Mirinda Writes - Radio Commentaries -

It seems the NRA is getting a little sensitive about guns being called weapons. A member of the association phoned me recently to object to my using the term "weapon" in an article I wrote about handguns. He said the NRA asked its members to educate people like me on the definition of words such as "gun" and "weapon." Specifically, the two terms are not interchangeable. "My organization doesn't like guns being called weapons," he said. "It's not accurate. A gun isn't a weapon until it's used against someone."

"Then why do people carry guns if they don't intend to use them?" I asked. "Okay, I'm willing to grant that some people may only use guns for target shooting. In that case, we could call guns "sporting goods." But my article referred specifically to the law allowing North Carolinians to carry concealed handguns. It's reasonable to assume that people would carry concealed handguns for self-defense, not for knocking off tin cans in the back yard."

Now my mind is beginning to percolate. If I were rewriting the dictionary of firearm terms for the NRA, what would I call a handgun? How about "mother's companion" or "sis's little helper?" Assault weapons? Let's call them "efficiency neutralizers."

When I emerged from my reverie, I said to the caller, "By NRA logic, I suppose bayonets, hand grenades and artillery aren't weapons, either. And what about those nuclear things nestled in silos around the country? We haven't used them since World War II. Oh, I remember; they're not weapons; they're deterrents."

Since our conversation, I looked up "gun" in my foot-thick Webster's Unabridged and the first two words of the first definition are: "a weapon." Anyone who fought in Vietnam will tell you GIs were trained to call their guns and rifles weapons. If a guy referred to a firearm as "my gun," he'd be laughed out of the platoon. That term was reserved for a certain part of his anatomy. In drills, the men would alternately lift their rifles and point to said anatomical part, chanting: "This is my weapon; this is my gun; this is for fighting; this is for fun."

Now, the NRA didn't invent doublespeak. The organization is simply following a long Orwellian tradition: Nixon didn't lie; he misspoke. We didn't bomb civilians during the Vietnam war. It was just "collateral damage." The military is rife with examples of bureaucratic doublespeak: "friendly fire" for killing one of your own; "servicing the target" for killing someone else; "prematurely terminated flight" for crash; and my personal favorite: "natural amenity unit." In English, that means outhouse.

The NRA wants you to remember that a gun is not a weapon until you service the target. And if you're using your gun only for sport, don't shoot up the natural amenity unit and be sure to practice safe sex.

Now, I've always thought this Southern belle thing was highly exaggerated. I grew up in the South, and it never much worked for me. But Scarlet, aka Dinah, is different story.

Here's the scene: Dinah takes me and two other guests to a night spot where a popular local band is playing. We are four single females including Bobbie, a petite former Miss Dallas and Miss American runner-up. (I know she's a size four, because I peeked in her closet.) I ask Bobbie, "Don't men just plague you in places like this?"

Sure enough, after the four of us have ordered dinner, the waitress brings over a bottle of wine courtesy of an admiring group of men at another table. But instead of taking the bottle to Bobbie, who's at least 15 years younger than the rest of us, the waitress has been directed to Dinah. And this is just the beginning. Men begin to mill around Dinah, with barely a nod to us place holders, including beauty queen Bobbie. Fashionably but conservatively dressed in a black turtleneck, Dinah just opens her eyes wide and keeps smiling even while she's resisting the hands-on attentions of a particularly tenacious and creepy stranger. The guy's drooling and pawing are simply an opportunity for Dinah to seek the protective arms of the handsome, burly band leader. Did I mention that Dinah is a 50-year-old widow?

Long before Fein and Schneider came along with their book, Dinah and her sisters were steeped in "the rules." Dinah, who was born on Peachtree Street and whose first name is (I'm not kidding) Melanie, had a mother devoted to teaching her daughters the art of captivating boys.

On how to touch a boy, Mama advised "lightly, with your fingertips on his forearm." Before dances, mama always entwined fresh roses in the girls' elaborate hair-dos. "It's better than perfume," she'd say. "And if you're interested in the boy, at the end of the dance, you can give him the rose from your hair."

My weekend observations of Dinah have led me to draft a modified list of belle rules for us more mature, full-blown magnolias: Make eye contact; hang on his every word; always marry up; never cuss; work at golf tournaments; wear perfume and red nail polish; show cleavage selectively (maybe once or twice a year); be helpless on occasion; never let on that you know more than he does about anything; take all the responsibility for making conversation; and never overlook a good man, even if he temporarily belongs to someone else.

Somehow, I just can't seem to follow these rules -- too much Yankee in my blood, I guess. If I did, maybe I'd be managing my stock portfolio right now, as Dinah does, instead of have to go to work every day. And that bottle of wine: It was sent over by the head coach of the Georgia Tech football team.

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