Bitch, you lost your shit!

Let me recap my Wednesday, because it was awesome and pretty much bounced all over the spectrum of... everything?

It was a week since getting laid off. Instead of Living The Big Lebowski like I did last Wednesday, which was terrific, I was invited by my friend Adam to go shoot his pistol. Wink wink?

Yeeeep. Me + firearms = GREAT idea.

Anyway, I rocked up to his house around 5. We headed to Hoffman's Gun Center to shoot his Colt 1911 .45 caliber handgun. It's a big gun. (And yes, I realize the irony of talking about handling a man's big gun immediately followed by a trip to a drag show, but I digress.) So we walk in. I'm not a large girl, by any means, but I'm also not weak looking. I mean, at 5'5" and 130 lbs., I'm pretty strong, and if nothing else, stubborn enough to pretend I can do just about anything. Besides, it's annoying to be defeated by inanimate objects. As we're walking in, I'm struck by the sheer size of the place. I never realized how high the demand for weaponry is. Apparently, it's really very high. Also, people who like guns also like to decorate walls with the unfortunate targets of their pursuits. There was a giant moose head among the various taxidermied ruminants who, at the time of his death, must have weighed well over a ton and a half, probably closer to two. Now, I don't know much about moose, but what I do know is that they're rather slow in the ol' noggin. So slow, in fact, that many towns up northward (ahem, Canada) make a game out of lassoing moose who wander into town and leading them around until they finally just let them loose. Or so I've heard. At any rate, I felt bad for the formerly giant, now wall-mounted moose and his many companions.

But enough about the moose. Adam and I rock up to the counter outside the indoor range, hand over our IDs, fill out the necessary paper work, and get situated with earplugs and goggles. The man behind the counter is giving me the "oh look at the small girl with big ambitions" bemused half smile. In other words, he thought I was ridiculous.

Adam brought me into the range. Now, my not inconsiderable shooting abilities aside, this place made me mildly uncomfortable. Not because of the availability of firearms, nor, indeed, with wide-array of such weaponry on offer, but mostly because of the totally batshit insane looking gentleman using a huge, semi-automatic rifle of some description. He had the look of one of those people who always wanted to be in the military, but was too fucking insane to be let in. Or maybe he had been in the military, and during some horrible event, a few wires came loose and he decided that owning said enormous weapon was the only way to stay safe in Connecticut. Because, you know, Connecticut is pretty dangerous and all. Or maybe he just liked big guns.

I'm not overtly comfortable around firearms (can you tell?). Certainly, with the exception of, say, shotguns and certain rifles, most guns were made to kill people. Or skeet. And the occasional piece of cardboard with a target on it. Shooting a gun the size of Adam's is fun, in the weird, powerful, I-hope-I-don't-fuck-this-up kind of way. I'd do it again. But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable around these guys, or their guns. I'm totally comfortable with Adam, entirely trusting of his abilities around his weapons. He's responsible, careful, and honest. He was a good teacher, and I can't say I didn't feel totally badass once I got the hang of loading the gun. More than shooting even, sliding a full magazine into a gun and chambering a round is really satisfying. Don't read into that too much.

Adam and I went to dinner, shared a bottle of wine, and were fairly sleepy by 9:30 p.m. My friend Krissy called. Were we still on for the drag show? Were we ever!

I rocked up to her place by 9:45. Everyone was dragging ass. We made coffee, finished primping, and hit the road. I say we finished primping because, in my experience, no one will verbally cut you as fast or as effectively as a drag queen. You have to bring your A-game. Especially if you're a feminine chick.

We headed to Diva's Nightclub in Northampton, MA. (Northampton, in case you were unaware, is the lesbian capital of the north east.) I'd never been to Diva's before, but Krissy's roommate Kait had her birthday party there a few months back, so Krissy, Kait, and their friend Rachel had all been there. Diva's was great.

Drag show! $1 PBR drafts! More androgyny than a David Bowie and Annie Lennox double bill!

We people watched for a while. I love different expressions of gender and sex. At a gay club, more so than the average nightclub, there's an atmosphere of acceptance, sexuality, and pure, unadulterated fun that's unlike anything else you'll experience. The lines to the bathrooms did not represent the signs on the doors, and the bartenders (among the best I've seen. They seriously don't skimp on booze) were friendly and queer as the day is long. There was a couple making out on the dance floor that I could not for the life of me figure out. Not because I couldn't detect their secondary sex characteristics (I couldn't), but because they looked an awful lot like one another. It was pretty surreal and badass.

The drag show was killer. I have to say, my favorite performer was Miss Phenol Barbitol, she kicked ass. And Jujubee, a lovely lady who will appear on RuPaul's Drag Race, definitely rocked it. She was one of those expert queens who was gorgeous and talented, and was born to kick ass on stage, being a sexier lady with better legs than I will ever have. I hope she wins.

Drag queens are Amazons. Drag queens are self-aware performers. And drag queens will tell you what's what quicker than a high school cheerleader will go down on the QB. The emcee, a really funny queen who could have snapped me in half, was the best over-sharer on the planet. We heard about her trip to Miami Beach, the fabulous fake-tits on the woman sunbathing topless, and some various bjs on her cruise. I loved her. I wanted to be her. And that's the god's honest truth. All the same, I could never pull off drag. I'm only 5'5" and definitely can't pull off the devil-may-care attitude that comes so naturally to these ladies.

It was a trip and a half to go from the CT redneck enclave that was the shooting range to one of the queerest places on earth in a matter of hours. The only thing that would have been better would have been taking the drag queens shooting.