Someone needs to open a combination shooting range and yoga studio. I’m serious. Maybe I should do it. Hose off a few clips of Glaser safety slugs, then see how deep you can go into Warrior II. The murder rate would go down. No, wait — it would stay the same, but people would realize it’s all part of a bigger plan. Or, no, it would go up, because people would realize the transitory nature of existence, and that everything that has happened or is going to happen is always happening someplace forever, so why not put a slug in that dude’s head who won’t stop talking during “300”?

The people I took the introductory gun course with were an interesting bunch: two guys hoping to become armed security guards, an indie-music-store-looking black guy, a dad and his two teenage sons and a guy who claimed to be an actor researching a role. Did they know a neophyte yogi sat among them, counting his inhalations and trying to make his exhalations take twice as long?

Meanwhile, I was the only guy in the yoga class. In fact, I was the only non-soccer mom in the yoga class. Did they know they had a rifle-eyed street panther in their midst?

Probably not. In yoga, you’re supposed to go at your own pace and focus on your breathing. So no one saw me flopping my doughnut belly and Internet butt around like a wino when I was trying to do Bridge Pose, or Happy Baby or Slightly Superior Suburbanite. Like the legless, armless silhouette I shot at earlier that day, I had holes of self-loathing blasted out of me. My Corpse Pose must’ve looked eerily authentic.

All these thoughts whizzed through my head like tracer bullets as I lay there, in the evening gloom of the studio, with a dozen moms breathing mom-breaths around me. I floated out of my body. I hovered over Burbank. I was one with my target, and my target was bliss.

Namaste. Lock and load.