One of my local pals is a serious target shooter. Whatever kind there is -- centerfire, rim-fire, air rifles, high-power rifles, muzzle-loaders, cowboy action, even flintlock pistols -- he does, has done, and wants to do more of. And has the gold and silver medals to prove it.
That's almost enough to identify the guy right there, so I'll just call him The Sharpshooter an' leave it at that.
He's self-employed and I try to catch up with him every other week or so, for coffee and a chat. Most recently, he somewhat abashedly proffered a recent issue of Dillon's Blue Press. "I don't think you get this? Don't mind the models," he explained, at which I grinned and asked him if he ever notices Cosmo at the grocery. "There's a really good article in this one, have a look."
It certainly is good -- it's Marko's essay, Give Them Nothing. "Oh-ho," I chortled, "I know this one. Marko's a friend of my new roommate. We have links to each other on our blogs."
"You do? He is? There are? Well, how about that!"
How about that. It's a smallish sort of world -- when your friends are first-rate folks!
By connection, you've got beer, board and broadband here anytime.
ReplyDeleteAnytime, that is, you want to disarm and subsume yourself in the filth of the UK. Gech.
But hey, a friend of Tam's and Marko's comes with automagic qualifications.