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from recent Testimony…

Bill McMahon, ATF deputy assistant director, testified that of 100,000 weapons recovered by Mexican authorities, only 18,000 were made, sold or imported from the U.S. And of those 18,000, just 7,900 came from sales by licensed gun dealers. That’s 8%, not 90%.  (link)

And, HALF of those 7,900 originated with the BATFE Fast and Furious Project!
I’m certain it was just a mistake on the part of the government, not an intentional act to boost smuggling figures to further another Assault Weapon Ban.
Yeah, right. – gfa

h/t Maddened Fowl

Acquisition and Loss of the Smith & Wesson Model 65, 3" heavy barrel

After my dad passed away, I was given a small award from the estate.  It was enough to purchase a newer, less-used car than the one I had, which was in rapid decline.
On the plus side it was a newer car.  On the minus side, it nickel-ed and dime-d me to death.  It was a German-made economy car.
If I had been making a better salary, it would have been okay, but, I just couldn’t afford all the maintenance.
And, I drove it a lot.
Finally, it died, and I acquired a used Japanese economy car, similar to what my wife owned.  The new car was great.
But the dead Gerflatzmobile lay inert in the front of the house.
One day, a visitor stopped by, stating he wished to buy the dead car carcass.  He was a mechanic who rebuilt them and needed parts.  And the wife and I could always use the money.
It was one of the last tenuous links to my Dad, from his estate.
A deal was made.
I asked the wife if I could take part of the profit and purchase a firearm.  At the time, I was gun-poor, and carrying Dave-the-genius’s Ruger Security Six.  It would be nice to have my own firearm, again.
She said yes, and the hunt was on.
I’d been reading in the gun magazines about the new Fed gun, the Smith & Wesson Models 13 and 65, 3″ barrel, .357.  Sounded good to me!
A few telephone calls around the Valley (this was pre-Internet) determined one or two Model 13s, but no 65s.  And, I really wanted a 65, because of my corrosive-perspiration issues.
I called the wonderful J&G Sales, in Prescott (90 miles North of Phoenix).  FTC Alert-I get nothing from them, now go away!
J&G is a famous firearms wholesaler, who also sells retail.
“We have 40 in stock, how many do you want?” was the reply.
I asked them to put my name on one, and drove immediately to Prescott.  Once I was there, and filling out paperwork, they asked if I was a LEO, as cops get a discount.  I said no, but showed them my Officer of the Superior Court ID, half jokingly.  They gave me the discount!
I happily drove back to the Valley, with my own gun.  Too cool.
And, I carried her, and shot competition with her for years.  She wore at first a Tyler T-Grip, later a Herrett ‘Detective’ stock.  She was my carry gun, until my collection grew with the addition of the National Match 1911.
If you’re a regular reader, you know what happened next.  The burglary and the theft of 50+ firearms (and electronics, tools and other stuff).  (Properly bolt your safe into the concrete, even if it weighs 800 pounds!)
At least the NM and .38 snub were in my possession, so they weren’t taken.

But, the tenuous gun link to my Dad was.

Condition Yellow & the O.O.D.A. Loop

Random Acts of Patriotism just wrote a posting regarding Col. Jeff Cooper’s concept of Condition White.  For the unfamiliar, this is where a person is so self-absorbed/distracted as to be unaware of their surroundings.
Ripe for the picking.
Apparently two U.S. Marines visiting St. Louis during Marine Week were robbed by two assailants.
Two United States Marines!
The Color Code of Awareness and the O.O.D.A. Loop should be burned into everyone’s psyche.
Remember, if you’re conscious, you should at least be in YELLOWYellowRelaxed alert. No specific threat situation. Your mindset is that “today could be the day I may have to defend myself”.
AND, Observe, Orient, Decide, Act

at a minimum…

h/t ASM826

More Country Club guard hijinks…

One time, I was at home, on my day off, when the phone rang.  It seemed the daytime guard had arrived for his shift, and the back door was locked, and no night guard to be found.
Of course, we envisioned him dead somewhere on his rounds.  I instructed the day guy to search the area, and I would drive in (20 mi.) to assist in the search.  If, after we did this, there was no sign, then we would call the police.
I broke all speed laws getting there with the key, and the interior search began.  About 10 minutes later, I found our man, in the upstairs women’s lounge, on a couch, asleep.  I awakened him with ‘You’re FIRED!”.
He actually protested.
The guy we replaced him with was not my choice.  In fact, I had no choice in the people we hired.  This was at the height of the 70s recession, and, in the security biz, a warm body is a warm body.  We used to joke about picking up transients as fill-ins!
So, I’m told the new guy is on-site.  As I approach the guard station, in the basement laundry room, I see a woman loitering in the hallway. 
Not to be unkind, but, seriously, this is probably the ugliest woman I have ever seen!  Actually disturbing to view.  Not physically deformed, just unattractive.  But, my focus is the new guy in the laundry room.
So, I walk in and introduce myself.  “Hello, I’m Guffaw, your boss.”
There’s a slow 5 second pause, with no reaction from the new guy. It was as if I’d not arrived or spoken to him.  Then, he says, “Oh, Hi, I’m William!”  On a time-delay, as if his brain or ear canals were filled with Jello.
This was my new guard.  He seemed pleasant enough, but every question was answered with a five-second delay.  Obviously, this guy had issues.  And, he was carrying a revolver.
I came this close to saying, “So, who’s the ugly broad in the hallway waiting for?” or something similar.
Just then, she walked in and said, “Hi, I’m so-and-so, William’s wife.”  She seemed very nice, with the added benefit of no time delay!
He didn’t last very long.  He left our employ, and I was told, went to work for another guard company, at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere.  There, a couple months later, he stole a pickup truck and disappeared.
I’ve no idea what happened to his wife.

I couldn’t have done it without you!

Today, the blog has topped 15,000 pageviews and the Bail Bond men post is post #200 !
Thank You!

Bail Bond men

Back when I was stopping by Harry K.’s office, in the Luhr’s Building downtown, I sometimes had occasion to meet folks from other offices nearby.
There were a number of bail bond businesses in the same general area.  Being young and foolish (early 30s), I thought if I got to know some of these guys, I might finagle my way into a job chasing bail skips.
How hard could it be?
You locate the guy, and if he doesn’t come along voluntarily, you convince him, and bring him downtown for booking.
Of course, the fact that I was physically disabled, nearsighted, and had no practical law-enforcement experience to speak of makes no difference, right?
I did run the obstacle course for the PD, once, and had taken two years of karate, and ran and lifted weights...no difference, right?
There was a difference.  I wasn’t tough.  The romantic appeal of tackling some drugged-up burglary suspect in a crummy alley got my blood pumping.  But, I wasn’t tough.
So, I’m visiting Harry one morning, and one of these bail bondsmen stops by, and Harry introduces me.
Welcome to Harry’s office, the great meeting place.
Let’s call this guy Bill.
Bill was was a retired deputy sheriff.  About 5’10”, maybe 150 pounds – soaking wet.  Built like a farmer, not much (or any) bulk, but sinewy.  One could sharpen a straight razor on the skin of his jaw.  He looked seriously weathered for his 55 years, except, he was 40.
And he, Harry and I spoke of the bail bond biz for a while.
Bill had been shot, he’d been stabbed.  But still brought his man in.  He was missing the tip of his right little finger, down to the joint.
A bail jumper had bitten it off!  And Bill (God bless ’em) still brought him in.
At this juncture, I decided I simply wasn’t tough enough.
Now, with some years and experience under my belt, I am tough enough.  But, in too much pain and too slow.
No goofy bail-jumper reality TV show for ol’ Guffaw!
Thank God.

Biff

Every so often, I blog about friends or family.  Here is a guy, if I were writing for Reader’s Digest, who could qualify as my most unforgettable character.  I think of him as a brother.
I’ve known Biff for many years.  He and I met when my landlord/roommate (from college) Walter introduced me to him.  They were in a little theater group together, and had grown up as neighbors.
Biff has a passion for both writing and performing.  He’s done stand-up comedy, interviewed hundreds of famous people, had talk shows on radio, and authored an autobiography regarding his years in radio news.  Profiles in Curry – Biff Jannuzzi
His full name is Ber’nard, not Ber nard’!  But, he prefers Biff.
He’s also a staunch libertarian.  He’s not a gunnie, although he does understand and appreciate Second Amendment rights.  I actually did get him to the shooting range, once.
I don’t hold that against him.
Biff collects historic memorabilia and first-edition books signed by the authors.  And, autographs in general.
But, he takes all this seriously, you won’t find Snooki amongst his famous signature collection.  He has autographs of seven Presidents, the earliest being Franklin Pierce. (I think).  Biff wasn’t around to collect that one, though.

photo by B. F. Jannuzzi

He’s also a fine photographer.
He’s been here for me in the good times, the bad, and in spirit if he were working miles away.  And he’s a much better correspondent than I. 
He’s quick, funny, bright and just twisted enough to put up with me.  And, he always makes me laugh.
His answering machine message was personalized for him, by Wolfman Jack!
Back in college, when he was writing and performing comedy, he wrote a one-act musical comedy based on the Lincoln Assassination, called “A Booth in the Back”.
One twisted guy-I love him!
I think that says it all.

Adventures in Gun Cleaning and Maintenance

When I first acquired a firearm, I was as ignorant of it’s mechanical function as I was of it’s maintenance.  It was fortunate I knew enough not to look down the barrel!
But soon, after several forays out to the desert, the concept of cleaning and maintenance came to mind.  Eventually, one of the rules was don’t let the Sun set on a dirty gun – sometimes.  Thankfully, Guns & Ammo, Guns, Shooting Times and other magazines were readily available, rife with information.  And, Dave had already field-stripped it within seconds of handling it-scared the crap out of me!  I didn’t know how he did it, nor how (or if) it would go back together!
Cleaning seemed to be pretty basic:  unload the firearm, field-strip it, find every dirty area and coat it with solvent and brush, scrub the barrel internally with the cleaning rod and brass brush, push patches through the barrel until they come out clean, wipe off the solvent from the rest of the gun, lubricate the bearing surfaces and inside the barrel, reassemble, wipe down the exterior, reload, store away and only then bring out the beer.
I used to buy model paints and fill in the lettering and serial numbers, for effect.  And paint the front sights red with paint or nail polish.
Later permutations involved the addition of used toothbrushes, Q-tips and toothpicks to get into tiny areas and lithium grease for bearing surface lubrication.  And WD-40.
And, I always used Liquid Gold on my wooden stocks.
Some time later I discovered aerosol Gun Scrubber and Dunk-It (or brake cleaner!) to find and remove all the hidden crap.  Don’t forget to clean your magazines at least occasionally, and keep penetrating oil, solvent and WD-40 away from live ammunition, lest it become dead ammunition!
But, the easier-softer way just wasn’t as satisfying as the rod and brass brush.  For me, anyway.
And, even though more space-age solvents have appeared on the scene, I still have a soft spot for Hoppe’s #9 Solvent!
Women should use it for perfume!
(Guffaw now slinks away, drooling not unlike Homer Simpson…)

Shoes

My father always told me, “Your feet are your fortune.”
When you’re a child, this makes no sense.  To you, they’re just feet.  And not worth much.
But, now I’m significantly older, and have ‘issues’.  And so do my feet.
And even when I have all the medication doctors require of me, I still have significant foot pain.
I’m on a constant search for decent quality orthopedic shoes, that don’t cost an arm and a leg.
Or a foot.
Boy, have I had some recent luck!
Thank God Al Gore invented the Internet!
(FTC disclaimer – I gain nothing from the blog nor any products mentioned herein – now go away!)
New Balance, the American-made (in Maine!) athletic shoe company produces a number of walking shoes that meet the Medicare-legal definition for diabetic footware.
And, many are not ridiculously priced.
I just replaced a pair of ‘diabetic’ footware I’d worn since last October, that were on their last legs. (That doesn’t sound right?)
And, these NB shoes look better, are better made, more comfortable, more supportive and cost less!
Who can argue with that?

I did get two…

Molly & Guffaw – after Father’s Day, 1991

Molly and me 1991

This was taken at one of those cheesy photo booths, in Los Arcos Mall, Scottsdale, Arizona. 
You can see, I was in my long-haired, bearded phase.
I also had the largest eyeglasses possible, as that was the style, and it fit in well with eye protection while shooting.
Miss Molly (age 8), of course, is her cute little self.  Twenty-two days after Father’s Day, 1991.
We had less than four years left! 
Father’s Days are no longer happy days for me.  Holidays in general aren’t very pleasant.
You never know, people.  Hug you kids, tell them you love them!  Do it NOW!

"Round up the usual suspects."

In Loving Memory…