Git along little dogies -- and watch out for that six-foot gator behind the palm tree

When I moved from Florida to Denver in 1978, I wandered down to the local bookstore and bought “Centennial” by James Michener. It was published in ’74, two years before the Centennial State’s centennial. That tie-in helped boost the book into the bestseller lists. Michener had a history at UNC. He taught there from 1936-40 when it was called the Colorado State College of Education. He donated all of his papers and research material to UNC and it became the Michener Special Collection. The library was named for Michener in 1972.

When I moved to Wyoming in 1991, I picked up John McPhee’s “Rising from the Plains.” In it, McPhee, with the help of legendary Wyoming geologist David Love, Tracked the amazing millennia of land masses rising from and falling into the plains. On one of my first work trips around the state, I listened to the audiobook and found myself on site at the Red Desert and the Snowy Range and the big caldera that is Jackson Hole. Never looked at them the same again.

I’m writing this because I now have returned to Florida from Wyoming which, as I remind people who seem a bit confused by its whereabouts, I say it’s the big (almost) square state just north of another square state, Colorado, where both pot and membership in the Democratic Party are legal.

But I digress. When I arrived in Florida in August just before back-to-back hurricanes, I vowed to read a book by a Florida writer about an era of the state I knew nothing about. So, naturally, I chose a book about Florida cowboys and their cattle drives. Head ‘em up and move ‘em out – and watch out for the snakes and the gators and malaria-carrying skeeters.

“A Land Remembered” from Pineapple Press of Palm Beach is an excellent novel by Patrick D. Smith. It tells the story of three generations of the MacIvey clan from 1858-1968. In the early years, they face starvation, gator attacks, ambushes by Confederate deserters, and all kinds of wild weather. They round up stray cattle with bullwhips and the crack of the whips give them the name “Crackers.” They assembled herds, drove them to the west Florida port of Punta Rassa near Punta Gorda, and faced all sorts of adventures along the way. They eventually moved from cattle to citrus to land developers, each with their successes and pitfalls. They lost friends and family to raging bulls and rustlers. But all of that land that the family bought in what’s now Dade County became very valuable once air conditioning entered the picture.

It's a fantastic tale, the book worthy of the kudos heaped on it. I couldn’t avoid making comparisons to books and movies of cattle drives in the West, especially Wyoming and Colorado. I worked for 30 years in Cheyenne and learned a lot about the history of the cattle biz in the West. Cheyenne Frontier Days is in its second century and that history is featured in the CFD Old West Museum, the Wyoming State Museum, and many works of art around the city.

“A Land Remembered” is a great novel and opened my eyes to Florida history I knew little about. The MacIveys make their home on the Kissimmee River near the town that’s mostly known as the neighbor to DisneyWorld, SeaWorld, and all those other amusements of Central Florida. Kissimmee hosts an annual rodeo and an excellent museum, the Osceola County Welcome Center and History Museum at 4155 W. Vine St. There you can view dioramas of some of the scrawny cattle rounded up from swamps and scrubland, the outfits worn by Florida cowboys (no Ray-Bans but they could have used them), and info on the various predators that threatened cow and cowboy. The Seminoles also played a part in the trade and Smith does a great job describing their culture in his novel.

I think my next move will be to the Ormond Beach Public Library and see if I can find a Florida-based book targeted by Moms for Liberty. There should be scores to choose from. I’ve been here for two months and don’t yet have a library card or whatever they use for library access these days. I do have access to Libby on my Kindle but Libby is not the same thing as spending hours scanning the new books section. I have found so many treasures there.

Literary Connection Part II: Craig Johnson, from book to screen to novella

For my first Oct. 8 post about the Literary Connection, go to https://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2017/10/we-ask-old-question-why-do-writers-write.html

At Oct. 7's Literary Connection at LCCC, I bought three books by Craig Johnson: "Western Star," the newest Longmire mystery; "The Cold Dish," the first published Longmire novel; and "Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories," including "Old Indian Trick," winner of the Tony Hillerman award.

I have others on my jam-packed book shelves and undoubtedly in some of the many boxes of books I have stashed around the house. I've read three of the author's Walt Longmire mysteries. They are well-written and exciting, with memorable characters. They are set in the mythical Wyoming burg of Durant in the county of Absaroka. These are stand-ins for Johnson's neighboring village of Buffalo in Johnson County. Johnson is not related to the Johnson of the county name. He is affiliated with Buffalo's Longmire Days celebration which celebrates the books featuring the mythical sheriff. It's a lot of fun -- I attended it during the summer of 2015. Johnson is the master of ceremonies for events. Presenters include a roster of the actors who bring the characters to life on the Netflix series. The writer and actors sign autographs and pose for photos with fans. There's also a street dance and a pancake breakfast. The Johnsons staff a pop-up store on Main Street where they sell Longmire merch. I have several T-shirts and books galore to prove their merchandising skills.

Johnson and his wife Judy live in the town of Ucross, just off the intersection of two state highways. Johnson has written 20-some books st the old homestead. The characters that he dreamed up come to life on the Netflix series. That must be awesome. He's said as much at the various talks and book signings I've attended.

Johnson presented the afternoon talk at LCCC's Literary Connection on Oct. 7. I couldn't stay for it. I had to get home to meet my daughter and go shopping. Family matters come before the matters of writing and everything else.

Netflix airs the sixth and last season of "Longmire" starting in November. The network cited declining viewership as the main reason it cancelled the series. Chris and I are long-time "Longmire" watchers. The Netflix version is edgier than its A&E counterpart. That's the way of Netflix. I have enjoyed the edgy "Ozark," which also features a rural setting -- Lake of the Ozarks in Arkansas. Netflix just cancelled the edgy "Bloodline" set in the Florida Keys. I watched season one and was impressed with the cast and acting and the non-sequential storytelling. Netflix said it was too expensive to produce. Who knows?

What makes a Netflix success? How edgy can you be until that becomes a stereotype? Stories thrive on conflict. You need real characters, too, people that are believable and are a bundle of contradictions too. Just like a great novel.

"Longmire" had something no other show has -- Native American characters or, at least, minorities playing Native Americans on the show. Lou Diamond Philips who plays Henry Standing Bear in part-Cherokee. The mother of Denver native Zahn McLarnon, who plays tribal police chief Mathias, was Hunkpapa Lakota. We have shows with Hispanic characters and African-Americans. With the death of "Longmire," Native Americans disappear from contemporary stories on the screen. A shame. Craig Johnson has gone out of his way to bring Native characters into his fiction and onto the screen. And he does his research.

The show's success has spawned novellas such as "The Highwayman" subtitled "A Longmire Story." The novella's cover prominently promotes the show. So the novels begat the show and the show begat novellas. Kind of interesting how this business works. I knew Johnson back when he was writing his first novel. The encouraging thing is that he's the same good guy he was back then. He rides for the brand, to borrow a phrase from Wyoming's Cowboy Code. Or to quote a line from one of the my favorite movies -- he's bona fide.

For more about Johnson, go to http://www.craigallenjohnson.com/.

Seventy years after his first visit, what would Sal Paradise think about Cheyenne Frontier Days?

"Hell's bells, it's Wild West Days!"

A line from Jack Kerouac's "On the Road." A character named Slim can't restrain himself when he finds he's landed in Cheyenne during Frontier Days in 1947. Kerouac dropped in on his way to Denver. Sal Paradise (Kerouac) spends some time exploring Cheyenne before he sets off to see Dean Moriarty (Neal Cassady) down on Larimer Street, the place where all the rootless ones hang out. In the 1950s, my parents warned us kids about all the bums on Larimer Street. It now boasts a better class of bum. Good eats and great beer. Major League Baseball only a few blocks away. Light rail at the no-longer-decrepit Union Station. In a 2015 post, I wrote a bit more about Kerouac and Frontier Days.

Cheyenne Frontier Days is celebrating its 121st year. That's a lot of years to put on an event. The year 1896 was many American wars ago, many cowboys riding broncs, many kids chowing down on carnival funnel cakes. I appreciate how much it takes to put on "The World's Largest Outdoor Rodeo" and attendant events. Volunteers make it work.

I've volunteered at the Old-Fashioned Melodrama (in its 61st year) for many years at downtown's Atlas Theatre. I've been on stage as emcee and served in many capacities at the front of the house -- bartender, house manager, concessions, etc. The Atlas is going through exterior renovations. Interior looks great. Revamped theatre, new tables and chairs, and -- finally -- AC. The new lobby bar looks great. Beyond that, there is still millions of dollars in work to be done to the building and its upper floors. Anyone involved in the non-profit arts world knows that the work is never done. The Cheyenne Little Theatre Players was founded in 1930 and now owns two theatres, which is quite a task for a community theatre organization. A small staff, a dedicated board, and dozens of volunteers keep things moving along. And welcome to CLTP's new ED,

The City of Cheyenne celebrates its 150 year in August. You can find a schedule of events at  https://www.cheyenne.org/cheyenne150/. It's a newbie when compared to some East Coast cities. But a lot can happen in a century-and-a-half. Our kids, who live elsewhere, contend that nothing happens in Cheyenne. I have a different perspective. When Chris, Kevin and I moved here in 1991, we found few things to do outside of Kevin's school and youth sports. Adults hung out at bars. Teens and young adults and Warren AFB personnel drove to Denver and Fort Collins for amusements. Cheyenne still challenges them. Colorado still beckons. Liberals in this conservative bastion seek comfort in togetherness and in activism, sometimes the same thing. Still, the Know Nothings make life a struggle for the Open-Minded. I have blogged quite a bit about Cheyenne .Its people are a treasure. The politics are a challenge. I love it. I hate it. But I have always been actively involved in the community and plan to continue.

Happy birthday, Cheyenne.

Happy trails, Sue Wallis

This time last year, Rep. Sue Wallis (R-Recluse) was an ally in the cause to promote a domestic partnerships bill in the Wyoming House. I was at home, recovering from a heart attack, and I had plenty of time to listen in on the proceeding of the legislature. I blogged about it, too. Read the post here.

Now it's the last day of January, 2014. It's cold and gray outside. And Sue Wallis is dead, possibly due to a heart attack that killed her at 56 (the Gillette News-Record obit described it as "natural causes"). She was alone in a Gillette hotel room, spending the night in town to attend some legislative committee meetings on Tuesday. Later in the day, she was going to fly out to Elko and the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, an event she helped run back in the 1990s.

That's just one of the scary things about heart attacks. You can be alone and then you can be dead. Or you can be alone and passed out of the floor, gasping for air. You could be calling 911 on your cell phone, if you're able, and then just hope that the EMTs arrive in time.

Wallis was a rancher, cowboy poet and Lynne Cheney supporter. She advocated for humane horse slaughter and food freedom for farmers. She didn't like Barack Obama or the EPA. She stood up for abortion rights and the LGBT community. A real Wyoming mix. The Campbell County Republican Party will try to find a replacement but she can't be replaced.

After I heard the news, I went to her blogs and read some of her poetry. It tells you a lot about her. Go there and see.

And get that heart checked.

From beach boy to beach cowboy

I'm not a Florida beach guy. Not anymore.

Salt water once ran in my veins. The sun freckled my skin on a daily basis. All summer long, I lived in my baggies and toughened my feet by walking barefoot on scalding asphalt on my way to the beach's hard-packed sand. My car wore surf racks and patches of rust. By the time I graduated from high school, it was almost ready for the scrap heap, although a neighbor forked over $100 so he could turn it into a dune buggy.

Nights and evenings, we worked so we could surf during the day. I was a busboy at a combination Kentucky Fried Chicken joint and a pancake house. We busboys spent a lot of time flirting with the waitresses, trying to get them into our cars for an after-work beachside rendezvous. When that didn't work, we'd drive down to the Daytona pier and see if any tourist girls were interested in canoodling with busboys. We lonely guys often ended up parked on the beach (you could drive on it back then) talking about our plans for the future.

I had plans. I didn't know what they were, but I had them. Life was waiting for me and I had no desire to remain a beach boy or, worse, a beach bum. The world was tough on me and I did return to the beach after being booted out of college. I surfed and worked, waited for the Army to pluck me from the waves and send me to Vietnam. But the call never came and I had to figure out the next steps. Traveled, returned to school, worked, returned to the beach again although spent less and less time actually on the beach. Guess I always thought it was something to grow out of.

My brother Dan found that the beach was something you could grow into. He surfed until he was almost 60, until leukemia claimed him late last year. His 50- and 60-something buddies all surfed. They formed a church called the Salty Church that is a block from the beach.

Meanwhile, I made my home in the Rocky Mountain West and only rarely looked back. Until recently. When retirement raised its head. Now I'm spending time at funerals and weddings of my loved ones in The Sunshine State. It's not the place I left in 1978. Scads more people, traffic, developments. I was surprised during my recent trip that you can still walk with your best girl on the beach -- and be the only two out there. It has to be windy and 45 degrees, but it can be done.

But as I said in a previous post, the beach is nice but I can't see basing a retirement on that one thing alone. I can't surf until I get my knees fixed and/or replaced. I don't fish, like some of the codgers I came across on my beach walks. My Celtic skin won't tolerate sunbathing. I don't own a boat.

The warm weather is nice. Lots of cultural offerings. My family members are there, as are old friends. I care deeply about my old Florida schools -- they shaped me.

Still...

Spend a few decades in a place and you change. I've lived in Wyoming since 1991, with two years off in the mid-90s to work in D.C. As it turns out, I still have salt water in my veins. That's because all humans have salt water in our veins, even those of us who live in the Land of the Ancient Seas. Millions of years ago, my little lot in Cheyenne was underwater. If I excavated my entire backyard instead of just my small garden plot, I would find fossils of sea creatures. When the wind blows from the south, I smell the salt air. It could be from the nearest saltwater patch in the Gulf of Mexico. More likely, it's the moisture by storms. Or it could be my imagination.

Most of the time, the wind brings the scent of the dry prairie or of snow from Gulf of Alaska storms. The landscape reveals no waves, unless I use my imagination and wonder what it would be like to surf a wave as high as the nearest sandstone bluff.

I have to admit that I am more of this place than of the place where I did my growing up. I am no longer a beach guy unless you count the fact that I have walked "the beaches of Cheyenne" that Garth Brooks sings about. No longer the beach boy but a beach cowboy.

1950s filled with creeds, oaths and pledges for us Boomers

Remember Hopalong Cassidy on 1950s black-and-white TV?

Remember Hopalong Cassidy's Creed?

Hopalong was in the news this week, A press release from the University of Wyoming noted that the archives at the American Heritage Center contain hundreds of items from the mythic cowboy's career in TV, radio and movies: LP records, photos, scripts, personal memorabilia, copies of the creed and all of the rest.


Wholesomeness was crucial. Hopalong was the “epitome of gallantry and fair play” and his creed reflected that. Honesty, cleanliness, respect for parents, love of country, etc. All great things. We recited the creed along with our TV cowboy hero -- and meant it. If you've lost your copy of the creed, get a copy at Hoppy's web site.

The 1950s were filled with creeds, oaths and pledges for us Boomer kids.

I was a Catholic, too. That meant memorizing the Ten Commandments and various prayers, including the Hail Mary, the Prayer to Saint Francis and the Apostles' Creed. The liturgy still was in Latin, but the nuns and priests and parents had mercy on us and let us memorize prayers in the vernacular. The Apostles' Creed:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord: Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost....

We always said "Holy Ghost" back then instead of "Holy Spirit." I still like saying it. Holy Ghost!

I was a Cub Scout, too. At meetings held at our den mother's house, we recited the oath before launching into various crappy crafts activities. We always wanted to go outside, play tag, shoot BB guns at squirrels, throw snowballs at cars and engage in other healthy outdoor activities. We did like the snacks. They were all-American 1950s snacks. Hostess Twinkees, Snoballs, homemade chocolate chip cookies, Kool-Aid, fat-rich milk, and all the rest. No carrot sticks,  apple slices or chia-infused organic juices for us. This was the beginning of the plaque build-up in my coronary arteries. Thanks a lot, Mrs. Lemon. 

At school, we recited The Pledge of Allegiance every morning, hand over our hearts.

We were good kids. We meant what we said.

To borrow a few lines from Catch-22 (remember Major Major?): When adults told us to look before we leapt, we looked and then leapt. When they said don't take candy from strangers, we didn't take any candy from strangers -- unless it was chocolate. When they said don't take any wooden nickels, I didn't take any wooden nickels.

It was only later, in the 1960s, when we learned that those creeds and oaths and pledges could not protect us from some things. Heartache, for one. No known creed protects against a broken heart. There may be a "I Will Never Love Anyone" creed but I never heard it. I've heard plenty of friends say they were never going to fall in love again. I've said it. Next thing you know, that friend is up to his eyeballs in love and there's not a thing to be done for it. Love stinks, hell yeah, but it's also a drug. Go figure.

We pledged out troth to institutions: The Church, Boy Scouts, U.S.A. They all betrayed us. The worst betrayal came at the hands of our government. It tried to send all of us to Southeast Asia to get killed for a lie. We know that now, and most of us suspected it then. Problem is, it seemed as if we would betray all of our institutions if we didn't do our duty and go to war. All those creeds and oaths and pledges! I didn't go, but that was only through the luck of the draw and strange circumstances. Some of my peers felt it was their duty to fight communism in Vietnam, to help stop the dominoes from falling. They had pledged loyalty to their government and now their government told them it was time to fulfill that pledge. We all took another oath, even us ROTC types, that said we would defend the constitution of the United States, so help us God.

God help us.

It's a long time gone, as the song says. But some of us still remember what it was like to feel betrayed. It caused some of my pals to take a hard right and blame the gubment for all of their ills. I don't blame them, really. I'm a liberal, though, one of those people who tend to put their faith in institutions. But that faith comes with a skeptical eye. Being a Boomer during Vietnam should have left us all with a bit of skepticism. The war was a lie and the draft lottery was rigged. Our elders would tell us anything to sway us to their righteous cause. Can't really blame then, either, as they had made their own pledges,  fought in the war, and been rewarded with peace and prosperity. Why were their children such ingrates?

Generations bang up against each other, sometimes in violent ways. At this moment, we are undoubtedly betraying our children and grandchildren. Some conservatives still bemoan the loose morals of their Boomer peers, blaming all of our present ills on those darn sixties. We lefties tend to regret the scourges of pollution and global warming. Sorry, kids, but you'll be underwater by 2200, maybe sooner. Not in Wyoming, but here in Cheyenne we'll have all of those coastal immigrants to worry about. Wonder if we'll be putting up a fence to keep out fleeing Californians and Carolinians?

If only we could come up with a pledge to save us from ourselves.

"Cowboy Stories" for Christmas

A few months ago, my story "Cowboy Stories" came out in the anthology Manifest West: Even Cowboys Carry Cell Phones. If you like stories, poetry and essays about contemporary cowboys, this book may be for you -- or for a friend. Publisher is Western Press in Gunnison, Colo. Order it from your favorite indie bookstore. To whet your appetite, here are the first few paragraphs:

Robert Wills was five beers into a Cheyenne Friday night as he told his favorite story to a middle-aged couple from Cincinnati.  

“Buddies used to introduce me as Bob Wills and the women would say ‘you must be a Texas Playboy’ and I’d say that I wasn’t any kind of Texan – I’m from Wyoming!” He cackled, tried not to trigger the cough that could go on and on and interfere with talking and drinking. He swallowed the last of the cheap draft and slapped the empty beer glass on the bar’s soggy coaster. He rocked the glass, hoping that these tourists would notice his thirsty state and spring for another round.  

“Who’s Bob Wills?” The woman exhaled a stream of smoke and then waved it away with a sweep of her flabby arm.  

Robert noticed her long lashes and blue eyes. They belonged to a face that was once pretty but now was creased with lines and droopy at the jaw line.  

“You never heard of Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys?” Robert asked.

Get info on Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys here. Watch some of the band's clips on YouTube.

Cowboy culture is important, but don't forget about the vaqueros, Native-Americans, railroads, dinosaurs, and so on

Nifty staff editorial in this morning's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle. It argues that the city's Downtown Development Authority should follow the recommendations of the national Main Street group. Main Street urges Cheyenne: "Do not adopt a theme, like cowboys, for its downtown."

The writers launch the editorial with this quote from the paper's comments section:

"Oh Please! Enough of this stupid cowboy stuff. It's past time for this ... town to grow up!"

Here's another one:

"Cheyenne is Western. It is cowboys ... Most citizens of Cheyenne do not need newbies to make non-Western decisions for the rest of us who love the Western way of life."

Just what is the "Western way of life?" Hard to say. The West's cowboy culture spawned a world of film, TV shows, books, handcrafted saddles, rodeo, storytelling, and song. That's a rich trove of material. It's celebrated in rodeos, such as our own CFD in Cheyenne, and in events such as the annual National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada. Wyoming boasts a number of talented cowboy poets and musicians, many of whom actually spent time working on horseback -- Mike Hurwitz, Jared Rogerson, Andy Nelson.

Celebrate the cowboy but don't forget the Native American. The roots of the Western tribes go back much farther than the cowboy's. The dominant culture has just begun to appreciate this world. Much of what makes up cowboy culture was borrowed from The First Peoples and even The Second Peoples -- Spanish vaqueros predated the Wyoming cowboy by centuries. The term "buckaroo culture" is used by Hal Cannon, founding director of the Western Folklife Center in Elko. Folklorists contend that "buckaroo" is an Americanization of "vaquero."

And what about horse culture? Long before Lakota and U.S. cavalry clashed on horseback, the Mongols, Cossacks and Arabs used horses as weapons. Forget about Hollywood-style cowboys for a second. We should celebrate many centuries of horse culture in the West. It's a shame to carve out a few decades of Western history and declare this the theme for all time. We have a rich and varied history. And I haven't even mentioned railroads, energy booms-and-busts, politics, dinosaurs, weather, geology, immigration, the military and agriculture.

Let's not have one theme to our downtown. We are a complicated people. Let's reflect that in the ways that we revitalize our city.

"Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" and "Even Cowboys Carry Cell Phones"

This anthology debuts Sept. 15 with one of my short stories and work by Wyoming pals Echo Roy Klaproth of Shoshoni (our new poet laureate) and Rick Kempa of Rock Springs. Reserve your copy now at http://www.upcolorado.com/book/New_Titles/2894

My piece is called -- appropriately enough -- "Cowboy Stories." It has a little something to do with Cheyenne and Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys and PETA and drinking and branding and a few other things Western.

Nice horsey. Wheeze. Cough. Gasp!

In my childhood dreams, I was Roy riding Trigger while Dale Evans cheered us on. I had a serious crush on Trigger and Dale.

My cowboying experience is limited.

As a kid, I yearned to ride the range with Roy Rogers and John Wayne. My favorite shows were all westerns: Gunsmoke, Cheyenne, Bonanza, The Lone Ranger, Rawhide, Sugarfoot, Have Gun Will Travel, Maverick, and so on. I galloped through my dreams on Trigger or Silver or any number of TV horses.

In reality, I couldn't get anywhere near a horse without heavy wheezing and gasping for breath. I had asthma, and horses and hay and tree pollen and weeds and cats were the enemy. That ruled out any horseback riding, or even horseback viewing from a close proximity. Petting zoos were out of the question.

It was tough on a kid of the West.

I was 27 and living in Florida the first time I rode a horse. My asthma had abated, and a nice young woman named Chris had asked me to accompany her on a horseback ride. This nice young woman had owned a horse at one time, and had been riding since she was a kid. I asked her if she would help me pick out a very docile horse, the kind of horse which would be nice to a newbie. "What's the fun in that?" she said with a smile.

At the stables, she selected a steed with spirit, and then found an old nag for me. We rode along together for awhile, and then she asked if I minded if she galloped ahead. She took off, horse hooves pounding the ground, disappearing into the Central Florida forest. My horse and I galumphed along. Eventually we rounded a bend to find Chris standing in the trail next to her horse. Chris has sand and twigs in her hair. The horse had an innocent look on his face.

"He threw me," Chris said. She held up her right hand. "And he stomped on my hand."

I regarded her nice hand. "Is it broken."

She flexed it. "No. I'm glad the ground's sandy."

I patted my horse, urged her to not get any bad ideas from her colleague. Chris got up on her horse and we rode together for the rest of the afternoon. It was a warm January day, the kind of days tourists flock to Florida for. We rode into the sunset and later got married, moved back to the West and had kids, only occasionally taking time for horseback riding. I must admit that I have successfully ridden horses a half-dozen times.

I'm no cowboy.

But I just published a story entitled "Cowboy Stories." It's part of a new anthology from Colorado's Western Press, "Manifest West." It features poetry, essays and short stories about contemporary cowboys. My fictional cowboy is an urban variety, but has little to do with John Travolta or saloon line dancing. He's just an old cowboy who hangs around a Cheyenne downtown dive bar and tells stories. He has lots of stories. It was seem as if he's too old to have adventures, but he's not. He gets mixed up with some animal rights advocates and some coasters making a film about the New West. Hijinks ensue.

Read the story to find out what happens. Keep posted as to publication dates by going to Western Press at Western State Colorado University in Gunnison.

Hi-yo Silver! Away!

Go out right now and buy Cowboy Tough at your local bookseller

Listen up, people!

Joanne Kennedy, my friend and one-time colleague in the Cheyenne Area Writers Group, debuted her new novel today. It's entitled Cowboy Tough. On the cover is a hunky cowboy, and this blurb: "HOT! HOT! HOT!" So says New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Brown. If you don't believe me that Joanne is one hot writer, better believe Carolyn, who's the author of the upcoming Blue Ribbon Jalapeno Society Jubilee. According to the book jacket, everything is big in Cadillac, Texas, especially the jalapenos.

I've read a lot of Joanne's writing but I'm not so hot on cowboy romances. That may seem hard to believe but it's the truth. Here's what Night Owl Reviews had to say about her previous novel, Cowboy Crazy: "A fast-paced, delightful read that will leave readers longing for a cowboy of their own." Sigh!

Lest you doubt my veracity as a writer and reader, won't you trust my word as an arts administrator? How many Wyoming-based cowboy romances do you know that open with references to Picasso, Modigliani and Van Gogh?

There I've gone and ruined it for you...

If Tea Party Slim had a pair of spurs, he'd wear them to the farmer's market to rattle veggie-eating Liberals

Tea Party Slim and I sip coffee and talk about progress.

“I don't want to see Cheyenne get any bigger,” he says. “It will lose its Old West character.”

I sip my latte. “Old West character?”

He nods. “You know, Cheyenne Frontier Days, rodeo, country-western music, steaks as big as my cowboy hat, Old West shootouts, horses and cattle, boots and spurs.”

I look at Slim. He was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. His UW ball cap rested on the table. On the way in, I saw that he wore sensible shoes. “Nobody's trying to take away your boots, Slim.”

He shakes his head. “All of these people moving into Laramie County,” he said. “They'll change the place. It will lose its conservative character.”

I thought about the recent election. Wyoming's lone Republican House member and one of its Republican senators were reelected by wide margins. Democrats lost one of their 14 legislative seats (out of 90). Tea Party types were elected to the county commission. The state gave Romney his second-biggest margin (after Utah) over President Obama. Meanwhile, our southern neighbor Colorado legalizes marijuana and goes even more blue and it's one of the battleground states that hands Obama the victory.

“So you expect an invasion of Colorado Liberals any day?” I ask.

“We have a new supercomputing center west of town and Microsoft is building a data center right next door. Microsoft is also building a test site east of town to see if biogas from our waste treatment plant can power computers.”

“What's wrong with that,” I say. “Isn't that economic development? Don't you want your kids and grandkids to find good jobs in Wyoming?”

“But we give these companies millions of dollars in financial incentives. Why do the taxpayers have to foot the bill? Microsoft owns the damn planet.”

“That's Google that owns the planet, and maybe Facebook.” I smile. I know that Slim is on Facebook a lot with his pet rants. I've been tempted to unfriend him but don't want to hurt his feelings.

“And downtown? Why does the city have to subsidize downtown development. Let the free market decide what businesses go downtown.”

“The free market turned downtown into a ghost town. It wasn't until the legislature provided funding and the city matched it that we were able to save the train depot and turn it into a gathering place and a museum and that wonderful outdoor plaza. I've seen you at the downtown farmer's market.”

“You can have a farmer's market anywhere. A Wal-Mart parking lot, for instance.”

“Why isn't it at the Wal-Mart parking lot?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Maybe Wal-Mart fears the competition? Maybe it doesn't like vegans and assorted Liberals wandering around its parking lot?”

“It's no competition to Wal-Mart. They're even building another Super Wal-Mart east of town. I love shopping at Wal-Mart because I know it irritates you Lefties.”

He had me there. “What would you do about downtown, Slim? How would you deal with all of those absentee landlords who are holding on to their properties so they can maximize their investment when commercial real estates improves.”

“I have no problem with that. People should be able to do what they want with their property. We don't need the U.N. coming in a taking away our God-given right to own a building or a piece of land.”

“Even when doing so damages the livability of your town?”

Slim puts down his coffee. “Livability. There you go with some of that U.N. Agenda 21 lingo.”

“I'm just talking about making my town a nice place to live. Isn't that what you want?”

“I want to live in a place where a man's home is his castle and he can protect it any way he wants. I don't need some urban city planners coming in spouting about social justice and environmental justice, telling me I can't burn wood in my fireplace or park my RV out on the street.”

I'd read an interview in our local paper with new county commissioners M. Lee Hasenauer and Buck Holmes. They are both fixated on Agenda 21 and urban planners spouting off about social justice. They want to keep Laramie County western, whatever that means. “You're against planning for the future?”

“I'm against big city experts coming in and doing the planning,” says Slim.

“You don't want any planning?”

“Let the free market decide.”

I drain the last of my coffee. “What would you do, Slim?”

He looks pensive as he stares into his cup. “Not a thing,” he finally says. “I like this place the way it is. Conservative. Gun rights protected. Governor fights the feds. I can park my RV where I want.”

Slim has a hulking RV. It blocks out the sun when he parks it in front of my house.

“Why would the U.N. Want to tell you where to park your RV?” I ask.

“That's what they want. They want to tell us where to live and what to drive and the width of our streets and what kind of energy we can use.”

“And they want to take away our boots and spurs. Do you have boots and spurs Slim? If I remember correctly, you grew up in suburbs somewhere in Ohio.”

He shifts in his chair. “That may be, but I'm a Wyomingite now. I don't need any spurs but I have five pairs of boots and I wear them.”

“When you go shopping at Wal-Mart?”

He levels his gaze at me. “I'll wear them any damn where I please.”

“Even to the downtown farmer's market?”

“Especially the downtown farmer's market. My cowboy hat, too, and my Wranglers, and my gun because I have a concealed carry permit. If I had spurs, I'd wear those too, so you pantywaist organic-farming Liberals would hear them jingle-jangle-jingle as I walked toward you.”

“They might quiver in their Birkenstocks, Slim. Then they'll sell you some organically-grown local produce and some home-baked bread and some grass-fed bison steaks and locally roasted coffee sweetened with unpasteurized goat's milk.”

Says Slim: “Those are some Old West traditions I can get behind.”

Go cowboy crazy this weekend over Joanne Kennedy's "Cowboy Crazy"

My writing pal Joanne Kennedy debuts her new novel from 6-8 p.m. tomorrow (June 9) at Barnes & Noble in Cheyenne. It's called "Cowboy Crazy" and it's her first novel with a laughing cowboy on the cover. The guys on the cover always look so seriously hunkish. But this one looks positively gleeful (although still equipped with dangerous pecs bared by an open shirt). For years, Joanne was a member of our local writing critique group and I got to know her work well. Not that I'm a fan of studly cowboys, but I am a fan of good writing and of stories well told. Go out and buy "Cowboy Trouble " or "Cowboy Fever" or "Tall, Dark and Cowboy" or... you get the picture.

Want adsurdist humor in your novels? Think Tim, not Tom

Great quote from a 2011 Wyofile article on Wyoming novelist Tim Sandlin: “When you think American master of absurdist humor with acute observations about contemporary society, characters to fall in love with, and lines you’ll be quoting to your friend, the first name to spring to mind should be ‘Tim’ (Sandlin), not ‘Tom’ (Robbins),” said Sarah Bird, Austin, Texas, novelist and a friend of Sandlin’s.

First Coloradans steal Buffalo Bill's body. Now they turn him into a superhero!

From Denver's Westword: On Sunday, February 26, the Buffalo Bill Museum and Grave will open a new special exhibit titled Buffalo Bill Superhero. The character of Buffalo Bill (born William F. Cody) was on the cover of almost 2,000 dime novels, making him America's first comic book hero and paving the way for Batman and Superman. Covers provided by Steve Friesen.  

Code of the West: "Remember that some things are not for sale"

I was wondering when someone was going to make the link between Wyoming's official "Code of the West" and the rise of corporate personhood. Great column by Dave Throgmorton writing in the Rawlins Daily Times. Go to Rawlins Times opinion columns

Gregory Hinton at the BBHC in Cody: "Out West with Buffalo Bill"

This news comes from Gregory Hinton: “I would like you to be among the first to know the preliminary results of my recent research at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody as a 2011-2012 Resident Fellow. The title of my talk was Out West with Buffalo Bill. The primary objective of my research was to analyze the art, artifacts and papers of the BBHC for evidence of LGBT history and culture in the American West, particularly as it related to Buffalo Bill's Wild West.” Photo: Colonel William F. Cody, 1889, by French painter Rosa Bonheur (courtesy of the BBHC). For more about this research, go to http://wyomingarts.blogspot.com/2012/01/gregory-hinton-discusses-preliminary.html. Cross-posted from Wyomingarts.

Do Leftie bloggers really hate Christians or their un-Christian attitudes?

Seems that I will always have material for weekend blogging as long as the local Radical Christian Right is on the job.

Harlan Edmonds wrote an op-ed in today's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle. Mr. Edmonds has hit those pages before -- and hit them hard -- with screeds against abortion, Liberals, immigrants, RINOs -- you name it.

I don't mind screeds as I sometimes engage in those same tactics. But shouldn't they make sense or present some solid evidence for the Average Joe (or Mike) to latch onto.

His target is "Tough Enough to Wear Pink" day held Thursday at Cheyenne Frontier Days. On that day, burly dudes in pink wrestle steers and ride bucking broncos. In Thursday's parade, Gov. Matt Mead wore pink, as did Secretary of State Max Maxfield. Members of the CFD committee wore pink. This was a statement advocating increased funding for breast cancer research for all those women in our lives faced with the disease. The CFD's charity of choice on this issue is the Susan G. Komen for the Cure Foundations. Christian Right activists contend that some of the money donated to Komen MAY end up being donated to Planned Parenthood which MIGHT use it to counsel poor women to have abortions.

In the name of Christian purity, Mr. Edmonds and Mr. Wall contend that not a penny of our money should go to a wonderful charity which saves lives and will some day help to find a cure for women afflicted with breast cancer. They may be our wives or daughters or co-workers or someone we don't even know.

How very un-Christian of you Christian gentlemen.

But that's not the point, is it? Mr.. Edmonds will believe what he believes and logic will not shake him. He spends most of his column with ad hominem attacks local Christian minister and fellow Leftie blogger Rodger McDaniel. Mr. Edmonds says that the Rev. McDaniel "managed to squeeze more anti-Christian bigotry into a single WTE piece recently than Mullah Omar could fit in a four-hour fatwa."

I always like it when Christian fundamentalists try to equate Lefties with Muslim fundamentalists. As we all know, Fundies of all stripes believe in the same basic philosophy -- literalism. This is one of the reasons that some of my fellow Leftie bloggers label the American Christian Right "the American Taliban."

And I just did the same thing. Oops!

Lefties have learned a few things during the past 40 yars or so. Literalism is a dead end, whether it applies to the Bible or to The Communist Manifesto, the Koran or Mao's Little Red Book, the Book of Mormon or The Port Huron Statement. Living your life by the tenets of one little book penned by humans (and possibly inspired by God) eventually backs you into a corner.

It's also un-democratic (small "d"). The humanist principles upon which America was founded call upon citizens to continue to continually think and grow. Fundies, by nature, reach a dead end in their personal growth. All they are left with is a striving toward the End Times and eternal salvation. The hell with society. The hell with my fellow man and human. The hell with cancer cures and global arming solutions and universal health care.

In the end, they are anti-life.

In its efforts to aid humankind, CFD advocates life over death. I have a feeling that there are a few Christians within the CFD leadership ranks. And you can't swing a cat at a rodeo without knocking down a Christian cowboy or cowgirl. I know because I tried that last year and burly security guards wearing pink threw me out of the rodeo grounds.

SECURITY GUARD: "We don't cotton to your kind around here."
ME: "Leftie bloggers?"
SECURITY GUARD: "No, guys who swing cats."

I left, chastened.

Another thing I've noticed about fundamentalists, whether they be Mullah Omar or Harlan Edmonds -- they have no sense of humor.

I strive for humor and sometimes succeed. Maybe that's why I was inspired to wear pink fairy wings during my turn as emcee Thursday evening at the Atlas Theatre's old-fashioned melodrama. The pink wings looked great with my cowboy duds. "Tough enough to wear pink fairy wings!"

Take that, you close-minded fundies.

Public art celebrates creativity and innovation and heritage and open minds

"Triangle" by Kirsten Kokkin in Loveland, Colo.

Public art can become a very personal thing.

I work in the arts, so know how one little statue can blow up into a huge controversy.

Today's Denver Post explored that city's public art program, and similar programs in Loveland, Colorado Springs and Grand Junction. The Denver percent for art program has been in place since 1977, which gives the city 34 years of perspective on art in the public eye. The most recent controversy raged around the bucking mustang sculpture with the crazy eyes that greets motorists at DIA. As many of you know, this is the sculpture that killed its creator. I'm not being facetious. The sculpture-in-progress fell on New Mexico artist Luis Jiminez and killed him. Now many Coloradans consider it cursed. Its nicknames include "Blucifer" and "Satan's Steed." The mustang is now legend.

To Denver's credit, its program mandates that an artwork stays up for five years once it's installed. The work passes through a review process before it's made and installed. It's not cheap to install a 32-foot horse along a public roadway. You don't want to take it down and put it back up every few months.

And then there's naked people. Loveland, epicenter of public sculpture, installed a bronze called "Triangle" by Kirsten Kokkin at a major intersection. It features three naked humans forming a triangle, thus the piece's name. My fear would have been that every teen boy in town would be climbing the sculpture searching for the naughty bits. But who needs sculpture when teen boys can prowl live sex sites via their home computer?

The "Triangle" artist has obviously studied the human form with the same attention to detail that motivated Michelangelo. I'm often amazed that people continue to care about putting sculptures in the parks and along their roads. But they do. And as in Michelangelo's time, public patrons provide the impetus and funding to do so. There may be some tussles along the way, but once a public work of art catches hold, it becomes a landmark. Witness downtown Denver's Big Blue Bear sculpture by Lawrence Argent. Witness the Lane Frost sculpture at Cheyenne's CFD Old West Museum. Witness the Chief Washakie sculpture in front of the Washakie Dining Hall at UW in Laramie. Witness Robert Russin's Abraham Lincoln head at welcome center on I-80 celebrating The Lincoln Highway. Witness the UW Art Museum and its "Sculpture: A Wyoming Invitational" with its many innovative works. Some of those sculptures were not meant to last, as in Patrick Dougherty's sculpture made of locally harvested saplings. Witness the entire city of Loveland, Colo., once a sleepy enclave between Denver and Fort Collins, home to commuters and retirees, to a lively city filled with sculptures and international sculpture shows (coming up in August).

Patrick Dougherty, "Short Cut," 2008

Many Wyoming cities have gone gaga over sculpture. Every corner in Sheridan's historic downtown features a work of art. Gillette has an Avenue of Sculpture. Cheyenne is planning the same thing along Capitol Avenue between the State Capitol and the Historic Train Depot. The newly renovated Capitol Plaza features statues of suffragist Esther Hobart Morris and Shoshone leader Chief Washakie. Across the street on the grounds of the Wyoming Arts Council, a sculpture of iconic Western artist William Gollings paints the scene (his painting of the Capitol is on the wall inside the building). At the other end of the street, a new sculpture of a pioneer woman carrying a valise and disembarking from a train celebrates Wyoming's "Equality State" moniker. In Wyoming, "Equality State" is always a work in progress.

That's also true for public art. Always a work in progress. New work goes up to admire and gawk at and maybe even complain about.

From May through October, tourist buses arrive daily in downtown Cheyenne. Groups of Japanese and Russians and Chinese tourists swarm over the Capitol grounds. They take each other's pictures by the Bison and by Esther and by the cowboy on the bucking bronco. They might go into the Capitol (if it's open) but time is short and they need some memories of their travels. Artwork on the Capitol grounds provides that.

Some of our legislators and public servants feel that art is a frill, that it provides no real benefit to Wyomingites and to the tourists that stoke the state's number two industry.

Buffalo soldier statue near Warren AFB in Cheyenne (USAF photo)

These people are short-sighted and possibly blinded by Tea Party rhetoric. The Governor of Kansas was so blinded by it that he eliminated the state arts council. Others, such as the Governor of Maine, banish works of art that they don't agree with. This negates one of the main goals of public art, which is to get the viewer to think about the site's culture and heritage. A mural of union workers can do that (although people in Maine have been spared that experience). A statue of a mountain lion can do that, as will the new sculpture at the Wyoming Vistitors' Center on I-90 near Hulett. The statue and commemorative plaques celebrating the buffalo soldier near Warren AFB's main gate opens up a new chapter in frontier and African-American history. Some of these soldiers came out West post-slavery to find more opportunities and less prejudice. It also brings up the fact that the U.S. military was officially desegregated by Pres. Truman in 1948, way before schools and businesses and transportation and your local Woolworth's counter.

It's tough to keep an open mind in these most close-minded of times. But our future depends on it.

Support a local writer -- and a good cause

Please join us on Saturday, April 2^nd, 6-8 p.m., at Barnes & Noble Cheyenne, 1851 Dell Range Blvd., for a book launch party and benefit for Cheyenne Therapeutic Equestrian Center to celebrate the release of Cowboy Fever by Joanne Kennedy.

And…

You’re invited to the after-party/reception at 8-11 p.m. at Uncle Charlie’s, 6001 Yellowstone Road. Refreshments, cash bar, and music by Brian Leneschmidt