Of No Particular Consequence: A Really Good Shot

I was watching the Olympics briefly this weekend and became absolutely enthrawled with the biatholon. I thought to myself, "I can totally do that."

Now, your first question should be: What would possibly make her think that?

You might not know this about me, I'm not particularly good with skis, but I’m a REALLY good shot, especially with a .22 gauge rifle. How do I know this? That answer brings me to another quintessential NY story.

Nestled discretely in the middle of the West Village sits Tiro a Segno, a private, members-only club. But, Tiro a Segno is no ordinary “club.” It's so elusive I had troubles finding anything concrete about it on the internet (which obviously knows all) besides this article from 1988 in the NY Times, plus a couple vague reviews.

Its membership is exclusive only to those of Italian heritage and as difficult in get in to as it is to get out of the mob alive. Its a kind of place where food and wine flow freely and one can’t help but hope the stomach could expand just a smidge more to make room for the last morsel of goodness.

One fateful night, I was lucky enough to be the guest of a guest.

As we dined on the most traditional Italian food, paired with wine and cheese we would take breaks after eaach course and head down stairs to the basement gun range. That’s right, a gun range in the basement. While initially I was a bit concerned (being the anti-NRA democrat that I am), I took to it like a natural…and loved it. Its precise, its powerful, its liberating. It was more than you can imagine.

Here's the tricky part: as the night went on, the wine flowed freer and the targets seemed to get further away. The steps became more labored and that much harder to focus. Once being one who could moderately hold her liquor, dessert came around, along with the dessert Port and I was a gone-r. I remember shooting my last target being one of the most difficult things I'd ever done.

Clearly, the only way to end the night was in a limo ride home. From the West Village to the Upper East Side we made a round about pit stop in the financial district and hopped on the FDR for a scenic route home. The limo, with a fully loaded bar, called our names despite the fact that I had already had my fill. A vodka 7up later, Jenn and I were standing out of the sunroof, going 60 up the FDR....screaming, fists raised in the air, like every twenty-something living in New York dreams of doing. The night was gorgeous, the city sparkled, I felt untouchable.

I'll never forget that night. The food, the friends, the .22 gauge shot gun...we all got a little closer that night.

And just in case you don't believe me, the proof is in the pictures.