Down at the Quad-Cities Loophole the Other Day

Some days are luckier than other days.

Some Bushes are better than others.

Roll out the barrel

And, just for lagniappe, a little plastic souvenir of where she was.

According to the old man selling out his personal collection, he fired it there in the 60s. It is a Rock Island Arsenal product inspected by Mr. Frank Krack, and perhaps built by him. He was an assistant foreman who, apparently,  sometimes liked to create some of the RIA National Match/Camp Perry products.

Both slide and frame are Colt 1911, manufactured in 1917 according the SN lists.

No, I won't say what I paid, but  I risked finger injury in getting the asking price out of my pocket. The  seller was still setting up; the Colt had just hit the table as I approached. I decided to haggle only  half-heartedly because there was a very anxious dude standing close behind me, breathing heavily, and I didn't think it was my body cologne exciting him.

'bye, Jumbo

Majestic, eh?

Forget it. Ringling Brothers Circus is pasturing the elephants in favor of Joe Bob's big truck and a batch of freaky Mongolian camel riders.

Thank the Humane Society and various PETA types for further turning America into a flaccid two-inch prick.

Winter at my latitude blows its last. Nine below at the moment, and the wood burner is cold, loaded only with pale ash. I got behind hauling, and it is too full to burn well even if I hadn't decided last night, "Screw it. I don't feel like filling the wood box."

So I'm being comforted by dead dinosaur gas.  It's warm enough, but propane has no soul. Dinosaurs were Republicans?

If I hadn't other things to do, I could entertain myself nicely by sitting in front of the thermometer outside my north window and watching the red stuff inch up to something like 20 today and double that tomorrow,  probably never to touch zero again this wretched season. 

Not that there are any bragging rights connected to the winter in this part of the world. In fact, it has been rather benign -- just ass backwards.  December and January were balmy by our standards, setting us up for the weeks of damned awfulness  now ending.

When the rosy fingered dawn is well advanced I'll catch up on the fire pit chores, cheered by the certainty that there will be a large carry over of fuel for '15/'16 and that all the fires of March can be much smaller, reducing the ash disposal annoyances.

Welcome (Ms.) March

Vocabulary Lesson

Optimism: That trait leading a loophole-bound citizen to stuff his wallet with all the  Federal Reserve Cartoons his modest circumstances permit AND root around for the small, light, nylon bag AND reflect that the sack would comfortably hold an Artillery Luger,  an unissued USN-marked 1918 Model 1911 AND a shootable 4" Colt Python. Also, maybe, a signed first edition of No Second Place Winner.

Reality: That mindset based on personal history of coming home  too often from even the best of the big loopholes  with the wallet untouched except for one's share of the post-show beer tab at Adrian, Minnesota where (Edit: formerly) the girl behind the bar is (was) both cute and tolerant of old farts trying to be flirty.

Sioux Falls this weekend, and it's one of the loopies we all recommend, particularly for you guys who like cowboy guns.

I suppose I wrote all this because it suddenly occurred to me that life is pretty good.

---

Update:  Reality, mostly.

---

Technical addendum. Blogger's spell check hates "loopies" and offers "loo pies" as a suggested alternative. How gross.