Neanderpundit

and this being the first year they allow pistol caliber rifles in Indiana, I’ve been looking at getting a lever in 45lc, 357, or one of the other allowable calibers.

AFAIC, there’s no sense in hunting indiana with anything but a lever, and as I’m busted, the idea of scraping together a grand- or more- before deer season doesn’t appeal.They don’t make bolties in any of the allowable calibers, so that’s out the window, and the only other choice is one of the break action guns, which are nice, but too expensive for what you get.

So I come across this listing in Numrich for a 44 mag barrel for my old 336 Marlin. As the marlin was a junk gun, almost given to me, I figured, hey, what the hell. I’ll rebarrel it. 44 mag is one of the allowable calibers. Not bad to shoot in a long gun. SO I order the barrel from Numrich, get the very last one.

Damn, this thing is nice. Looks to be headspaced properly etc, and I think it’s gonna shoot like crazy- got that Marlin Micro-groove barrel.

Some issues with the feed ramp- if you can call it that- but they;re issues I think I can easily address.

Damn, I’m gonna have me a big bore rifle to shoot this year. I can hardly wait for deer season.

Went to a job yesterday, and saw, parked in the lot, my old 90 Probe. The guy I’d sold it to was working in the plant there, and it was nice to see him, and catch up.

The probe was the only car I ever bought brand spanking new. Loved that car. First car I ever had that had power windows. Well, functional power windows. And a sunroof. It was a treat to own and drive. A GT, intercooled turbo, BIG trunk (used to go camping, sleep in the trunk with the backseat folded down)

Anyway, it brought back a memory of the probe at an early age. Partner and I were headed back from a local bar called McTavern’s. (Yes, it HAD been a McDonalds, and was turned into a bar).Anyway, I’d spent the evening grazing from the bar’s veggie buffet, lots of fresh broccoli and shit like that.
As we left I started breaking wind like a horse on wild oats. And the broccoli smell was bad, bad bad.

So about a mile down the road, cold winter night in 1991, I ripped one, and locked the power windows.

Partner got out. I was doing about thirty and he just opened the door and got out. I saw him in my rearview rolling down the road

I pulled over and retrieved him, shirt a little dirty but not much the worse for wear, and we went back to his place, where I crashed on the couch for the night. Polluting the air of his apartment in ways best left undescribed.

I love that trick. I haven’t had a vehicle without power windows since, just because of that.