadened Fourth of July, I clicked a button which sent the bolt forward and I was locked and loaded.  As I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and lowered my eyes to the sights, I had a general idea what to expect, although I might have underestimated the kick it would give me in the shoulder.  I pulled the trigger, bringing about an instantaneous surge of all types of energy-pressure, light, heat and sound, but most importantly, a handful of tiny lead BBs careening toward the paper target.  And then, almost as if nothing had happened, it was over, the only evidence of a disturbance a whisper of smoke at the end of the barrel and a spent shell cartridge rolling around the concrete floor.

Sam and I would go on to shoot a box of shotgun shells, as well as another box of .22 rounds with the laughably over-equipped rifle we couldn’t resist renting out.  There’s something about shooting a gun, the raw power you can hold in your hands, which dissipates stress like so much gun smoke and offers a certain sensation of vigor.

However, in this case it’s important to note the obvious: Guns are frickin’ dangerous.  There is an essential distinction between the sport of shooting and simply shooting, where there is immense potential for idiocy to get people killed.  And so, shooting at a range with knowledgeable staff who know that safety is paramount should always be your M.O.  Target Masters even has a buddy policy, where in order to rent a gun you need a friend to vouch that you’re in a proper state of mind (see, gun people are compulsory socialites too).

So Paly, the next time you need to blow off some steam of that proverbial steam, it’s not a terribly far drive to Milpitas, especially with a friend in the car.  Oh, and better yet, Target Master’s has ladies’ night on Wednesdays, so who knows, you might just find the love of your life in earmuffs and safety glasses with a Beretta in her hand…