Tough men, sick cows, and good horses.

At least Jinglebob's horse was nice enough not to break his glasses.

It's a report from the dirty end of the food chain, and you might want to mention it to your city friends who still think their hamburgers originate in Ronald McDonald's back room.

Open Carry

Being an After-Action Report on the Sioux City loophole where, uncharacteristically, I open carried.

I carried it in a wrong holster, a fine old piece of Bianchi basket-stamped leather built for and home to a Ruger RST4. The pony barrel  stuck out a couple of inches, and the high sight made drawing a two-handed comedy. I was no candidate for a Badass-of-the-Show award.

It was the only handy sheath that came close to accommodating the Colt. I used it because we planned to be there for a couple of hours, and I needed both hands free to coon-finger vendor guns while seeking what I really wanted.

(Maybe I was also dreaming of tangible sympathy, the kindness of stangers.  Some Christian soul would notice the empty magazine well, empathize with my anguish, and offer me one for a song, of which I have two available,  Kumbayah and Wabash Cannon Ball.)  

Finding a proper 1st Series Match Target clipazine was the objective. Finding one that would simply work was the fallback aim.  Any of you who have performed the drill (Hey, you gotta magazine to fit my old {name-that-gun}?)  know it's crucial to have the gun at hand. The vendor's word, even if he's dead honest and dead sure, is not to be taken literally.

The Colt search was fruitless, but I nodded reverently toward the final resting place of John M. Browning for his decision to make the same bullet holder fit both High Standard HDs and his pre-war Colts. A hobby dealer had one and one-half of them.  Mister Complete fed eight fast ones faultlessly upon testing last evening. Miss Half needs a follower -- already roughed out from a scrap of steel -- and a spring.

Back to the open-carry theme. Unless I'm in the field it always make me feel a little silly,  as though I'm trying to announce that my junk is more impressive than yours.

But not as silly as one portly young fellow should have felt as he strode the aisles with camo leg holster, leather combatish shooting vest, and a tactical quick-open stabber clipped to a pocket of his black cargo pants.  The empty holster marred the image. We figured he had spent all his money on tactical accessories and was still saving up for an actual pistol.

Altogether now, kids, "The Itsy-Bitsy Hoplophobe..."

As my friend John of the GMA mocks the anti-gun statists: "Well, whaddya know. They do have a playbook."  He found it at the blog of our dependable Robb Allen.

Even the "executive summary"  is gagworthy. For instance: "Advocates for gun violence prevention win the logical debate, but lose on more emotional 
terms". 

Right. After every headline shooting, the antigun forces take to their research cubicles, calmly compile facts and responsible opinions and historical references, then soberly present them to a waiting world in carefully worded white papers. It would be unheard of for them to bawl and snivel all over the teevee audience, beshitting better minds with temper tantrums and crying jags that would get a pre-schooler sent off to the special needs room.

I recommend a read on this. Not that we didn't already know it, but it confirms that   the marching orders to the Pelosi crowd order them to go for the gut, and anything like honest understanding be damned.

I got the power, Baby

So you wanna go for a ride in my shiny wheels?

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It's about a magic power washer, a cheapish one from a big box, about seven years old.  I used it for a few years.  In 2010 or '11 It developed a bad leak somewhere in the important machinery, shrouded in a plastic that would have frustrated Houdini.  No pressure. Trashed. I gave it up for lost and stashed it away. I kept meaning to haul it to the landfill.

This afternoon I got to feeling shame over the appearance of two of the Camp Jiggleview VEE-hicles, the command mini-van and the mobile assault wagon  carrying my Texsun field headquarters.

Generally, since the death of the washer, I've been counting on precipitation to keep them titivated. It hasn't rained in a month, and some wags have been writing undignified notes on the windshields.

For no logical reason I decided, what the Hell, to hook up the old washer and see what happened. I suppose I figured I'd make a quick guess about the problem and devote 30  minutes, no more, to an attempted fix. My confidence level was zero, and the plan was mostly an excuse to put off a tedious hand-wash.

There is something going on around here, and maybe it's true that all is better when you ignore reality and count on Barry's unicorns to breathe well-being into a man and all he owns.  Hook up the hose, plug it in. Instant power washing, as though it was new, and still going strong when I shut down after an hour.

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I have a Remington 12-gauge 1900 double that has been driving me nuts for two years. Can't make it go bang -- or even click -- despite by-the-book assembly of good parts. I am going to set it exactly where the power washer was and wait two years. I'll let you know