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Remember the old saying "if you have to ask the price you can't afford it?" As a add on to Snakebite's post the people that keep saying "gee I use to buy primers for $25.00 a thousand and powder for $19.00 a pound. I ain't gonna pay these high prices" are getting annoying. Prices are NEVER going back to what they were and if you ain't gonna pay you ain't gonna play.

At any rate i apparently am still in good standing in the Saloon. And the night is young. 🤣

A Ghost in the Desert - 760-733-9969 (HELLO....) For several decades, a solitary booth stood in the middle of the Mojave National Preserve, miles away from civilization. Riddled by bullet holes and carpeted by broken glass, it looked like it had seen better days. Long before the proliferation of smartphones and social media, such edifices were the only way to call strangers and friends when you were far from home. It had been placed there in 1948 to service cinder miners, but no one knows exactly by whom. Its only neighbors were desert plants, telephone poles and—if it was lucky—a passing coyote. Over all those years, it was silent, with only the wind breaking the quiet of the desolate landscape. But then one day ... it began ringing. Like many legends, though, this story begins not with an object, but with a man. In May 1997, Arizona resident Godfrey “Doc” Daniels was reading a zine when he stumbled across a peculiar letter to the editor. A fellow known only as “Mr. N” had spotted a dot labeled “telephone” on a map of the Mojave, fifteen miles from the nearest paved road. Intensely curious, Mr. N drove all the way out there, found the booth alongside a dirt path, and wrote down its number—760-733-9969. Now burning with the same curiosity that had fueled this mysterious writer, Doc called the number several times a day over the course of a month, hoping to contact whoever might be on the other end. He even placed a sticky note on his bathroom mirror that asked him, “Have you called the Mojave Desert today?” Doc had begun to lose hope when one day, to his surprise, someone picked up—a cinder miner named Lorene. The two made small talk for several minutes, but, in his excitement, Doc forgot to ask her exactly where the phone booth was located. Fortunately for us, he tracked it down with a friend, drove out to it amid a fierce lightning storm, and made calls to his friends. Then those friends began making calls to each other from the Mojave phone booth, thrilled by the strange novelty of it all. However, Doc was not content to keep this secret confined to such a small social circle. He soon created a website that listed the booth’s number, and suddenly people began making pilgrimages to this mechanical oasis. Some of them called their own friends, but others simply wished to discover strangers across the globe. One man camped out among the Joshua trees for a month and answered five hundred phone calls. Another old man simply wanted to tell stories from his trucking days. Many of these voyagers even mailed Doc news clippings about a lone structure out in the desert that had become a worldwide sensation. Unfortunately, this early viral Internet phenomenon was too good to last. Concerned about the dramatic increase in foot traffic and possible disturbances to wildlife, Pacific Bell and the National Park Service discussed tearing it down. In May of 2000, during one of the last phone calls that the booth received, Lorene’s brother chatted with a man in England before going off to work in the cinder mine. When he left his sister’s house the next day, the booth had been razed to the ground. “It was just attracting too much unwanted attention in terms of litter and detritus, and mementos, and things that were being left onsite,” explained Dave Nichols, park archeologist for Mojave National Preserve. “I think that’s ultimately why Bell was convinced to remove it (the phone booth).” For a while, people still journeyed out to the concrete slab, proving just how powerful an idea the phone booth had become. One man even constructed a tombstone for the booth, to mourn its untimely passing. However, the Park Service eventually removed the slab too, and consistently thwarted attempts to add a commemorative plaque. “Public lands are not there to allow individuals to put whatever they want out there,” added Nichols. “But I understand the sentiment, of course.” Still, despite the physical absence of the Mojave Phone Booth, its legend would not die. Several filmmakers paid tribute to it, including in a 2006 feature starring Steve Guttenberg, Annabeth Gish, and Missy Pyle, appropriately called Mojave Phone Booth. Yet the rings had stopped ... until now. On July 31, 2019, a benevolent hacker named Jered Morgan (a.k.a. Lucky225) acquired the original number and set up a system where people can dial it and enter a conference call. You might be fortunate enough to find a stranger on the other end of the line, or you might find yourself talking into the void ... except this time, not even the coyotes are listening.

Pilot Douglas Corrigan sought permission from the Civil Aviation Authority to fly across the Atlantic from New York to Ireland, but he was turned down on the grounds that his plane was in poor condition. Corrigan seemed to accept the ruling, but when he took off from New York on July 17, 1938, he banked sharply to the east and headed out over the ocean. Twenty-eight hours and 13 minutes later, Corrigan landed in Ireland, innocently explaining that his 180-degree wrong turn must have been due to a faulty compass. No one believed Corrigan’s explanation, especially the aviation authorities in both Ireland and America, who suspended the rebellious pilot’s license and ordered his aircraft dismantled. Upon his return to America, ‘Wrong-Way’ Corrigan was greeted as a hero. More than a million people lined New York’s Broadway for a ticker-tape parade honoring the man who had flown in the face of authority.

Yes it cost for guns & gear. But you could get nicely equipped for $5000-6000 or so. pair of Ruger Vaqueros 1600 uberti 73 (smithed) 1600 decent shotgun 1200 leather 600 cart & miscellaneous 1000 (and yes most have much more invested, many have less) you cannot get a motorcycle, a Boat, an RV, classic car for that amount. And would be pretty easy to get that in a set of golf clubs (last I played, a month before I started CAS 12 years ago, I had about 3K in my golf bag) you could probably go bowling! now the plus side. In a couple of years you can likely get all your money back out of your guns. Your boat, motorcycle, RV etc will be worth 1/2 what you paid. and, in CAS you will meet the finest folks you’ve ever been around!

And those same people get upset that the person who thought ahead is "price gouging" if they try to sell them at current value.

Everyone meet Ricky III. Soon to be 2 year old black lab. Canine Companions have graciously matched him with me as a service dog. Please ignore the ugly lump sitting with him.

Not me! I want one that’s been slicked up and short stroked!!

OMG....... YOU BOUGHT NEW BRASS?

A GOOD TEACHER Michael Keller took a long breath, closed his eyes, blew it out. He knew he stood a good chance of being shot. A very good chance. He'd just watched two of his father's deputies hit, saw them drop. His young hands clutched his 92 Winchester. So far he hadn't been spotted. He knew he had to move, and when he did, he had to be fast and accurate. Likely he could make hits that counted, at least until he crossed what his pale eyed Pa called the Dead Line -- the point at which he could be seen. And shot. I'm damned if he's going to beat me! Michael thought -- fear and anticipation warred for primacy in his young chest, in his anxiety-twisted young guts. Neither won, but Michael's adrenaline pump was hammering right up against the governor. He rolled over, dropped prone. He knew the other deputies started out by running. He didn't. He rolled out from behind cover just far enough -- Six shots, six fast-levered shots, the shining brass bead of a front sight going right where he wanted them to -- Michael rolled back behind cover, drove six handloaded .25-20s into the loading gate. Now. Move! Michael rose, dove behind the next plastic 55 gallon drum, shoved a boot out, yanked it back. Paintballs drove into the cinders where polished boot leather had just been. Michael reached up, grabbed the rim of the barrel, dumped it over, kicked it, hard. Paintballs hammered against the rolling blue plastic drum and Michael snapped a shot at the mannikin's head. The automated opponent's head detonated in a great showy flash of flame. Michael Keller came up on one knee, his rifle's muzzle still trained on the mechanical opponent: he rose slowly, covering the mortally-wounded enemy, advanced on it, hammer back, finger curled around the trigger. He walked up to it, lowered his rifle's hammer to half cock, then reared back and drove a kick into the track-mounted mechanical monster, folding it over backwards. He turned, looked at his father, standing with a clipboard and a pleased expression. He looked at Victoria, jumping up and down like a cheerleader, he looked at Sheriff's deputies, whistling and grinning and air-fisting him -- him! -- then he saw Victoria's eyes widen and he spun, drove three fast rounds into the resurrected, radar-guided, headless paintball mechanism. A stranger stood beside the Sheriff, regarding Michael with professional eyes. The stranger and the Sheriff walked up to the sizzling, snapping, shorted-out mechanical device. Michael slowly ran three more rounds into his loading gate, listened to the spring whispering as he topped off his rifle, then he walked up and joined them. Two men and a boy looked at the ruined device -- a high-priced, high-tech, computer-guided, radar-eyed, track-mounted paintball machine built into an anatomic mannikin. "Between the eyes," the salesman murmured. "Yes, sir," Michael replied. "You cleared the six-plate rack as fast as I can with an AR." "Yes, sir." "Young man" -- the salesman looked at the Sheriff, looked at Michael -- "you are the only one so far, to survive!" "Yes, sir." Michael looked at his Pa, who was trying hard not to grin. "I have a good teacher, sir."

It cost money to play this game. Equipment and supplies are not cheap and parts to tune up and repair a gun are very hard to find and expensive when you do. I know that I will get flamed for this, but I'm sick of hearing from folks every time they want something that they don't have much money. It's almost a pre-cursor to the conversation/inquiry. If you are not willing to pay the going rate for equipment and or work, then go fishing. Gad... did I really finally say that out loud?

Summer humidity can be a bit much. Lots of rain. You don't need sprinkles. Constitutional carry here. Buy a gun, walk out with it.... Branson traffic on weekends can be heavy. Check out Bear Creek Volunteers SASS club, just north of Branson. Cost of living is so much less in Missouri. People are much nicer..... Yes, leave Commiefornia behind, sure glad we did! The state is very pro 2nd Amendment.

THE WHITE ONION Marnie Keller turned sideways, smiled a little at her full-length reflection as she caressed her expanding middle. She spun a robe around her shoulders, thrust her feet into a pair of fleece lined slippers, tied the ribbon belt around her waist, glided into the kitchen. Pancakes, she thought. Blueberry pancakes. Marnie tapped the screen on the wall-unit, said "Six stack of blueberry pancakes, bacon fried crispy, two eggs fried over medium and wheat toast with butter." She released her finger from the screen, then touched it again. "And tea. Earl Grey, big mug, teaspoon of honey." Angela Keller keyed in her destination, stepped through the Iris, stopped, blinked in surprise. Marnie's fist was cocked, her other hand holding a plate with a half dozen cylindrical cans -- "YOU IDIOT MACHINE, I SAID A SIX STACK, NOT A SIX PACK! I DON'T WANT PANCAKES IN A CAN, I WANT A STACK OF SIX PANCAKES!" Marnie ran out of wind, stopped, took two deep breaths. "IS THAT SUCH A HARD CONCEPT FOR YOUR TRANSISTOR BRAIN TO UNDERSTAND?" Marnie's face was dark, the cords in her neck were standing out, and Angela was not at all sure whether her sister was going to drive the plate full of canned pancakes into the control panel, whether she was going to drive her fist through the touch screen, or whether she was going to step back and throw the cans, one at a time, just as hard as she could. Part of Angela's mind considered that the ceramic plate that held the cans, would make a fine Frisbee, if flung as a weapon at the offending dispenser. Marnie turned -- as she saw her sister, her rage fell from her face like water cascading off an oilskin, and was gone. She placed the plate and its wobbling cargo on the table, blinked, tilted her head a little. "Hello," she smiled, "you're just in time for breakfast!" The dispenser hummed again: Marnie reached in, pulled out another plate: bacon and eggs, hot and steaming, and then a big mug of shimmering-brown tea. "Why ... don't ... I try some canned pancakes," Angela said hesitantly. Marnie set her plate down, waved a hand at the dispenser: Angela walked gracefully, delicately, as a matter of course. As she approached her now-quiet-voiced sister -- her full-powered screaming RAGE ringing in Angela's memory, if not off the walls -- she walked as if she were treading on eggshells. "Earl Grey, honey, big mug," she told the dispenser, then reached in and retrieved her steaming-hot beverage. Angela picked up a can -- it was about the size of a beer can, back home -- she pressed both thumbs under its lip, popping the top up. She ran a butter knife inside the can, between its cargo and the sidewall, turned it upside down. A stack of pancakes fell out -- smaller than she was used to, hot, shining with butter and honey and a dusting of cinnamon. "Blueberry?" she asked. Marnie glared at her. Angela picked up her plate, set it over with her sister's platter. Marnie glared daggers at the dispenser as Angela went over and spoke to it; she came back just as Marnie opened another can of pancakes, dumped it without ceremony atop the first can's contents. "Did you enjoy your time back home?" Marnie mumbled through a full mouth. "I did," Angela replied, daintily spreading a napkin on her lap, unfolding a second, tucking it into her collar and draping it delicately over her bodice. "I saved a child's life." "Show-off," Marnie muttered, took a noisy slurp of tea. "You act like you're starving." "I am." Marnie bit savagely at a bacon strip. "What else?" Angela blinked innocently, cut into her pancakes with her fork. "I went in disguise," she said quietly. Marnie grunted, seized the pepper shaker, peppered her eggs severely. Angela withheld comment, though privately she considered just how much of an inferno her own throat would feel, had she seasoned her eggs to that degree. "Disguised. As what?" Angela smiled, forked up a bite of blueberry pancake. "An onion." The Lady Esther whistled cheerfully to the depot as she departed. A good percentage of the passengers in the only passenger car, were tourists, and of these, the very young were restless and impatient, deprived of their screens and hand-held entertainment. Children are, however, resilient, and when they can't entertain themselves with the familiar, they will look for something interesting, and one little boy regarded the unmoving figure, all in white. "How come you have a scarf over your face?" he asked with the bluntness of the young. The featureless female figure turned its head, which reminded the little boy of a special-effect he'd seen on TV, where a marble statue turned its head and spoke. "I'm a nun. I am one of the White Sisters." "What's a White Sister?" "We are of the Order of St Mercurius," she replied gently. "We are Sworn Religious, and as part of our sacred vows, we hide our faces from the world." "How come?" the lad persisted. Angela smiled as Marnie inhaled the last of her eggs, cut into another can's worth of pancakes. "So what did you tell him? -- oh God this is so good!" Angela's eyebrows raised a little and she laughed quietly, smiling behind her heavy mug of burgamo-scented tea. "I told him he had to promise never, ever to tell, and then I lifted my veil." "You didn't!" Marnie breathed, delight in her eyes and a smile broadening her face. "Oh, yes," Angela nodded. "I thought ... if I'm disguising myself like Sarah McKenna used to, why not go all the way?" "The scar?" "The scar," Angela nodded, lowering her mug, tracing a line from the corner of her eye down her cheek, down over her jaw bone and across her throat. "Nonflexible collodion, a painted-on scar line. I lifted my veil and whispered to him that I used to sing opera." Angela sighed and laughed quietly. "When we arrived at Rabbitville Station, I stood to get off, and as I walked to the back door of the passenger car, I could hear the little boy -- he was probably pointing at me -- tell someone, "She's a White Onion!"

If I had any idea how much we really spend playing cowboy, oh wait, we're having too much fun so I really don't want to know. When primers went over $20/1000, I said I wasn't going to shoot any more. That was 10 years ago, I guess I lied.

A cane pole, a string, a hook, a worm, a Coors Lite.

The New Hampshire governor signed the bill for firearm purchaser's privacy which bans companies from separating firearm dealers into their own merchant category code. https://www.gencourt.state.nh.us/bill_Status/billinfo.aspx?id=1169

Advice for your 8-year-old self? Learn how to spell.

How many folks here have bought a gun we didn't need "Just Because"? [waves hand from the back of the room]

I was asked to help a buddy who is running for state representative at a rodeo in the spring at the county fairgrounds. He had a little booth set up with games for kids so he could chat with parents. My job was to make sure the games were running properly. I wore my SASS rig with pistols, as you can see in the photo. The county sheriff walked by and stopped, looking at my guns/belt. He said, “Damn, I gotta get something like that.” Now that’s a red state.

My wife and I are also moving to Missouri. We are both from there and moved to Florida about 8 years ago. We are moving back to be near my aging parents. We will be relocating further north just outside the Kansas City area. I am looking forward to shooting with the clubs down around Branson.

"Buy a gun, walk out with it." That was a bit of a shock without the 72 hour wait that has made Illinois (Chicago)the pinnacle of peace and tranquility. I remember making a "multi" gun purchase at Bass Pro, and both of us walking out with guns after the credit card cleared. We both felt kinda naughty and kept looking around to see if anyone was watching. Takes a while to get used to.

I’d disagree with you on that. I’ve played golf, shown horses, been involved with Little league, my son’s HS athletic booster club, church all my life. By far the easiest to get along with are cowboy action shooters. (With a few exceptions!, but by and large good folks.? I can pretty much promise you if you are playing golf and break a club, a stranger is not going to say here, use mine. I’ve told my kids that when I go home to glory, they can trust a couple of my cowboy friends to dispose of my gun & gear collection honestly.

We have been contemplating MO for a while now. My brother has the timeshare at BassPro complex there in Branson and goes 3 or 4 times a year and is always saying how great it is. He wants to move there but his wife is holding him back because she doesn't want to leave her grandkids. We hope to get up there sometime this fall and check some areas out. TM

I thought I would post some photos of some of my work. You can't just take my word and Rob's. Shot Shell Boxes. Winchester magazine screwdrivers. A stand for a loading black powder pistol. And some grips. All scratch made. If I could make a living building stringed instruments I would so this stuff is easy.