Achtung!

Apparently there is one --  perhaps only one -- difference between a blockwart and a Hitler blockleiter -- how they feel about rooting out Jewish people.

Each, according to Marko's excellent report, generated by Boston blockwarts, finds glory in using the laws, however trivial, to "behave like an obnoxious asshole."

Weather-driven

This  batch of Alberta is driving me indoors, probably for the entire day and more. Only the messy pile of firewood around the burner gives me cause to smile after looking at the thermometer (+2) and knowing this is about as good as it will get for at least  three days.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to catch up on paperwork and get this cluttered cabin shaped up, but depressing self-knowledge suggests that the Master of Camp J will more likely  start looking for a book which demands reading. Probably won't have any visitors anyway, especially fussy ones. They'll stay home and dust.

The other alternative is to (expensively) fire up the Knipco out in the shop and start repairing Ruger's work on the .22/.45.

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The efforts to  locate the owner of Little Miss No-Name have yielded no results. We'll give it another day or two, then start dreaming up a name for her. I've been considering "Sarah." When a liberal chick asks, I can say she's named for the Brady lady. Otherwise Palin.

Naaah, probably not.

Loopholing at it's finest

Sometimes it's as important to know your dealers as to know guns. The two shooters here came from the FFL'ed  friend who has what is,  these days,  an unusual business plan. He comes to the loophole shows bent on actually selling guns rather than tagging them with stupidly stratospheric prices and waiting and waiting and waiting for a well-heeled fool. He prospers because he knows how to buy guns. And because he's a knowledgeable and likable man.

Decades ago Bubba got his hands on the Krag but showed a certain restraint. Perhaps it was respect for the pure Norhoovian heritage and the 6.5 x 55 chambering. Restoring this one to military is pretty much out of the question, dammit, but  a man can live happily with her as is. The sharp rifling and excellent  round might lead to braggable groups. We'll see.

The .22/.45 is what it is, but I've been wanting one for a while, strictly for the design, and at $250 couldn't pass this one. The quality is pure latter-day Ruger, meaning a half-day in the shop with slip stones and crocus cloth to erase the burrs and the floor sweepings in the innards.  The new reality is that you buy a NIB Ruger, work the action, dry fire it a couple of times, sigh, and remark, "I can probably save it."


Elsewhere, three sturdy but unmarked Mini-14 30-rounders (Oh the horror.)  for $35. A Browning Hi-Power mag for $5. A  funky old $5 holster that will hold the Black Hawk, just in case some day I want to dress up like a real cowboy instead of Gene Autry.

So far it's just a one-night stand

It's hard to capture the heart of a jaded old roue, and Little Miss No-Name here hasn't actually done that. Quite yet.

Heavily armed after the Armstrong loophole, I was a mile from K's country home, on lonesome gravel running though a wildlife area.  At the top of the next hill she stood in the middle  of the road, then politely retreated to the ditch as we neared. Something didn't look right. We stopped. She approached, cringing slightly but, before long, accepting an ear scratch. No question she was cold, hungry, thirsty, and lonesome, so we bundled her to K's house and began the usual found-a-dog calls and net posts. We flipped to see who would board her. I lost. She's here and demonstrating that's she's willing to be a Good Dog in return for chow, a soft place to nap, and a bit of affection.


Time will tell, though I suspect a dump. The bastards.

She's several months old and doesn't pee in the house. Forced to guess, I'd say a lab/weimaraner cross. Actually, they can be reasonably good bird dogs.