GUNS Magazine TAP DANCIN’ THROUGH THE MINE FIELD

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Yeah, I’ve done that, including once when myself and some pals wound up waltzing into a mine field laid for a war two decades before, and it was not –- repeat, not –- fun. Still, that was easier and in some ways less scary than traveling across the U.S. with guns, taking care not to trip over the tangle of goofy gun laws.

In a lot of places where I used to hang out, there weren’t so much “gun laws” as there were “gun attitudes.” Like, in much of South America, where almost all guns are illegal, everybody’s got ’em, everybody knows it, and only criminals get whacked for violations –- that is, if the cops can outgun ’em. Over a big chunk of Africa, the local authorities will drop you like a box a’ rocks just for having a gun, and the local bandits will ventilate you for being stupid enough not to have a gun. In Asia, gun laws are mostly nonexistent or unenforceable and in Britain and Australia, they’re just stupid -– and socially suicidal.

Until recent years gun laws never had much impact on me. I was either “packin’ with a purpose” of the military variety, or my ensemble of weapons was accessorized with a big badge. I think of that period now as “the simple life.” My current occupation, or, as the Memsaab Helena calls it, my “hobby with an occasional paycheck,” means shuffling around the country, usually bearing arms and ammo sufficient to require overload springs, and spending time with like-minded GunNutz. The biggest problem I have with it -– besides “truck-lag,” the lowspeed version of jet lag –- is tryin’ to stay legal –- and stay alive, too.

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Tip-Toein’ Over Trip-Wires

In one city I flew into, local laws prohibited me from bringing handguns, period. Since rifles carried in urban public tend to cause excruciating ear pain from all the high-pitched screaming, I arrived “next to nekkid” arms-wise. A buddy picked me up at the airport and immediately slid a Glock 17 across the seat of his car. “For tomorrow at the range?” I asked. “Nope,” he said, “For the drive to the hotel. I’ve got front and left; you take the right and rear. We roll through stop signs, and no stopping for red lights if there’s
anybody on the corner. There’s a full mag and empty chamber, and I recommend one up the spout until we cross the river.”

Yeah. This was in the “heartland of America”; another big city with lots of gun laws, all touted as “necessary for public safety” and “reducing gun violence.” For the next 10 minutes we drove through an area where the minimalls resembled Mogadishu and the business blocks looked like Beirut. The scattered humans visible scuttled quickly from doorway to doorway, and I don’t think that was to avoid bein’ pooped on by the conspicuously absent songbirds. Gee, those laws sure have worked, haven’t they?

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And It Gets Worse

And It Gets Worse Let’s just look at our nation’s capitol, Washington, D.C., that bastion of gun free, crime-free, safety consciousness. According to recent statistics, over the past two years the annual rate of firearms deaths has been 80.6 per 100,000 citizens. For our troops engaged in combat operations in Iraq, the rate has been 60 per 100,000. You may quote me on this: Duhhh … Seems like there are three major differences between D.C. and Iraq: First, folks in Washington are more likely to get shot than grunts patrolling Fallujah. Second, D.C.-dwellers can’t even shoot back, and third, they don’t even get combat pay!

I’ve routinely stopped in Nevada and dropped off my high-cap magazines before entering California. I understand this completely. After all, I’m obviously more prone to engage in schoolyard slaughter with one 17-round magazine than with two 10-rounders. I’ve stopped before crossing other state lines to remove extended shotgun magazine tubes, and the reasoning is crystal clear –- being on the receiving end of four rounds of double-ought buckshot is far more pleasant than suckin’ up six. Right?

I wish I could give you guys a complete and detailed guide to gun laws in every place in the U.S. you might travel through or consider moving to, but there ain’t enough trees left for that many pages of print. I know of one place that is a hamlet in a village in a township in a city in a county in a state, and each and every one of those political entities has their own increasingly restrictive gun laws. A couple hours drive-time away is a state with virtually no gun laws, and no permit required for concealed carry by lawabiding sane citizens. Guess which one has the lowest rates of armed crime and personal violence? I repeat, Duhhh …

So, here’s a highly condensed guide you can stuff in your wallet:

The South

If your house, truck, boat, and barn don’t contain at least four generations worth of firearms rangin’ from squirrel guns to great-great Granddaddy’s horse pistols, you must be a transplanted Yankee.

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Middle America

Draw a big circle around Chicago and stay the heck out of it. Otherwise, some fairly solid sense prevails. Generally, if you can see corn or wheat fields, or smell hogs, people understand guns are tools and food don’t come from supermarkets.

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The Rocky Mountain States

Yep, we got guns. Gonna keep ’em, too. What’s the problem? Oh, your big cities are outta control? That’s a shame.

The Left Coast — California

Generally sorta-prohibited are “those black guns,” guns with “banana-clippie thingies,” flash-hidey gadgets, stickingout handle-parts, any gun that goes bangitty- bangitty-bang really fast, like, you know? -– or any gun used by a really creepy bad guy in a movie, whether such firearm actually exists or not. California’s gun laws were written by former poodlegroomers suffering the after-effects of psychotropic drugs. I think they moved there from New York.

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TAP DANCIN’ THROUGH THE MINE FIELD