Well hi kids, hi ya hi ya! It's O'l Texino back from a trip to the proving grounds of The whole American Way. The Frontier. Actually the frontier was considered pinched off and sewed up in the latter part of the 19th century, but I saw some signs of it as late as 1978 when traveling through Laramie WY. I spied a couple of cowboys hitching south in a golden afternoon; Each one with his saddle and bed roll and not a movie camera in sight. That was cool. I would have made a good cowboy. I'm lonesome.
So what was I up to way out west? Well, I was looking for Steve Fossett. Or I should say Millionaire Steve Fossett. At any rate, I was there in my official capacity as President of The Irony Club to certify the fact that "Millionaire" Steve who risked himself on many counted and documented occasions in order to set records just to set them, had succumbed to a common general aviation accident of the sort that happens with far greater frequency than the propeller head hobbyist would want a guy to believe. (these are the same bunch who commonly say " a good landing is one you walk away from") The general Aviation Fly-boys go in for pithy sayings with macho under currents and are famous for their ability to shift blame away from their cranky little kites to the skills or lack of same by the drivers. So the common thought is Millionaire Steve is working on his Skeleton costume some place in the high desert and he gets the Ironic Emblem for 2007!
I had a little time on my hands between gigs so I highed over to "Tombstone" and did two weeks of law enforcement for the hell of it. You know? Gun fighting with outlaws. I got 18 notches in the old 6 gun. You all remember how Marshall Dillon used to start off Gun Smoke?
He would shoot a guy and then look real sorry? Well, when I nail an outlaw, I like grab a fist and cock my leg like people do when they score a hockey goal and say Yessssss! Other wise, I'm stock lonesome.