Every time truth requires me to admit to using a 9mm Eurowimp as my bread and butter piece, I feel compelled to get all defensive about it.
I loopholed the 59 cheap, as it should have been. It was intended to be trading stock, but my vestigial conscience denied permission to foist it off until it could be used as intended. So I disassembled, deburred, throated, and polished the internals. Most significantly I ground enough metal from the frame to permit the trigger to go back far enough to trip the sear every time. This is the truth, and I can still display the tool marks to doubters.
About the time I finished making the damned thing work right, I got sucked into the high-capacity vortex which was just gathering speed in those days.
"Look," I thought, "with 13 rounds in one magazine, I am reasonably well covered for any threat I can imagine, even if I can't immediately put my hands on the spare."
It remains a valid point, even after a guy becomes totally disenchanted with the 9mm as a defense round. (You can hedge your bet with zippy hand loads, and I do.) Besides, I really like shooting the thing.
But the controlling point is that my life has become almost as threat-free as a modern American life can be. On the rare, all but nonexistent, occasions when I don't t think that Pollyanna-ish view is justified, the pipsqueak goes into the safe, and out comes one of Mr. Browning's (PBUH) 1911s in the decisive .45 ACP.
I do not urge this solution on others.
Dec 19, 2010
The uncarried pistol
Out of an essential, I had to warm up the van and drive a mile to the country convenience store before sunrise this morning.
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My usual carry pistol is a SW 59, a turn-in by a police department which could not tolerate the criminally slipshod quality. Diligent frobnistication has turned it into a fast, dependable, and accurate defense piece. It generally lives in the vehicle, as does a purely recreational Ruger RST4.
Yesterday morning I brought them inside for a routine inspection and wipedown. I neglected to put them back.
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Years ago I spent a three-year career break in some misery, teaching in a high school. Among my burdens was a hard-luck kid of no motivation, a surly attitude, and an explosive rejection of my insistence that everyone, college prep or metal-shop loafer, should have at least a passing acquaintance with Shakespeare, Dickens, and the elements of civilized speech. His hatred of me apparently was profound.
---
I made my purchase and got into the van. As I started the engine a massively-bearded six-foot-something apparition emerged from behind a black Suburban with something in its right hand. It banged on my window. It occurred to me that, being unarmed, a speedy drive-off would best satisfy the requirements of prudence.
But this is a small community, my small community, and habits of friendliness die hard. I cracked the window three or four inches, just enough to communicate. Still, I shifted into gear and held the brake pedal down with the left foot, the right one poised over the accelerator.
Comes the voice:
"Hi Mr. _____________. I had this left over from the box and thought you might want it."
I accepted the rolled Sunday newspaper and said, "Thank you."
I can't imagine the synaptic processes that led to recognition of my old English-hating student.
"Hey, is that you _________ ?
"Yep. Just thought you might like the Sunday paper, Mr.____________. Merry Christmas."
---
My usual carry pistol is a SW 59, a turn-in by a police department which could not tolerate the criminally slipshod quality. Diligent frobnistication has turned it into a fast, dependable, and accurate defense piece. It generally lives in the vehicle, as does a purely recreational Ruger RST4.
Yesterday morning I brought them inside for a routine inspection and wipedown. I neglected to put them back.
---
Years ago I spent a three-year career break in some misery, teaching in a high school. Among my burdens was a hard-luck kid of no motivation, a surly attitude, and an explosive rejection of my insistence that everyone, college prep or metal-shop loafer, should have at least a passing acquaintance with Shakespeare, Dickens, and the elements of civilized speech. His hatred of me apparently was profound.
---
I made my purchase and got into the van. As I started the engine a massively-bearded six-foot-something apparition emerged from behind a black Suburban with something in its right hand. It banged on my window. It occurred to me that, being unarmed, a speedy drive-off would best satisfy the requirements of prudence.
But this is a small community, my small community, and habits of friendliness die hard. I cracked the window three or four inches, just enough to communicate. Still, I shifted into gear and held the brake pedal down with the left foot, the right one poised over the accelerator.
Comes the voice:
"Hi Mr. _____________. I had this left over from the box and thought you might want it."
I accepted the rolled Sunday newspaper and said, "Thank you."
I can't imagine the synaptic processes that led to recognition of my old English-hating student.
"Hey, is that you _________ ?
"Yep. Just thought you might like the Sunday paper, Mr.____________. Merry Christmas."
Dec 18, 2010
Set back, relax, and enjoy your flight.
The Iranian-American businessman who forgot to take his loaded Baby Glock out of his computer bag was a little embarrassed to find it after a flight from Houston. He thought maybe the crack TSA security operatives ought to be, too.
"It's just impossible to miss it, you know. I mean, this is not a small gun," Seif told ABC News. "How can you miss it? You cannot miss it."
But the TSA did miss it, and maybe --- I dunno, just maybe -- I can answer his question.
Was one of these in the security queue, motivating the TSA fellas to lose concentration and squabble quietly over whose turn it was to gape at the pervoscan, or probulate her as a opt-out? I mean, I'm just askin', here.
"It's just impossible to miss it, you know. I mean, this is not a small gun," Seif told ABC News. "How can you miss it? You cannot miss it."
But the TSA did miss it, and maybe --- I dunno, just maybe -- I can answer his question.
Dec 17, 2010
"Hi. I'm Al Sharpton, better known as The Rev.Mr. Al. I have some other peoples' money and I want your gun."
The Rev. Mr. Al's disciples will be at the church tomorrow, cash in hand, allegedly paying $200 - $600 for working guns.
(Note the picture. In the second row down, third from left, is what might be a nice old Smith spur trigger. Don't tell Tam. She'd probably get all hostile at the thought of it being melted down for a manhole cover, especially before she can profile it as a Sunday Smith.
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If you're too far away from Harlem, you can shed that pesky old Luger in Portland tomorrow. For a fiream they'll give you a $50 local megamart gift certificate. A BB gun will net you a whopper of a $5 "Burgerville" certificate. Cheapass Oregoniads.
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An idle wonder: Do they promise to turn off the surveillance cameras -- especially the ones with digital face recognition -- in and near the buyback sites?
The Rev. Mr. Al's disciples will be at the church tomorrow, cash in hand, allegedly paying $200 - $600 for working guns.
(Note the picture. In the second row down, third from left, is what might be a nice old Smith spur trigger. Don't tell Tam. She'd probably get all hostile at the thought of it being melted down for a manhole cover, especially before she can profile it as a Sunday Smith.
---
If you're too far away from Harlem, you can shed that pesky old Luger in Portland tomorrow. For a fiream they'll give you a $50 local megamart gift certificate. A BB gun will net you a whopper of a $5 "Burgerville" certificate. Cheapass Oregoniads.
---
An idle wonder: Do they promise to turn off the surveillance cameras -- especially the ones with digital face recognition -- in and near the buyback sites?
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