Partner and I and Mr B and Midwest Chick drove Mr B’s Prius down to the Indy 1500.

No, I did not self combust.

The show was good. A good assortment of solid old rifles and shotguns.Not a lot of good deals on modern or new guns, according to Mr B, but I never go to gunshows looking for them.

Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything today, I just go to look- to me, a good gunshow is like a museum where you can pick up and touch the museum pieces. There was a very nice Darne, one of the most elegant and lovely double gun designs ever- you can see one open at this website. There was a Ljungman that was in absolutely beautiful condition, for a pretty damned nice price. I saw a very nice 8mm schutzen rifle, faling block, sweet and clean, case colors still intact. And a Ballard rifle- I looked at it, saw a small stamping on the edge of the barrel near the breech, and picked it up with trembling hands… but it wasn’t a Pope Ballard.

I would have had to kill Partner and steal his cash to get it had it been- I don’t have a pot to piss in right now.
I would gladly kill to have a rifle in my hands that Harry Pope made.

The blogmeet was replete with Too Much Information.
No, really. Mr B and I traded info about how you sometimes have to knot the elastic on your hips to keep your drawers up, sometimes, and how eventually the elastic got so stretched out you could pull it right up over your shoulders. I suppose it would look kind of like this. We dubbed them Bib Underwear.

Brigid showed up, and had been sick, so I managed to confirm she was past the vomiting stage by a sort of “Litmus test” I call “the barfolator”. She passed with flying colors.

Of course being a cracker over 50, my Barfolator is not as expansive as it once was. Soon enough, I’ll need suspenders, or I could just wear bib underwear.

Tam, the inimitable Ms X, Old Grouch, and Joanna showed up, and many survived. Food was eated. Drink was drunk. Midwest chick tye-beered a pair of jeans, which was as close to a wet tshirt as I was going to get.

Burroughs always said junkies with foresight (called “Squirrels”) would put a drop of heroin in a seam in a piece of hem on their clothing and when hard up would suck on that seam to get their fix. A couple of drunks could have a good time with Midwest chick’s pants knee.

I learned that sitting on a lawnchair with a cast aluminum weave design makes your nutsack look (and feel) like a belgian waffle.

And I forgot to snag a copy of Concealed Carry, dangit.