Growing up in the rural desert gave me lots of opportunities to shoot things. Nothing living, of course, other than my friends. Before discovering fireworks, we lit each other up with paintballs and air-soft BBs without mercy. The welts and burns were temporary, but the memories should last a lifetime.
The baddest mother bleeper in the paintball squad was always the one who scouted the enemy’s defense — or did recon, as a bunch of tweens playing war liked to call it. That job usually involved getting pelted by the other team, and groin shots were always on the table. As a tall kid with a long groin, I thought the concept of recon could fuck right off. Now, as a pothead with road rage and little tolerance for dumb questions, I don’t think Recon’s so bad.