Desert Death March

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Saturday was the morning when I got up early, left my sleeping wife in the hotel room, and headed out on the streets of Las Vegas to find breakfast before sitting down to do some writing. I like that part of this town – there’s always something good to eat if you are willing to walk a bit.

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Only in Las Vegas...

Only in Las Vegas…

My choice of restaurants was dictated by a combination of the smell of a great steak, and the bitter irony of the joint’s namesake. Only in Las Vegas could the man who was banned from baseball for life have a restaurant dedicated to him. I’m not a stakeholder in the arguments on his getting into the hall of fame, but the dude did like to gamble and this is definitely the city for that activity.

Turns out they make a great country-fried steak and potatoes. Got the eggs just right as well. Good coffee. Best of all, they had a counter that faced the sidewalk where you could watch the deritus of the human race go by. (Big word for a fat guy in red shorts who’s wearing pink sunglasses – let that Freak Flag fly in Vegas, baby.)

Once the meal was consumed, my little fingers were ready to pound the keys and do some writing. Problem is, I had only my travel keyboard with me and the arthritic fingers were acting up. Simple solution: get a full-sized blue-tooth keyboard and synch it up with the tablet. God knows there’s a ton of electronics shops in Las Vegas.

The first two places I went were more into cameras and other devices. No keyboards. Tablets yes, keyboards no. But I was assured by the very nice man at the shop near Mr. Rose’s establishment that there was a Fry’s electronics one mile away on the right-hand side of Las Vegas Boulevard. Rightie-O, off I go.

The sidewalks of this city are a combination of pinball, eye-dominance, and jousting. I usually win due to my size and appearance. Not even the most aggresive touts for the topless opportunities consider violating my space after a glare or two. Instead, they just nod and fix their gaze on some other poor fool. This fool moves on unscathed.

Once I hit Tropicana, I crossed over the street on an elevated walkway. The casinos own the turf in front of their buildings, and police it aggressively. The overpasses are fair game (evidently public property) and are littered with everything from addicts pan-handling for their next fix to the completely insane who don’t have enough money to be a high-roller in a casino. I’m pretty sure that it’s a matter of dollars more than anything else that marks the boundry between the two, as the level of self-destrucive behavior is relatively similar.

WARNING: I do gamble. I plan to tithe any winnings, but I like the machines. I don’t smoke because you can get all you want just being inside a casino, and I don’t drink because it makes me feel bad. But the one-armed bandits are fun. Judge me if you must, but I’m just coming clean. I have a daily limit, don’t exceed it, and walk away poorer but always with the potential to have a sack of cash in the event of the reels lining up just so…

Back to the story. Marching along down the sidewalk, the further toward the airport you go the thinner the foot traffic. Once you’re past Mandalay Bay, you start to think, “Gee. Fry’s is usually a big place. I don’t see any sign of it.” However, I am an imbecile, it’s a nice day, I have sunglasses and a sidewalk clear of morons. This is good. I’m willing to walk a little further than I expected. After all, I used to walk half marathons, 10K races, even a full marathon one time. I’m good for another few blocks.

Less than an hour later, with the sun now high in the sky, I still couldn’t see any sign of the shopping center that allegedly housed the electronics super-store. Breakfast was catching up with me, and while there were secluced spots where a gentleman could be out of view and take care of all that coffee, I had watched entirely too many episodes of JAIL and COPS: Las Vegas. In my mind, there was no doubt that the minute I lit behind the tree and committed to the task, a helmeted bicycle cop would spring over the embankment and taser my bearded bod. Nope. Not gonna do it.

The sidewalk ran out. As in, no more concrete. No more smoothed gravel. Just gravel. The last pedestrian in the city was easily 100 yards away in any direction. Not too many fools stumble toward the mountains in this city. It’s a driving kind of place. But ahead there was a building. A refuge from my potential criminality – nope. It was a police substation. I may be an idiot, but I’m not turning myself in. Keep walking.

Blocks later I came upon the maintenance buildings for the Bali Hai golf course. The kind grounds keeper not only let me use the bathroom, but told me that Fry’s was just a 1/4 of a mile away. Oh frabjabulous heart, be still.

Again, I learned that the best intentions and kind hearts still have a terrible sense of distance in this desert wasteland. One mile later I came upon a gas station/casino. Nice combo – fill the tank, empty the wallet. The clerk advised me that just the other side of the enormous truck lot next door I would find the driveway to the shopping center. Fry’s would be “at the back.”

In my naivete, I boldly headed out into the sunshine once again. Indeed, once past the truck yard, three rattle snakes, and the skeleton of an expired woman from New Jersey who clutched a chip in her bony claw, I found the shopping center.

Problem is, the thing is monstorous. Acres and acres of shops. It was at least another 1/2 mile to Fry’s. But once I got there, I was cooled by the wash of air conditioning and frightened by the lack of places to park my weary feet. It’s a big-box store and they want you to buy things and leave. My feet, on the other hand, were not great with that idea.

Fry’s is what a badly inventoried, poorly marked Best Buy would be. Think of all the negatives about Best Buy, and then reduce the signage and number of employees by about 40%. No longer will Chad from car audio try to help you with your tablet purchase, eventually to fail and get Mauricio from appliances to come in his stead (Mauricio owns a tablet, which is more than Chad can say.) No, at Fry’s there is no human that will help. Except that guy slamming merchandise on pegs two aisles over. I’m not sure what’s on that aisle, however, because the 17 point type on the endcap is legible only to Marvel superheroes who are looking for a gadget. No super powers, no readability from the midpoint of the aisle.

The conundrum is now one of etiquitte and demeanor. Will the white-shirted automaton react worse to my yelling acros two aisles, or to me hulking up on him and releasing the blast of sweat and frustration in olfactory form? I opt for arms-length:he can’t run if I grab his collar.

I lead him back to the keyboard row and tell him what I want:A full size, bluetooth keyboard. I even mention a model number on the placards. He bolts for the register before I can taser him, and I lumber in his wake. No problem, but the only one left is a display model according to the computer. Display model. The shelf of shuffled, and reshuffled, items that bear no resemblence to the placards below them. The boxes, naturally, are kept out of site at the end of the row. Gleaming, he produces the box – it’s for a minature keyboard. Yes, dear friend, the placard neglected to mention that little fact.

Now we begin searching the shelf for a possible winner. Again, we spot a likely candidate and he goes to check inventory (no box in sight.) I look along the ledge and find a better buy, and a new box to match. It’s a Microsoft designer bluetooth desktop, complete with flat mouse. BINGO!!!11!111!!

I head to the computer island and let him know I found a victim.

Next stop is Audio. My beloved has requested noise cancelling headphones during our phone conversation in which I let her know that I was not yet dead, but beyond the pavement.

If the world of keyboards was a wasteland, audio is hostile territory.

A young man is helping two older women pick out headphones. I wait patiently. He says, “I can’t help you, I’m helping them right now.”

Aside from the fact that the women will likely be done within the next ten minutes, the fact that he doesn’t tack on a “If you can wait, I’ll be glad to help you in a few minutes” ticks me off in a non-minor kind of way. Any words of hope? Nope. Instead, he pirouettes like a deranged Peter Pan and drags them out of sight to the next aisle.

I spot the home theatre section. Three large benches designed to go in your enormous living room. I plop my sweaty frame down and vow not to buy anything until a clerk acknowledges my presence.

Listen. I’d still be there if I hadn’t started to get chilled in the air conditioning. The closest I got to help was a frightened look from a young woman that said, “Holy Crap! That fat guy is sweating on our demo. He can’t sit there… I’d better go get an adult to tell him to move.”

I levered my decaying hulk from the seat and walked to the top end of the display. Bluetooth. Noise Cancelling. Sony. The winner. Price? Who knows at Fry’s. There is no hope that the box is next to the right placard.

With my keyboard and headphones I head for the cashier. There I encounter Kareem. Yes, the only real name in the story. He’s young, but he’s helpful. I ask him to call a cab for me after he’s checked out my fairly large dollar amount purchase. I note the register in his head where the inputs collate: never called a cab for a customer before. I’m sure of it: nobody in their right mind would walk to this place from anywhere else in Las Vegas.

Kareem gets his manager to hook me up with a cab. I map my route and discover I’ve walked about five miles this day and my feet are vouching for it in spades. But Kareem has lived up to his name: Arabic for generous.

My wife? She rejoiced when I dragged back in the door. She really rejoiced when she got her anniversary present early. Loves the headphones. The keyboard is awesome as well – that’s what I’m using right now.

Final benefit? I’m back on the walking kick. Heck, if you can walk out past the end of the sidewalk in Vegas, you can do anything.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Ranty Rant Rant

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There is nothing as good as a rant. Time to purge the system. Seems the cycle length between rants is decreasing for some reason. I suspect it is because society is getting dumber.

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Right out of the chute, I’d like to say ENOUGH WITH THE COLORED RIBBONS AND SPECIAL DAYS AND MONTHS!!!11!!1!1111. I think my tolerance was exceeded when I saw the first pink dumpster. I like women. I like all their parts. But for crying out loud, we jumped the shark with the pink trash cans. It got worse when we then doubled down on the awareness month, and have two of them. You are not allowed to criticize this for fear you are going to be accused of rooting for cancer.

Let me tell you, I had my first meal at the breast of a woman. I’ve admired them since puberty. I am not rooting for cancer. My first real experience with it as a quasi adult was when a friend’s mother died from the disease. It was horrible. So, let it go. If you let my rant go, I won’t even mention the pink-sillouette targets that say to aim for the cure. No kidding – words to that effect, can’t break copyright. Seriously, I figured some lunatic in the PC police would have already been complaining about that one!

Speaking of guns, let’s talk about television. I know it’s fiction – I’m in that business in a way. But for the sake of both Smith & Wesson, can we at least get two things right? First, if that little black lever at the back of the slide is down, the gun is on safe. It won’t go bang. Oopsie. Next time you watch television, look for that detail. Pretty good bet it will be a Smith & Wesson model 59 in the closeup, as some armorer in Hollywood bought a couple and they are in danged near every television show and movie around. This is highly unlikely: they haven’t been made in about 30 years. I had one. I loved it. I can assure you that it won’t fire in the condition shown on television.

Black lever in firing position.

Black lever in firing position.

On that same rant (because I’m funny that way) they don’t go bang when your finger is out of the trigger housing either. Check the closeup. That’s what happens when actors don’t know about guns. It bugs me. But the director or prop master should have caught it. See, another thing I’ve ruined for you today.

Next topic is a doozy. Have you noticed that people are stopping further from the bumper of the car in front of them these days? Not just by a foot or so, but by several feet. This wastes space in turn lanes, and annoys me. Especially since I figured out that it’s because the jerk is texting and coasted to a stop too soon so that they can keep texting and not risk hitting the car in front of them. Look for the glow on the windshield at night and you’ll see I’m right. It’s always fun to honk while the light is still red, because they’ll likely hit the gas before they get their head back outside the car, and they’ll rear-end the car in front of them. This is only permissible if both cars have done the same thing and are currently texting. (For the sake of all that is bacon, don’t do this for real. This is just my vengeful ideal move. People could be hurt.)

Item next: all of you bicyclists wearing black clothing without lights at night deserve what you get. Spend the $10 for a head lamp and an additional $10 for a tail light that blinks. I’d like not to hit you. But when you wing around the stop sign without stopping, into my path, with no lights – well, you’re on your own.

I have more to contribute, but I’m pretty sure it’s been disturbing enough. Just to clarify: I like women, I hate technical flubs in movies and television, I hate texting drivers (but wouldn’t hurt one), and I used to ride a bike.

See you soon.

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I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

Let’s Talk About Poop.

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The title alone will let you know that I feel a course correction is required on this blog. It seems that I may have done too good a job lately, as the readership has grown substantially, and people have not complained in a while. Today’s blog should remedy that problem.Monday’s almost certainly will do the trick.

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page. Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits!

I have a theory that we all go through stages of poop. (Don’t run away yet, this will eventually be worth the wait.)

1. We all poop rather randomly for the first few years of our lives.

2. We gain control of the pooping as our brain’s develop, and cease to randomly poop for some given time.

3. Extreme stress can cause you to revert to random pooping for a short time. (See: almost got our submarine rammed by that supertanker when we were at periscope depth. Fargin sonar watch…)

4. Illness can cause random pooping, as can certain medical test preparations.

5. We all poop rather randomly for the last few years of our lives. (Some more than others.)

There are also defined differences in how we poop, and where:

Men: Anywhere is good, including the woods. Under duress, see item 3 above. Cleanliness of the bathroom isn’t all that important, after all it is poop. A quick swab at the toilet seat with a hand full of toilet paper is usually enough.

Women: It’d better be clean. Unless it’s really an emergency. Or in public. Some never use a public restroom. Best be toilet seat liners in that dispenser, or there will be some hovering going on for sure. Woods? Only if a bear is chasing.

I think, if you’re honest, the above is pretty spot on. Let’s not even talk about third-world countries where the bomb-sight method is in use. That’s when you really develop your sense of balance.

Note that above I didn’t mention non-humanoids. Why? Because I was saving it for the rules that Stormy employs when pooping.

In search of...

In search of…

1. Only on very warm nights with starry skies will she poop in under 1 minute and return to the door to be let in. Reason: air-conditioning.

2. All spots where you poop must be one full body-length from any other bowel movement. This includes historical bowel movements when you remember that you did defecate in said locale. After some time, the fenced yard may become unusable.

3. All potential spots must be thoroughly sniffed.

4. The sniff may be unreliable, and another spot is automatically checked just to be sure that there is no better alternative.

5. One must be able to orient towards something interesting while squatting.

6. In the event that a noise takes place during “the moment” you must abandon the task, jump in the air, and run around the yard aimlessly barking for a minimum of two minutes.

7. Pooping is best when Dad is waiting in the rain, subzero temperatures, or has to poop himself. Repeat all previous steps with utmost care.

8. Make sure that nobody is ever really sure you are done. Squat, and amble toward the door. Whip around and think about another bombing run since you’ve got the fuel onboard and there may be some colonic debris that needs distribution.

9. Never, ever, poop when the rabbits are in the yard. Any yard. Doesn’t matter.

10. Pretend you don’t know what “Go poop, Stormy” means if you hear it. It is a sign of human weakness and should be used as a reason to run full speed at the house and bark at the shadow you cast from the garage lights.

11. Keep one secret rule from the humans. If they figure out all the other rules, invoke the secret one.

Can you tell it’s been a long week and below zero? Yeah.

See you Monday.

********* ********** *********** ***********

I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.

That Pair Of Shoes Fits Him Much Better.

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For those of you new to the blog, and there are about 200 of you this past week, I not only write books, but I dabble in other things. It’s hard to remember on my “bad” days, but I’m also a fairly active follower of Jesus. One of those “but he curses like a sailor” Christians who accepts the fact that I’m pretty deeply flawed. I do, however, try my darnedest to do the right thing.

Please follow me on Twitter, and “Like” the Facebook author page. Don’t forget to subscribe (the box is on the right side of the page) to be eligible for free e-books and other benefits!

Bacon is wonderful

Bacon is wonderful *we need more bacon pictures on the internet*

Part of that following, in my opinion, is to lead on occasion. My wife and I, as well as all sorts of people we’ve co-opted over the years, work with the Good Neighbor Meal program to feed the lonely and homeless in Saint Paul. Part of that is sponsoring some meals. I am a tither, and this is part of what I think God should be getting from all the gifts He’s given me. So a couple of times a year, we buy all the food, round up our friends, and serve the community. The crowd varies from 75-150 people for the meal. Here’s a video from a few years ago when we were at our task I’m the fat guy in the chef whites):

We don’t just dish up some industrial macaroni and cheese. Nope. We make gourmet bacon cheeseburgers, meatloaf, chili, and a host of other meals that are as good as what you’d get in a pretty good restaurant. Best of all, we’re friends with our guests. Not only do we serve a good meal, but we serve it on china. With silverware. And we bring it to their table. Like it should be.

Mind you, I’m only doing this a few times a year. The program is every two weeks. My friends Bob, Pat, and Pam (two Pams) run the show, and I’m a cog on the wheel. But I’m a pretty happy cog. I do all the cooking when we sponsor the meal. And I talk to guests. And I clean up.

At the end of the day, our guests leave with a full stomach and the knowledge that we love them.

That’s the basis for the whole deal. “When I was hungry, did you feed me?” We do. This year, as we have done in some years past, we wanted to go a little further and clothe the naked. Not actually naked. I’d hate to see anyone show up naked for the meal – we might have to put down a table cloth or something for them. I’m talking about the kind of naked that comes from a lack of good clothing.

But the budget was going to be an issue. My charitable donation limit had already been exceeded for the year. So I prayed. I asked God to fling some work my way so that I might fund this project. Two days later the good folks at Scheels contacted one of my theatrical agents at N.U.T.S. and hired me to do their Christmas television commercial. Strangely, as God usually has all the details worked out, the fee for the commercial was the amount I needed in the budget. Yeah. Like that. I believe in miracles: this was one.

My wife and I, ordered a couple of crates of socks from www.bargain-bulk-sock-sales.com and went to Sam’s Club for a case or two of Butterfingers. Our friend Sandy, and her friends at work and church, arranged to collect a giant pile of like-new clothing and wrap the Christmas presents for our guests this year. Mind you, we were a day late as our meal was served on December 26th, but close doesn’t only count in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Bottom two boxes are the socks. The gift cards next, topped by Butterfingers and cocoa packets. Santa appears courtesy of me. For scale purposes only.

Bottom two boxes are the socks. The gift cards next, topped by Butterfingers and cocoa packets.
Santa appears courtesy of me. For scale purposes only.

The gifts included (in each package) a warm hat (stocking hat), a Butterfinger bar (long history and tradition there), a couple pairs of brand-new/high-quality socks, assorted survival snacks, and a $5.00 McDonalds gift card. Some bags had more, we had a bit of a surplus, but each one had at least that much inside a gallon Ziplock bag which was then gift-wrapped. The package also contained a Christmas card. Might not be a big deal to you, but that card isn’t exactly common when you’re living in the woods by the river. It was one tangible way we could express our love in writing. You see, we take this seriously.

On the day of the meal the crowd was light. We had about 1/2 the gifts left. Sandy, and my wife, distributed the gift packages and clothing that Sandy’s church had collected. Lots of clothing. At the end of the day, she rounded all the extras up and took it home.

That next week we talked about how to get the gifts out to the homeless in Saint Paul. The temperature took a serious dive around New Years, and they were hurting out there on the streets.

That was our answer. The following Saturday we loaded up an SUV with clothes, gift packages, and a case of bottled water. Over a three hour period we hit all the spots we knew of where the homeless asked for money and sought solace from the weather. You cannot imagine the joy we had that day. Our plan was simple: Sandy would be the “wheelman,” my wife was the “loadmaster”, and I’d be the boots on the ground. I have no problem going up to people and talking.

One by one we changed people’s days. We handed out winter coats, boots, packages, water (when it’s 5 below, dehydration is an insidious threat to everyone) and kind words. We finished the day at the Gospel Mission, handing out packages to all the residents who were outside to have a smoke. That drew dozens more from inside. It was a blast. But we still had a dozen packages left.

Over the next three weeks I handed out packages from my car. I’d hit the spots again and again, and each time I saw a new face I’d hand out a package. It was an awesome experience.

Now, about the title of this post. The Saturday when we were handing out the gifts in the freezing cold, I ran across a man who had the most tattered shoes I’d seen in years. I asked him what size he wore, as we had some boots in the vehicle. “12 Wide.”

I ran back over to the vehicle and searched our supply. Nada. Nothing even close. But this man was standing with his toes sticking out in the snow. No question about it, I knew what I had to do. I asked Sandy to go around the block and pull up next to where he was standing and pick me up. I hustled across the traffic to the bridge where he was shivering with his sign.

“Sorry, don’t have a pair of those in your size.”

“That’s okay, I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I’ll just take my next ten bucks I get on the corner and buy a cheap pair. They last a week or two.”

“If you don’t mind a pair of used shoes, I wear 12 1/2. These are in good shape and they’re yours if you want them.”

A change came over his face.

“You don’t have to do that. What are you going to wear?”

“I’ll head home and get a new pair. I bought some last week and it’s time to break them in anyway.”

There, in the snow, I put my hand on his shoulder for support and took off my shoes. My warm, dry shoes. And I walked to where Sandy had pulled up on the road in my stocking feet with the warmest feeling in my heart.

He kept thanking us until we wheeled around the corner and headed for my house where I pulled the new ones out of the box and put them on.

A few days later I passed that corner and saw him, wearing his “new” shoes. I was sure it was the same pair, because New Balance don’t come with safety-orange laces.

Sometimes you don’t have to walk a mile in another man’s shoes to understand him: you have to let him walk a mile in yours.

Be blessed. Thanks for dropping by. And go do some good deeds. It feels wonderful.

(p.s. I’m not a plaster saint. I’m just a guy that tries.)

********* ********** *********** ***********

I have a favor to ask of my readers: would you kindly share this blog with your friends, family, and colleagues? We hit a million views in 2014, and while the readership continues a nice growth trend, it could be a lot better. Just hit the Facebook like button, share it on your timeline, tweet the blog with a link, and tell that person at the next desk that there’s this lunatic who writes about all sorts of stuff that they might like.

I appreciate your help. When we hit 2,000,000 readers I will give away something cool to a drawing from the subscribers (that’s the box on the right toward the top) who have helped promote this mess. No used sheets, probably not honey, more likely gift cards. Be a part of it. I’ll update from time to time where we’re at in the count. Thanks.