As I waited for my lane pass down at the shooting range, three men approached the counter. They were dressed in what I like to call (but don’t) Guido casual: loose-fitting silk shirts adorned with ornate designs from the Velvet Elvis School of Fashion, draped over sweat pants that want to be trousers when they grow up. The men were short, stocky and swarthy, with faces that would never, ever be clean-shaven. They spoke to each other in Arabic. I felt an adrenalin rush unrelated to my forthcoming familiarization session with a Benelli SuperNova 12-gauge pump shotgun. The range is one of those open-to-the-public gun rental places; show some valid ID and off you go. Go on. Call me a racist. But I suddenly thought about the guy taking IDs at the Florida flight training school where the 911 terrorists practiced their terminal approach. I bet no one made a fuss there, then, either.
