A couple years back, I was at the Phoenix airport bar.  It was empty except for one heavy-set, gray bearded, grizzled guy who looked like he just rode his donkey into town after a long day of panning for silver in them thar hills.  He ordered a Jack Daniels straight up, and that’s when I … Continue reading In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks: . . . And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy