Morning! (I think.)

When you're on Eastern time, it's easy to be an early riser on the west coast. It's harder to be a party animal, since you're hanging on your chinstrap by 9PM local, which is what I was doing last night.

I feel very much like a real gunwriter right now, having had lunch yesterday with Tom Gresham, Frank James, and Andrew Daun.

Where's Chewie?

Thirty floors over Portland, being wined & dined by Leatherman. (Which was cute and all. I didn't have the heart to tell them that there's no need to sell me; my purse already looks like a Leatherman catalog threw up in it.)

There I finally got to meet Iain Harrison and Shelley Rae; having spent the last couple years only about two degrees of Kevin Bacon away from them both, that was very enjoyable. Shelley informed me that Caleb, like Unc, had to punk out because work. Gracie from Packing Pretty was there, and probably lots of other people whose names I am totally forgetting because that's what I tend to do with names if I don't walk around with a pad and pen in my hand like a dork.

And now I've got to scrounge something in the way of food before we head out to the range...