The Fundamental Elements of Addiction
I simply must have seven magazines to support all of my serious defensive guns. I have no idea why.
OCD is doctor-speak for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. In its most aggressive forms, OCD can be undeniably debilitating. These are the folks who cannot leave their homes without checking the locks a dozen times. Some of these unfortunate people scrub their skin off trying to remove imaginary pathogens. Amidst the expansive pantheon of medical maladies, that can be a rough one with which to cope.
A little bit of OCD can actually make you successful. Medicine, like a lot of other professional pursuits, involves managing large numbers of little things simultaneously. A smidgeon of OCD helps a lot with that. However, an excess of that stuff will render you quite literally impossible to be around. Personally, I strive daily to strike that elusive balance. My wife no doubt covets your prayers.
You see a fair amount of OCD in committed gun collectors as well. To paraphrase the Apostle Paul, I am chief among sinners. It was only recently that a dear friend pointed this out to me. They say acknowledging you have a problem is the first step toward recovery. I suppose we shall see …
This MP5SD was the end result of a lifelong quest.
Signs and Symptoms
A gun buddy from way back and I were recently discussing a cool new addition to the collection. He asked if I was considering elevating this particular gun to the esteemed position of primary home defense arm. The rifle that earns that coveted title in my world is a rarefied piece of iron indeed. When I answered affirmatively, he asked how many magazines I had accumulated.
My friend went on to explain that you cannot put a defensive rifle into service without at least seven magazines. That’s one in the weapon and another six to fill a vest. Forget that Uncle Sam hasn’t paid me to carry a gun since 1997. The only way I might ever be called upon to take up arms against the enemies of my great nation would be if Delta Force, the US Marines, every cook in the United States military, and the entirety of the Boy and Girl Scouts were all otherwise indisposed.
However, he had a point. For all my serious long guns, I do find that I simply must have seven magazines. For proper defensive handguns, that number is three. It seems I am indeed pathetic.
Each acquisition is its own conquest. I patiently
stalk my prey until I can make it mine.
The Collection Quandary
I went for decades wheeling and dealing as I made my personal gun stash more and more respectable. Back when I had no money, I would trade something old that I could live without to acquire something newer that I simply couldn’t. Once I started writing enough to support a proper gun habit, I began correcting those old wrongs. It has been simply great fun haunting GunBroker looking for examples of old treasures I had foolishly traded away. Now with 59 years on my own personal Hobbs meter, I have rectified most of these old mistakes. However, each acquisition invariably morphs into some sort of bizarre holy crusade.
Take the recent AKS-74u as an example. I like AKs at least as much as your next rabid gun nerd. As a result, I would add an example here and there as the opportunity allowed, eventually covering most of the high points. However, that stubby little AKS-74u remained maddeningly elusive.
It’s not really my fault. Original demilled parts kits cost more than my pickup truck, and you still have to figure out some way to build it up legally on a semiauto receiver. Then Palmetto State Armory came out with a pistol version in 5.56mm. That’s not the original 5.45x39mm chambering, but that did mean it would be fairly cheap to shoot. Thus began yet another holy quest.
I wheedled the poor folks at PSA mercilessly. In retrospect, I am actually a wee bit embarrassed by my unseemly enthusiasm. Eventually, I landed the gun, a folding stock, and a tax stamp that allowed me to put the two together. I took my sparkly new Combloc smoke pole out to the range, shot a bunch of ammo through it, wrote it up for Brent at GUNS Magazine, and then retired it to a place of honor to make space for the next insensible conquest. That has got to be diagnosable on some level.
In retrospect, I am somewhat embarrassed by how badly I
hounded the good folks at Palmetto State Armory over
this particular gun.
Ruminations
As near as I can tell, this is a sex-linked malady. You can find it in guys who collect cars, clocks, autographs, coins, stamps, and baseball cards. Where it is typically absent is among the fairer sex. In my experience at least, girls simply do not seem to be terribly susceptible.
Oh, you can certainly find women who are smitten with collecting such banal stuff as decorative embossed spoons, attractive porcelain figurines, and Beanie Babies. However, most of the women in my life are way more concerned with raising kids, keeping everyone fed, praising Jesus, and generally making the world a better place. Not saying that women are fundamentally superior to men, but who would you sooner share an otherwise-deserted island with? Just saying…
As we have determined that I am apparently suffering from a serious mental illness, now I think the government should step in and help out. In addition to a generous disability check, I think granting me unfettered access to the BATF firearms reference collection in Martinsburg would be just what the doctor ordered. I’ll divert my disability proceedings into ammo. Perhaps I can get a special tag for my car that lets me park close to the shooting bench at the local range. I can think of no more effective treatment for my particularly peculiar disease.
