​A new movie came out on cable providers recently titled The Warrant, starring Neal McDonough as John Breaker, a former Union officer who is now the local sheriff.  His son Cal Breaker, played by Steven R. McQueen, is now a Federal Marshal and asks his help to capture a special outlaw – his old war buddy who now calls himself The Saint, played by Casper Van Dien.
 
Neal McDonough was almost cast out of type in this film; having associated his previous work with gloriously played bad guys, most notably Robert Quarles in Justified and later Malcolm Beck in Yellowstone, I had to keep reminding myself that he was a good guy here. He pulls it out with a stoicism that I often associate with screen renditions of Wyatt Earp, though his character is his own.
 
In some ways, this is an “anti-buddy” movie – its overarching theme is one of brother against brother, fitting in a movie set immediately post-Civil War. But it’s also a movie about forgiveness, second chances, and the high costs of mercy, duty, and service.
 
It is a streamlined plot insofar as there are few subplots to consume screen time and create additional action.  I was surprised to note that it is a full two hour (or so) long movie because it seemed much shorter. At its end the thought struck me that it felt more like a one hour series episode than a full movie, which prompted my ruminations about plot structure.  The richness that is normally supplied by subplots (or “sidequests” as my gamers would say) is replaced by frequent flashbacks that provide backstory for the characters.
 
This has been out a few months now, but is well worth looking up.  Look for it on Amazon Prime!

​Recent weeks have seen a lot of turmoil and upheaval, beginning with protests about the death of George Floyd, leading to more protests, rioting, and still more protests.  Protestors began defacing monuments and statues with “BLM” graffiti and demanding their removal. Soon cities were on board; on June 18th the National Trust for Historic Preservation lent their approval for the removal of Confederate monuments from public spaces[1]. The statues began to come down.  I don’t think that their removal will have any significant effect on race relations in our country, but I see the argument.  Statues honoring generals of a rebellious country that lasted only four years don’t exactly rank up there with the Founding Fathers.
 
The fervor to remove statues didn’t stop with the Confederacy, however. Soon protesters were taking aim at Washington; a descendant of Jefferson wrote an articulate plea for the removal of his monument[2]; even Lincoln was not spared the criticism of the “woke” crowd that was drunk on destatuation[3].
 
This movement is not exactly revisionist; it’s not “rewriting” history per se, but it is certainly censoring what our nation should consider laudable, and we will see where this little experiment takes us. Thus far there has been no discussion about who might replace the images of those removed and now discarded personalities of our past.  Perhaps we no longer believe in heroes.
 
So where does it end? Which public figure is safe at this point? Is Theodore Roosevelt safe; would Martin Luther King make the cut – John F. Kennedy?  What public figure is sacred and pure enough to withstand the scrutiny of this new Zeitgeist? I’m not sure when this statue toppling frenzy will stop, but I suspect that human nature will eventually want to replace the statues with something that the new generation finds acceptable. My recommendation on this point is not to suggest a person, but a material. I submit that all new monuments be made in unfinished sandstone . . . or perhaps even pumice.  That way the new monuments will be sure to exist only in our spotless present and will not outlast the sensibilities that erected them.


[1] https://savingplaces.org/press-center/media-resources/national-trust-statement-on-confederate-memorials?utm_medium=email&utm_source=update&fbclid=IwAR3oFnlZTiXL4zR1da0tVLirDNKS3A4odDmB7RxlsbbsE3XcXuemKOrSAEw#.Xwat5S0iefC
 

[2] https://thehill.com/blogs/blog-briefing-room/news/506186-jefferson-descendant-take-down-his-memorial

[3] https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/protesters-denounce-abraham-lincoln-statue-in-dc-urge-removal-of-emancipation-memorial/2020/06/25/02646910-b704-11ea-a510-55bf26485c93_story.html

             People are social beings; we like to gather and talk, and oftentimes a polite greeting and a smile can just turn someone’s day around.  But sometimes a greeting can fall flat and have the opposite effect, as I’ve noticed in several local businesses lately.
            It has become a commonplace when walking into many businesses, from the QT convenience mart to Walgreens or even pet stores, that someone will greet me, usually as soon as I walk in the door.  Sometimes I am greeted by several people as I make my way through the aisles. Now, this is all well and good, and many times the greeting is warm and friendly, and I feel warm and friendly about my choice of retail outlet.  But other times the greeting feels stilted and rushed; there is no eye contact, no smile . . . the greeting feels compulsory and not at all welcoming.
            Companies like Walgreens and Quick Trip have implemented policies mandating that their workers greet people as they come in. I theorize that someone in Corporate decided walked into a store and wasn’t greeted, and they felt ignored. So down came the ruling that every guest must be greeted every single time.  On paper this is a great policy, but in actual practice, these workers are very often busy with other duties when I walk in and the greeting ends up being a quipped and clearly scripted “Hi, welcome to ___” as they complete the task as hand. If they are too busy to even look at who they’re greeting I don’t feel welcomed; I just feel sorry for them working in such an impersonal and scripted environment.  With workers donning their COVID masks the effect is even more distant and impersonal because half of their face is shielded and I can’t hear them as well or clearly see if they’re providing me with the required smile.  Most of these workers are genuinely friendly and do offer good customer service, but regurgitating scripted welcomes doesn’t help with that. And when they’re busy . . . geez, let them work!
I would counsel corporate policy-makers and managers to foster a culture of customer service and then let the workers do what they’re trained to, and stop micro-managing their interactions with customers.  Then when a worker welcomes me into their store, I’ll know they really mean it.

​
 

















​On April 28th of 2011, the Arizona State Legislature declared the venerable Colt Single Action Army (SAA) revolver as the Official State Firearm.  While Sturm, Ruger firearms (who manufacture their single action Vaquero right here in AZ) might have preferred to get the nod, it makes perfect sense to award the designation to the old Colt model, as it was an important tool in establishing law and order on the southwestern frontier.
 
The Colt SAA came out in 1873 as Colt’s most successful revolver in the then-new self-contained metallic cartridges, and sales to the Army quickly made this revolver a hot commodity. This was a wholly new model, replacing the 1872 Open Top that had been built on a rehashed design from the 1860 Army that had been one of the primary sidearms of the Civil War (which is still a fine weapon in its own right).  The new SAA employed a solid top strap and a new, more powerful ammunition, the 45 Colt. Loading 35 grains of black powder underneath a 255 grain conical bullet, the 45 Colt boasted being the most powerful handgun cartridge of its day, and in fact this claim to power was not eclipsed until the advent of the .357 Magnum cartridge in 1935. Even afterwards, many big-bore aficionados, no less than the Dean of Sixguns, Elmer Keith, still preferred the old 45 to the new and modern 357, feeling that the mass and diameter of the bigger bullet outweighed the high velocity energy figures that the smaller round produced.  Keith also noted that the SAA was the fastest gun of any design for getting the first shot out of the holster
 
The Colt SAA has been made in three major “Generations.” The First Generation ran from 1873 to 1941, when handgun production for World War Two shut down production.  Then the Second Generation ran from 1956 (taking advantage of the popularity of westerns and “fast draw” on TV) to 1974, when the original tooling was just too worn out to continue.  They quickly retooled and began production of the Third Generation in 1976, and continue production in limited quantities.
 
The Colt SAA, chambered in 45 Colt with a 5.5 inch barrel, was the official sidearm of the Territorial Arizona Rangers during their tenure from 1901 to 1909, which is perhaps the most compelling reason for it to be chosen as the official State Firearm.  The Modern Rangers have since moved on to more contemporary semi-automatic pistols as their primary duty weapons, but even now individual Rangers can still qualify with the old thumb-buster and carry it on ceremonial duties.
 
So slip out of your quarantine for a bit today and go burn some powder to celebrate the State icon!

Civilization is what separates us from the animals, and in a free society people should be able to comport themselves, especially with regard to their personal hygiene needs, without permission from others.  But there is an insidious movement encroaching on our freedoms lately, a scourge that threatens the very moral fiber of our culture - the locked “public” restroom.

There was a time when public facilities and retail businesses had public restrooms, and they were open to . . . the public. But in recent years there has been a disturbing trend among local businesses to secure their facilities behind locks and keypad entry systems; the facilities are still “public” in the sense that they are available to anyone, but they are only available to those select few who know “the code.” This code is obtained by conferring with an employee, any employee, to get the code or in some rarer cases, an actual key.  Such keys are almost always attached to a sheet of wood or other signage so that your intentions are publicly broadcast.​

I understand there are reasons for this increased security; I live in an older section of my city where the demographic is less . . . sophisticated than elsewhere in town. Across town the MOD pizza place has open bathrooms, but at the one nearest my house it’s locked and I have to ask for a code . . . But my girlfriend doesn’t. See, only the men’s room is locked.  At PetSmart both are locked, even though it’s not a quarter mile away.  I’m not sure what this says about the men who frequent that MOD pizza, or the general clientele of PetSmart,  but none of it is good.  I don’t doubt that these businesses have had incidents that prompted such measures, but I also don’t care - when you have to ask a stranger for help with your own bodily functions, that’s a sure sign that the world is going to hell in a handbasket.  Grown adults should not have to ask permission to go potty.

Writing can be a lonely pursuit. On good days, it’s you and your story, peopled with interesting characters and exciting plot lines. On bad days, it’s just you and a blank screen, the blinking cursor mocking you for your haughty ideas about “being a writer.”  Oh, that cursor!

So writers must find like-minded people where they can, to provide community, guidance, editing, and moral support.

Enter Scott Harris.  Author of the award-winning Coyote Canyon series of western novels, Harris came up with a brilliant idea to bring together a bunch (51, to be exact) of his friends and acquaintances to write a series of short-short stories, each answering the same prompt. His first prompt was an iconic “A shot rang out!” - every story had two requirements; it must begin with this prompt, and it must be 500 words.  Now, 500 words is a very short story, so it offers writers a certain challenge indeed!

We all submitted our stories, and the final product is available on Amazon at the link below.  It was well received, making the top 20 list in its first week as a new release! It’s a bit of a fascinating exercise to see how different 52 stories can be that all begin with the same 17 words, and I encourage everyone to go check it out.  When you like it, keep an eye out for the next installment, as this will be a regular feature running on a quarterly basis - 52 authors, 500 words, but a different commonality each time!

​

A couple three weeks ago I said goodbye to a dear friend.   But far from being a sad occasion, it was inspirational and uplifting, because you see, my friend Melissa is chasing down her dream.  She is a DreamCatcher.

When I was a young buck in college, I dreamed of graduating college, buying myself a Harley-Davidson motorcycle and riding off into the sunset.  I would travel the highways and byways of America, meeting people and taking odd jobs when I needed money, and while “on the road” I would write the Great American Novel.  As you might expect, this did not come to pass. I often say I grew up, but I’m not sure if growing up is exactly what I did so much as I got distracted and derailed by the same things that distract and derail us all.

But Melissa . . . well, Melissa had long chat with her inner young adult, and they decided that enough was enough and they were going to do it!  So she sold off most of her earthly possessions, traded her mature compact sedan for a truck and her adult condo for a trailer. Now she’s off to see the country!

Now, I’m a big fan of travel and new experiences, but what makes Melissa’s journey so noteworthy is that she’s not coming back - not here, anyway.  Melissa isn’t simply taking a sabbatical, she is finding - no, she is forging a new life for herself.

Melissa is a healer and Reiki master, and her ultimate goal is to open a healing center on a nice plot of land where she can blend Reiki, equine therapy, and other modalities to welcome and support fellow travelers, seekers, and those in need of balance and restoration.  She is also working on the completion of her book, a memoir of her own struggles, survival, and ultimately healing. I’ve seen early drafts, and it’s a transformative read. You’re going to want to read it as soon as it comes out.
​
In the meantime Melissa (with her trusty co-pilot/daughter Emily and their dog Lucy) is on the road, seeking her new home.  But you can follow her exploits on FaceBook and Instagram. Go check out her pages and tell her I said “hi!”

https://www.instagram.com/therevtour/?hl=en
​
https://www.facebook.com/TheRevolutionTour/

I ride a Harley Davidson.  I love it, and for those who understand Harleys, they’re kind of a special breed.  Harley Davidsons are all about tradition, and quite frankly, much of their operating systems are inefficient.  Power is transferred through a system of gears and belts, and their transmissions are no exception.  Shifting is accomplished through a somewhat tedious transfer of levers, involving no fewer than four moving parts.  All is well until something vibrates loose, and brother, those old style V-twins vibrate to beat the band.
 
Today something vibrated loose. My inner shift lever, to be exact.  This is the lever that actually connects to the transmission, shifting from one gear to another, and it’s a real drag when it comes loose on the I-10 at 70+ mph.

I pulled over and dug the right sized tool from my saddlebag (as a Harley owner, this has happened before, and my tool box grows in size with each passing year).  This is not a complicated repair, but it is tedious and uncomfortable, as the lever is tucked between the primary case and the transmission, and is thus surrounded by hot engine parts.

But this is not my point.  My point is that I had not been on the side of the road three minutes before another biker pulled in behind me. He asked what my problem was, and if he could help.  I had the right tool, but he had a glove, and a couple of other tools that made my job a little easier.  Perhaps more importantly, he brought a bit of comaraderie to the roadside that I was sorely lacking. We shared tales of other shift-related issues that had befallen us with our rides, and how we fixed them or limped home. His name was Danny.

My other point is that while we were messing with my bike, TWO other groups of riders stopped to see if they could help.  One was a group of three or four guys whose vests said they were with the Gatekeepers club. They pulled over to offer to help.  Another three or four riding in a group stopped to offer help. A DPS car whizzed by in the carpool lane; I guess he thought we looked like we had it under control, and anyway, he was in a cage; he wasn’t one of us.  I was on the side of the road less than 40 minutes, and no fewer than 7 people stopped to help me. Because I was on a bike, and they were on bikes. We had never met, but we were in the same club, brothers of the bike.

My brothers helped me today, and I’ll be adding to my on-board tool kit so maybe next time I can help you.  So until we meet, on the roadside or at a rally or local watering hole, keep the rubber side down.

​