FORBES.COM – The young man put the handgun on the counter in front of me. I felt like I was in the presence of a rattlesnake. If I avoided it, it wouldn’t hurt me. But I was there to shoot it, which meant I had to pick it up. I’d told a friend of mine, a gun collector, that I intended to write about the business of guns on my blog. “Nobody has ever written about guns well who hasn’t shot one,” he said.
That sounded right to me, so I called a shooting range about a half-hour from my house, made an appointment on the spot and drove down. The range, called Sharpshooters, was in a small industrial park, the kind of place where you go to pick up FedEx packages or sometimes rock climbing. I paid a little more than $100 for a 45-minute lesson, some time on the range and a box of bullets. “Ammo,” everyone called it. [full article]