A female friend of mine got a shooting range day pass and fifty rounds of ammo for her birthday. I love that. Welcome to Alberta. Although, to be fair, in most of Alberta, the shooting range would be the back forty, and you wouldn't need a special occasion to pop a cap or two, regardless of gender.

When I told her and her husband (the giver of said gift) how cool it was, they invited me along. At the range, we agreed on 9mm semi-automatic handguns at 7 metres. (I'll have to go back to try the Colt 45 Long Barrel. The thing is longer than my forearm. Ridiculous.)

After delivering a lengthy safety and procedures briefing, the Range Master led us onto the range and we unleashed hot-leaded hell on a bunch of paper targets.

Holy hairy Moses it was an experience. The Range Master was very helpful with tips and explanations, even assisting us as we tried to load our stiff-springed "mags" with ammo.

Ed's Note: Pictured above is Josh's target, in the recognizable shape of a human body. Everyone else was using the more traditional, bulls-eye black and white targets. Something of a psycho litmus test, perhaps.

My favourite part was before we even started shooting. A sign of rules on the wall listed the following at number 2: "Never cover the end of the gun with anything you do not want to destroy." Classic. It makes one start musing about destroyable things.

Since the targets were only 7 metres away (in the photo, I've brought my target in close, but you can see the marker on the wall on the right-hand side), we all did pretty well. At one point I pushed mine back to 15 metres, and emptied a clip at the guy's... er... target's head, and didn't land a single hit. It doesn't look very far, but there seems to be little correlation between where you point the gun, and where the bullet makes the hole.

The lesson? If I ever come after you with a 9mm pistol, get more than 15 metres away, and stand still. I won't even be able to wing you.

Yesterday some friends came by for dinner and a belated birthday celebration. They introduced me to a new drink called a "caipriosca" (cai-pree-OS-ka) that is better than Kool-Aid:

1. Cut 1 small lime into eight lengthwise slices, removing the white stuff in the middle.
2. Place lime slices (all of them) in large tumbler, and mash to extract juice. Leave limes in glass.
3. Add two tablespoons of sugar.
4. Top with ice chips, to near the rim of the glass.
5. Fill with vodka.
6. I repeat: Fill with vodka.

Please try these, but first make arrangements for travel that don't involve you driving.

Anyhow, we only had enough ice to make one caipriosca (it's Brazilian, by the way) each, or so I thought, when I saw our empty ice cube trays. Later that evening, Phil removed a half-full bag of ice that was taking up too much room in the freezer and put it in the sink. Damn. As I was doing the dishes, I poured some warm water on the block of ice cubes; they split, and frozen between the shards was an intact, red-eyed fly.

Good thing we stopped drinking when we did.

That's not the best part, though. As I continued pouring warm water over the ice, the fly... started... to... move. EEEEET'S ALLLLIIIIIVE!!!

So cool. Yet another life saved by sobriety. Not being given to unwarranted acts of violence, I chucked it outside, where it was likely eaten by a larger bug later in the evening.

You'd think the cops have the whole custody thing worked out by now. I mean, I've seen enough movies and TV to know that criminals try to escape by kicking out car windows, faking incapacitation, hiding in large laundry hampers, and even covering their own face with the sliced off face off a police officer (a la "Silence of the Lambs"). Knowing this, I would certainly be on the lookout for these techniques after making an arrest.

The Victoria Times-Colonist reported about a former ministerial assistant who was arrested a second time for drug trafficking. Arrested with the assistant was another man, who "was taken from jail to hospital when officers feared he might be suffering from a drug overdose." Hmmm... sounds fishy to me. But then again, I'm not a highly trained, drug-savvy police officer.

Apparently it's tough to keep track of a criminal who's been taken to hospital, because of all those pesky doctors and nurses. The old "handcuff to the bed" thing never occurred to this crack squad of law enforcers, since, as recorded in the best newpaper line in recent memory, "the man escaped by 'running like crazy.'"