Can it be stopped? The primal boy-urge of blowing stuff up, shooting things full of holes, smashing bad cars and leaving them in the woods. And returning season after season to blast away flakes of rust and smash them up some more? A faith whose adherents would fancy themselves outdoorsmen, wilderness types, more than a hobby, traditionalists of a sort.
How did this cultural bent arise? Did the Amish smash up old buggies in the woods for amusement? Did bored Colonists hone their blunderbuss skills on retired farm gear?
Tilting at windmills, that’s where it must have started, this tradition.
But traditions change, too. Cervantes’ Quixote, correction – El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha – he gave up eventually.
As for today’s chivalrous romantics – you out there with your rifles and your shotguns and shells – you’re just not what you used to be.
And if I recall the story correctly, the windmill won in the end.