| Our man in the GMA on Day Two: --- Saturday dawned bright and clear, like that's unusual around these parts. Let's see, go back to the NRA convention or do chores around the house? Decisions, decisions. Oh, a-go-ny! Many more people on the train this morning, and a festive air was, uh, in the air. It was more like a fan bus on the way to the Big Game. I don't know what the two fellow travellers in our car who weren't People of the Gun must have thought. Perhaps the governor's statement last night that the banquet was the largest meal ever served in the state (6,000 plus) might have influenced them somewhat. This time there WAS a stampede to the convention center, but inside things ran infinitely smoother. Although there was easily four times the crowd the lines moved more than twice as fast. Since I foolishly left my sticker at home I had to re-register. Six minutes, tops, including the time I spent in the wrong line to get a permanent badge, something I'd forgone yesterday as the line appeared to stretch well past suppertime. Today it took me longer to thread the lanyard through the badge holder than it did to get it. I think the forecast (threat?) of attendance on the far side of 60,000 might have inspired a certain degree of efficiency on the parts of all concerned. The upshot was that, as opposed to yesterday, the lines fairly flew. Back into the hall, and I swear to God that it had grown overnight. It didn't seem possible, but it was BIGGER! The safari bookers were here, I remember, but where did all these accessory vendors come from? (And not one booth selling jerky. (See, J..? It isn't just in Texas!) I still could have done without the guy in the kilt, though. But I hadn't forgotten my mission. I managed to collar a suit wearing a media badge and asked him where the media room was. (I'd learned yesterday that asking for "blogger row" was worse than futile.) He seemed stunned - perhaps this was his first rodeo - and said that he thought it was room 211. Well, that's more than I had to go on this far, so out and up I went. By accident I discovered the media in room 122. Hey, lysdexic much? There was one sole soul there plugging away who allowed that Breda hadn't come in today, but if I'd leave my number he'd see what he could do. Fair enough. Back down into the fray, until that was a fair description of what my nerve endings were doing. There was a "Guns of the Battle of the Bulge" presentation at 2:00 but by then I was wondering what I could learn that I hadn't already seen on the History Channel so I just bagged it for the day. Wouldn't you know Breda called when I was halfway to Tempe so there was nothing to do but wish her well and to give Chris and Kevin my regards as well. These people have their nerve, going out and enjoying the convention instead of staying put and clickling chiclets. I was even going to give them my autograph. That's about it. I didn't see any of the big names, not even from a distance, and even with a Benefactor badge that I was given by mistake. For that you have to be one of the Yellow Jackets, I believe, but then I didn't go there for that. I mean, I like Ted Nugent and all, but I'm not waiting all day in line just to say howdy and how ya doin'? Observations? Wow, I just don't know. Off the top of my head I'd say that everyone with a milling machine except Harrington & Richardson and Daisy have an AR for sale, with everyone agreeing that Ruger made a mistake by trying to enter that market. (BTW, wait times on the above poodle shooters are 6-8 months from everyone.) Speaking of which, that .380 from SR is almost too small to believed, and their new pocket revolver is about the same weight as a silk scarf, which gives me pause. Aimpoint had the only booth babes in the whole show, if you didn't count the Dillon calendar girl. Oh, and somebody must be buying Judges from Taurus, because they now offer about twelve different ititerations of it. And it just struck me that that was about the only firearm there not offered in pink. Yet. This year. Tomorrow, I don't know about. Might, might not. I have two swag bags with about thirty pounds of catalogs and whatnot each already, and don't know what else I could get other than footsore. Gaze at John Garand's Garand? (SN 1,000,000) Check out the original brass Gatling, perhaps the only gun for sale in the whole hall? Dunno. Maybe I should soak either my feet or my head and wonder how uncounted wealth has avoided me so successfully. But, damn, those camoed SARs are *sweet*. Do I really need two kidneys? -- (I feel the need to call attention to my friend's increasing compassion and sensitivity as he approaches his mature years. I knew him in the days when he would have wondered if his Best Friend needed two kidneys. ED) |
| I played hooky yesterday with my boss's permission to go to the toy show. I soon found myself on the electric danger train downtown with every retired greyhair in the GMA. "Great," I though, "I'm on the Geezerville Express." To my complete lack of surprise we all got off at 3rd and Jefferson. The herd shuffled rather than thundered to the convention center and the beginning of festivities. (Well, truth be told, the true Inner Circle was feted the night before, but my invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.) Things were kicked off by hundreds of us milling about in the lobby to no apparent aim or movement. The logjam broke briefly enough for some of us to de-escalate one landing down, where the cause presented itself: The fire marshall thought there were too many people trying to get in, so rather than, oh, let us IN and spread out, chose instead to pack thousands of us into every-shrinking holding pens. My inability to discern the reason for this no doubt explains my failure to obtain greatness in life. Eventually Common Sense and momentum overcame bureaucratic inertia and my portion of the herd was permitted to enter, descending into what appeared to be unbridled chaos. It later appeared that there WAS signage, there WERE orderly lines, there WERE uniformed cheerful volunteerd, but all were overwhelmed by tsunamis of humanity. The line I eventually found myself in didn't so much move as glaciated. I suspected women were giving birth in it at a greater rate than the standees were being processed but I eventually found myself at the front, where I was registered in approximately three nanoseconds, whereupon I was duly tagged and released into the wild, my endowment ribbon flapping the refrigerated breeze, and hastened to the exhibit hall. Oh. My. Gawd. Martha, back up the truck. Acres and acres of machines that turn money into noise, and all of it free for the fondling. It you tarried to long in your admiration of some bauble the factory representative behind the counter not only encouraged hands-on fondling but nigh-onto insisted upon it lest his corporate feeling be hurt. Well, okay, if you insist. Lather rinse repeat for hours upon hours, to the point of sensory overload and muscle fatigue. And that's just the new stuff. The historical exhibits were hands-off, naturally, but were astounding all the same. Smith & Wesson pre-war semi-autos. Walls of Winchester model 52 variations. One was devoted solely to Luger carbines. I longed for a mirror to see if my Hickitude was showing. Later in the afternoon I began to weary, not so much from the sheer magnitude of it all but from my thwarted quest to merely say "Howdy" to the one-legged Cleveland librarian blogger who managed to get her prothesis aboard an airliner despite the best efforts of PSA. Also, my feet hurt. Hey, my badge is good all weekend, right? I'll try again tomorrow. (To be continued) |
Embarrassed but not hurt, he got up and started gathering the newspapers when a black limousine slowed to a stop, and a man got out of the back seat to help.
"Are you OK?" He asked as he began assisting Dave. The kind man stayed long enough to help Dave pick up the papers and make certain that he was OK.
Dave couldn't help but notice his license plate number when he drove away: "1." South Dakota Governor Joe Foss...".
(Who flew Mustangs, not Unicorns.)
