Trevanian's Pig Weather

Questions arrive here about  the meaning of "pig weather."

It denotes a land saturated with unpleasantness from the skies.  Mist, chill, sporadic rain accumulating as filthy slush. Low grey clouds portending not storms but a long siege of wet and boring discontent with the world outside your window, neither the balminess of a good spring and summer, nor the crispness of autumn, nor the challenge of winter's worst.  Neither one thing nor another, merely enervation.

The phrase comes to me from Trevanian's great and gentle novel, "The Main,"  set in Montreal and  following an adventure of aging detective Claude LaPointe.   Trevanian called it a roman policier. Most Americans would probably refer to is as a police procedural, but that shorthand connotes too much of the mindless whodunit.

It is certainly possible that some better novel has been written about culture clash and human frailty and the innate compassion of the best police officers seeking to temper human violence. I haven't found it, and that is not for a lack of looking.

My Cup Runneth Over

I've mentioned the big lead stash and the barrel leading from the first batch of c. 230-grain round-nose bullets. Pan lubrication solved that problem, but a delightful auction has made it nearly moot.  I cannot explain why the gunny crowd let me  buy 1,500 commercial   .452 SWC 200-grainers at exactly one and one-half cents per round.

Geeking it out: A cent and a half for the bullet, three cents each  for the primer and case, just under two cents for the Unique.  I'll be shooting Mister Browning's (PBUH)  big pistol for about  twice the cost of the cheapest  .22 rimfires.

My oracle foresees more and louder bangs in the Camp J vicinity for the next year or so.

Social Networking Tools

The final 200 commercial cases on hand  are in the tumbler. Loaded with excellent 200-grain SWCs today they'll bring the Colts' fodder inventory up to the strategic reserve target.

(Pig weather rules out pleasant outdoor work.)
.

Al Sharpton

The Rev. Mr. Sharpton continues his career of missing the point. He and New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly are holding hands, skip to my Lou, to  get guns off the streets.

A careful reading of the wire story suggests Sharpton is close to concluding that thuggery, with and without guns, is a problem most highly concentrated in a tiny portion of his admiring hordes in Bloombergistan, but he just can't bring himself to say so.