It’s the Hot Brass Boogie!

Aside from being a magazine editor, you might be surprised to learn I am a world-class dancer, as verified by several national shooting organizations. Let me explain.

A Musical Background

For starters, I have often heard the term “beefy” intended mostly as a compliment in regards to my appearance though I am still moderately nimble and healthy in spite of being one large pizza away from shopping at the Big and Tall store. My outdoor and recreational pursuits no longer involve hiking dozens of miles and I view jogging as a sin worse than sobriety, but I can still work 14-hour days doing construction or clearing brush. Of course, I now have to recuperate for six weeks after such an outing, but at least I’m still capable.

I’ll share another personal trait relevant to today’s message — I’m blessed with rhythm. I’ve been a drummer in various forms since I started banging on pots and pans at age four and over the years I’ve performed in front of thousands and thousands of people, several of them actually sober. In one highly memorable incident at a large outlaw biker rally, my drum riser was entirely surrounded by topless women, one or two of which even possessed the usual number of teeth.

Adding love of music with a strong internal metronome, I logically enjoy cutting a rug. Thus, we have our backstory — a lumpy late-middle-age guy who writes about guns for a living and loves to dance, and even has a bit of talent for it, despite not owning a stereotypical dancer’s body.

My love of “the boogie” frequently collides with my vocation. For instance, two or three decades ago at the Shooting, Hunting and Outdoor Trades (SHOT) Show in Las Vegas, a major beer manufacturer sponsored the annual media party. These were wild affairs, attended by hundreds of journos and hangers-on who drank thousands of gallons of free beer. After dinner, awards and a short presentation, the evening was turned over to music and more beer.

On this night, a hot cover band took the stage but the large dance floor remained empty. I was enjoying the music and significant portions of the host’s products while chatting with various friends in the firearms industry. Toward the end of the evening, the band was begging someone, anyone to come out and dance but to no avail. After more pleading by the band and more sampling of the sponsor’s wares, the dangerous little voice inside my head spoke up and said, “Let’s show these deadbeats a thing or two!”

With a resounding war-whoop I started calling people out, pointing, waving my arms, wildly gesticulating, gyrating like a dervish with fleas and generally acting like I’d lost what little mind I did possess, all while leading a growing samba line from the seating area to the dance floor.

Once there, according to bystanders with a clearer recollection of the event, I gave a floor show to shame any budding Baryshnikov. I whirled, I twirled, I rolled on the floor, body parts flying in several different directions simultaneously — but always in time with the music. It made such an impression on the attendees, the fact I’m still employed full-time in the shooting industry is a testament to the fragility of the human memory.

Born To Boogie

I shared this interlude as public testimony I can, and will, dance. My moves might be unorthodox but they keep time with the music and I pursue them with great vigor. Of course, like most guys, I hesitate to publicly engage in this pastime until I’ve had a wee bit O’ liquid motivation to grease the skids. Then — watch out!

However, there is one other circumstance where I can be persuaded to trip the light fantastic at the drop of a hat. Actually, it would take far longer to doff a chapeau than to witness a marvelous demonstration of my foxtrot skills during what most would consider a crisis situation. I’m referring to the moment when hot empty shell casings somehow find their way inside your clothing.

For the uninitiated, this predicament occurs when you stand on the firing line blazing away at targets with several of your stalwarts. At some point, a hot shell casing fresh out of the gun goes playfully down your shirt or, heaven forbid, down a gap in the waistline of your pants.

Having a piece of hot metal roaming between your clothing and skin is a highly memorable experience and invokes a considerable range of response in the victim. Some folks scream vile epitaphs and dangerously wave their gun all over the range, while others simply endeavor to keep the offending casing constantly in motion while finishing the drill. This is my chosen technique as a practicing suave-master.

Let’s Dance

During a rapid-fire relay in which we had all emptied multiple magazines, one adventurous shell casing decided it was time to make a long-awaited inner-space exploration. Time went into slow motion as somehow, violating both the laws of physics and haberdashery, the round got under my bandana, then shirt, and began a long, slow southward journey.

First it rolled around my back, visiting various landmarks along the way like a tourist checking out Disney World. Bored with this hirsute region, the casing then somehow found its way past my beltline and finally ventured into the unexplored regions of my trousers like a small, cuprous Vasco de Gama.

I knew from experience I had to keep the malevolent brass moving lest I suffer serious damage but also had to maintain safe muzzle discipline. This series of actions proved far more difficult than the old trick of rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time.

As the casing was sauntering around above the waist, I tried a few enthusiastic shoulder snaps like those often used by Otis Redding’s backup singers. When the brass reached the small of my lower back I executed several hip rolls, the likes of which would have caused any mother or religious official to recoil in horror. When the brass finally ventured south of the Mason-Dixon line, I began a series of violent and suggestive hip thrusts which would get you arrested in most rural areas, especially if performed near large farm animals

The brass was finally starting to cool a bit and slide down a pants leg, so I kept said leg quivering at approximately 750 cycles per minute. A fellow shooter, having missed my previous gymnastics while focusing on his own target, saw the moves and grew concerned our catered noon meal had reached critical mass and was poised for immediate launch. “Did you have the roast beef or chicken salad for lunch?” he shouted.

With the firing string finally over, I began maniacally removing my excessive gear and clothes in an effort to locate the casing. Simultaneously, a passing motorist called 911 to report there was a pudgy, camouflaged male stripper on the shooting range who apparently had accidentally released a live weasel inside his G-string. She demanded the police come and arrest the man for felonious dancing.

If she only knew the truth — it was merely my world-famous rendition of the Hot Brass Boogie.

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