Woot! Today marks three years helicopter crash-free!
(Of course, it’s also been three years helicopter-free. “No. More. Helicopters. EVAH!” decreed the Evil Princess. “Aw, honey,” I answered, “all we need are newer, bigger helicopters.” I have not yet won that argument.)
She and I got to the house this morning about 2:30 AM, and were grateful for it. Lots of folks at the SHOT Show in Vegas had their plane flights cancelled or horrendously delayed because of the Eastern Snowpocalypse. We had planned to stay the weekend anyway, seeing old friends in Vegas on Saturday and shooting the Glock match in nearby Boulder City on Sunday. The best I could do at the latter was a second place in the Pocket Glock event, using a G42 .380 with AmeriGlo sights and otherwise out of the box. Congratulations to Seichei Ishakawa, who was clearly the man to beat there. When you are the guy who publicly said “Friends don’t let friends carry mouse-guns” and you do your best with one (and not for the first time), it’s sort of like you’re Ralph Nader and do your best rally driving in a Corvair. I may need therapy. EP, on the other hand, continues to shoot her best with the .45 caliber Glock 30, which she is adopting as her daily carry gun. And which may require more therapy still for .380 boy here. (Sniff.)
Driving home from the airport we noted that we managed to escape the creeping crud that usually infects a bunch of SHOT Show attendees, the result of spending several days in a giant Petri dish with 64,000 people and whatever germs and viruses they brought to the convention. (Me: “Well, my throat is a little dry.” EP, with profound eye-roll: “Duh, you’d think you just spent days in the desert or something.”)
One thing I should also be grateful for is that the stacks of catalogs and dead-tree media kits I used to have to ship home have been largely replaced with much handier thumb drives, some cute enough to double as tchotchkes.