A cheery note from the Caspian folks is disrupting my plans. Some family is visiting this weekend, and I vowed to tidy the place in their honor. But the commanderish slide is en route, scheduled to arrive here at Camp Jiggleview, of which I am Commandant, in about 40 hours.
I feel a distraction coming on, and if any of my people are looking for housekeeping lapses, I'm afraid they may find them. It seems more urgent to sort through the parts one more time, calibrate the mike, ensure enough 400-grit emery and jewelers rouge are on hand. And so forth.
Commanders are just so studly. All a sophisticated Boomer needed in his glory days was the short 1911 for everyday wear along with a PPk for strictly formal occasions. (The Walther rode nicely in our cummerbunds.) Bring on the Symbionize Liberation Army. Bring on Goldfinger.
The pleasure will be in the build. No matter how well armed, I am unlikely to be summoned to Double-0h-Seven evil-doers. It is enough to know that if I were, I would be equipped to shoot them through in a stylish, yet classic, fashion.
Pocketa pocketa pocketa.
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