Columnist John Katsilometes: Happiness is not a warm gun

Monday, March 12, 2001 | 8:09 a.m.

John Katsilometes is the Sun features editor. His column appears Mondays. Reach him at kats@lasvegassun.com or 259-2327.

I've risen from sleep about 1,280 times in my life. Not once have I awakened thinking, "You know, I wish I owned a handgun."

I realize I am not part of an exclusive club. A lot of people own and love guns. They pull their triggers -- or, in gunspeak "fire off a few rounds," -- at local shooting ranges as a way to relieve stress. In "American Beauty," when Annette Bening rediscovered her sexuality, she ventured to a shooting range and enjoyed multiple discharges.

Gun owners use their pieces for hunting wild game and for home protection. Nancy Reagan had a little gun she kept in her nightstand at the White House.

The safest woman in the world had a gun. For what? Fending off a sleepwalking chief executive? Her gun had a pearl handle, it was reported, so it was fit for formal occasions such as state dinners and inaugural balls. Her pearly firearm matched a lot of her jewelry and was probably designed by Halston.

It's too easy to get a gun, and too many people own guns. I've lived a relatively incident-free life and even I've had a gun pulled on me.

Oh, and I almost shot my brother.

The first episode occurred a few years ago when I was shooting (pool) with some friends at Boomerang's. One of my friends happens to own a registered handgun. We'll call him "Paul" because his name isn't "Paul," and he showed up wearing a white T-shirt and cut-off overalls.

Being a fashion-conscious practitioner of constructive criticism, I asked, "Who are you? The missing Clampett?"

This led to an unfortunate string of uninvited critiques, which included such terms as "Arkansas," "dueling banjoes," and "purty mouth."

This went on for a while, maybe hours, and when we quit shooting (pool) "Paul" and I sidled up to the bar. Suddenly I felt a poke in my right side and "Paul" sneered, "You want to keep making fun of the way I'm dressed?"

"No siree, Jethro," I said, then looked down and noticed the barrel of a 9mm Remington Track II, or whatever, and added "Whoa, Nellie."

He was joking. I was shaking.

The near-shooting of my brother was more serious. My family used to own an almond orchard in Northern California (we were nuts, I tell you!). Every year around harvest time squirrels would appear in droves to devour our crop. We were told that a single squirrel could eat 40-50 pounds of almonds a year (though we never actually took the time to weigh a squirrel), and felt the best way to protect our nuts was to employ our superior firepower.

One day my brother and I went out to bravely face down the threatening beasts. We canvassed the orchard, armed only with .22-caliber semiautomatic rifles loaded with hollow-point bullets. My brother was walking a few feet in front of me, on my left, and I spotted a squirrel in the distance.

Thinking I had activated the gun's safety mechanism, I pulled my rifle up and accidentally fired a shot. It ricocheted off a tree -- ping! -- on my left, about 5 1/2 feet off the ground.

It just missed hitting my brother, who at the time was about 5 1/2 feet tall.

We sat down, positively petrified, and said nothing. Neither of us was in the mood to discuss the wording of the Second Amendment or much else.

That was my last shot.