Foreword
This work was inspired by a man who started off as a passing acquaintance, then a fellow-traveler, and then a great and lifelong friend who remained so even though our lives crossed but briefly and would eventually be separated by the oceans. How we lost touch, then regained touch, and discovered that our friendship had endured, is a story for the ages.
So this memoir is dedicated to him. And you’ll meet Max later, as the tale unfolds.
If blogging seems a trifle light today, it’s because most of yesterday was spent in the company of Longtime Reader UncleKenny — during which we had a fine session at my local range, followed by coffee and a long chat.
I should point out that most of the chatting was done by me, because as I seldom nowadays have any social contact with friends, I tend to jabber on endlessly when I do. He didn’t fall asleep during said chat, and on occasion even prompted me to continue, which says much about his scholarliness and gentlemanliness.
I have without doubt the best damn Readers on the Internet. Thanks, Ken, and it was a rare and special privilege to meet you in person.
Afterthought: I should point out that nobody’s perfect: he did bring a Glock to the range after all, but at least it was chambered for the manly .45 ACP and not the other rubbish. And anyway, such lapses in taste can always be forgiven among friends.
…and I’m not talking about Cheerios, either.
Starting tomorrow, I’ll be posting a chapter from my musical memoirs and thereafter a new chapter each Saturday till I’m done. The period to be covered is from 1965 until 1986.
The story behind this outpouring of self-indulgence is that I recently reconnected with an old buddy from my pro music days, and he shared his (written) memoirs of the times gone by. While our lives only overlapped on occasion, we became good, if somewhat remote friends — he now lives in Western Oz, poor man — cemented by a shared sense of humor that could best be described as “blacker than Minneapolis at midnight”. And I think it was he who described our situation as “we played in different bands together, for over five years”.
For the benefit of my Furrin Readers (Euroland, Oz, Britishland, California, etc.), I probably need to explain the meaning of the term “BBQ Gun” or “Governor’s BBQ Gun”.
This would be the handgun you’d wear to a formal barbecue event. It should be a little more “showy” than your EDC (everyday carry) piece, and one you’d not be ashamed of wearing in polite company. (By the way, this stipulation would automatically exclude such filth as Glock and Hi-Point pistols, but not old, well-worn pieces like your grandfather’s Colt Peacemaker.)
Your holster too would be a showpiece, not an IWB (inside the waistband) type. Depending on the state, it could be unadorned or else festooned with things like silver buckles, turquoise stones and fringes.
Anyway, the question I’m frequently asked is:
“So what’s your Governor’s BBQ Gun, Kim?”
It’s not a pistol, but a revolver: my beloved Ruger New Model Blackhawk (.30 Carbine)
I have a holster for it, but it’s kinda plain:
….so I’m idly looking around for something a little dressier:
Okay, maybe not that last one.
It might be that I have to sniff among the options at an Evil Loophole Gun Show, soon.
– Note that in the states outside America such as California, Illinois and New York, there’s no such thing as BBQ gun because those governors tend to hate and fear guns (unless carried by their bodyguards, of course).
Your suggestions in Comments.
Wait… the 3 Degrees?
Where the hell did that come from?