My buddy Craig and I hit up Las Vegas yesterday. He is an insider and knows the good spots. Plus he gets the “Locals” discount.

Breakfast buffet at Palace Station where I ate way too much plus 1 donut.

Down the strip and to The Spy Store. I had never been in one and didn’t know what to expect.

What I learned is that they make cameras so small and have them integrated into every conceivable everyday-looking item that I am convinced that there are numerous hidden cameras in every place that you might take your clothes off. So, yeah, that footage exists. Might as well just go with it.

Also,  all small items that people carry are loaded with pepper spray and mini daggers. Trust no one.

Hidden safes are another thing. They make them to look like everything from a Bible, a can of coffee and nasty, stained underwear. So the next time you need drug money and decide to rifle through your neighbor’s house after he carelessly left for work, search those things first.

Next we went to the Pinball Museum. It isn’t so much a museum as one guy’s collection. Of course, he needs a warehouse to hold all of his machines. And, it is open to the public to play just like an arcade.

Hundreds of games going back to the inception of Pinballing. I recommend it to those who come to Vegas.

Those who know me, know I am pretty much all business. I gave up kid’s games in the third grade. So, we didnt stay long. And now, it was time to get down to it. We went to the Atomic Energy Museum. This place is made possible through association with the Smithsonian Goddamn Institute.  This is the big time.

We narrowly squeaked in ahead of a high school field trip. Whew. The museum takes you through the whole process of splitting an atom and the development of The Big One. This is not a reference to my manhood. Stay focused, please.

“Scientists” claim that when you fire a neutron at an atom of uranium (they use uranium because of its high rate of decay, or “radioactivity”, makes the whole thing easier or because the atom is fucking huge…I can’t remember. They were going pretty fast) which causes atomic fission  (cuts the bitch in half like a Vegas stage magician) but also creates a brand new neutron out of thin air (just lIke God used to do). Now the two neutrons keep going and hit two more atoms. The process keeps on like those shampoo commercials from the 70s where they say, “I told two friends, and they told two friends…” (pic related)

This is called a “chain reaction”.

It was all very educational and such. And, I felt ready to take a shot at building my own nuclear device but the prices of the yellow cake uranium in the gift shop were pretty outrageous. That’s how they getcha. I’m no sucker.

Still, what is the sense of learning if you can’t have a practical application of the knowledge you have gained, right? I mean, think of the kids. This museum is for them.

Well, the good people of the Atomic Energy Commision, The Smithsonian and the great state of Nevada wouldn’t do that to us. That would make them a tease.

But they know that deep down (or in my case right there on the surface) people want to channel their Grand Moff Tarkin and know how it feels to blow up a planet. Hell, I know that I would sleep better at night if MY finger was on THE button.

They have an interactive display that allows you to live out that modern-day fantasy. I shit you not.

They let you watch a film strip of the detonation of an atomic bomb. They cue you when to start your audible and dramatic countdown and even give you the big, red button… (pics related)

Sleep well people…I got this.

Learning to, step-by-step, build and detonate a doomsday device is a hoot and everything and, we were encouraged to take as many pictures as we wanted.

However, the next, and only other, exhibit on the grounds is serious business. No pictures allowed.

It is the Area 51 Museum (held over by popular demand).

I went in a little pre-pissed off because of the wheel barrow of bullshit they were gonna unload on me about weather balloons, swamp gas and conspiracy kooks. I was surprised.

They displayed artifacts and replicas that explained that the alleged UFO crash at Roswell was not such a big deal because of all the other sighting, aerial battles and crashes that were big deals.

They had quotes from U.S. President’s on the walls in which they say stuff like, “Yep. All True.”

Film strips of interviews with the engineers of the famed Skunkworks where they pretty much confess like it is NBD that “Stealth” technology was developed through the arduous task of reverse-engineering alien space craft. And that MiB is real.

Of course, I don’t have any pictures to back any of this up. You’ll have to pay the 5 bucks and tour it yourself.

When it comes to proof of alien visitation, I need look no further than Trixie. She is truly out of this world.

In recent years, I have become aware that, instead of the stately mein and pensive countenance that I thought I wore, I project an air of bewilderment, an expression of complete befuddlement and a sense of helplessness.

I first became aware of this change in my bearing when I got a job working as a floor supervisor for a large retail store.  I would be standing at the ready, my legs coiled springs – able to leap to assist any who needed my service.

Instead, the most frequent question I got from customers was, with a concerned look on their faces, “Can I help you somehow, sir?”

“I work here.” Was my defensive reply.

Ok, so I don’t emit showers of confidence anymore. I get that. I think the Amish got it right. Maybe they should be my new role models.

About the time Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation,  thus ending slavery in America, the Amish held up both hands at chest level, pumped them three times and said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…things are starting to move too fast. We declare the end of advancement. If it ain’t been invented by now, we don’t recognize it.

That system would work out pretty good for me, I think.

There was a time, when I was a knucklehead kid, that I knew the address, phone number, vehicle make, model, color & tag number of everyone on the block whether I ever had contact with them or not.

Now, when I exit a mall, I have to concentrate to remember if I drove or rode the bus.

When I was a kid I felt caged by the lack of choice of television programming. Three lousy networks.

Now, I have 500 channels but only watch reruns of “The Big Bang Theory” on TBS.

It takes too much effort to watch anything else.

I have forced myself to memorize one phone number – Trixie’s.  I call it from a borrowed phone to ask her to call my celly so I can find it or to get her to tell me the three-digit combination of my padlock so I can retrieve my stuff from my locker at Planet Fitness.

I suppose I should be upset about having lost a step or two, but to be honest, I enjoy the break.

There are so many good-hearted people out there who just couldn’t live with themselves if they stood idly by and watched while “that poor man” struggled with tasks ranging from something as simple as trying to get two grocery carts unstuck to something very difficult like, living in a van and driving across the country on his own.

Compassion, kindness and hospitality have so many different faces – Jo in N’awlins, The Woods in Albuquerque and now, my newest BFF Craig in Las Vegas. He and nephew Brad have welcomed me into their home while I hang tough and wait for my wife to get here and take over babysitting duties.

I’m no stranger to Vegas, of course. I have been many times. I have seen and done all the touristy stuff, namely, drinking, gambling and hookers.

But, Craig is a local. He has promised to show me all the hidden gems, like: the Atomic Energy Museum, The Spy Store…the casinos…the bars and the hookers.

Somethings transcend all layers, I guess.

Well, I’ve never been to England.

But, I kinda like The Beatles,

Well, I headed for Las Vegas,

Only made it out to Needles.

Written by Hoyt Axton

Performed by the greatest American band of all time, Three Dog Night and unofficially accompanied at the top of his lungs today by T. Edward Long.

I call 3Dog, the greatest AMERICAN band because those British Invasion folks are odd. The Beatles fans are too sensitive to learn that the Fab 4 can’t hold a candle, and The Rolling Stones followers, well, I’m not sure what’s wrong with them but it is pretty serious.

I’ve never understood the success of The Stones; they’re awful. It’s not even that they are ugly – and they are ugly.  I kind of respect that trait in a man – it is just that they suck.

But, aside from that, I am in Needles, California. At the Taco Bell. Ok, which is another thing I don’t understand. Taco Bell is the culinary equivalent of The Rolling Stones.

Since I have been out west, I have stumbled on a little place called Del Taco – The Beatles of Mexican fast food.  Taco Bell is its poor country cousin.

Secretly, I am hoping for corporate sponsorship to help fund the rest of my expedition. I took a shot.

It is raining in Needles. Which isn’t even the poor country cousin of Las Vegas.

If ol’ Hoyt only made it this far he didn’t make it very far at all. They don’t even have a Del Taco here. And, that name – Needles. What they hell were they going for there? A cactus reference? Trying to draw the heroin addicts? What?

When we talk about names that lack finesse, though, we don’t need to go much further than Death Valley. I’ve been. I almost went again.

They didn’t try to pretty it up, or put the best possible spin on it that they could. They went nuts & bolts.

It is a valley. You come here, you die.

This is not to say that the people in charge of naming places lacked imagination – not at all. They showed their range when naming certain features of the area.

You got:

Badwater Basin

Dante’s View

Devil’s Golf Course

Manly Wilderness

Funeral Peak

Furnace Creek

Devil’s Hole (and, we are pretty sure which of the Devil’s holes they were thinking when they named it.)

And, Last Chance Mountain

They all seem to play to the same theme. Death by Hellish means.

The one that gets me, though is (pic related)…

…Scotty’s Castle.

That one sounds like something you would find at an obnoxious 8 year olds birthday party.

One where you take the little bastard a nice gift – something your mother wouldn’t even buy for you, and now you have to give it to him and he insults it anyway.

Then, he doesn’t want anyone else bouncing in his castle so you have to stand around and watch him, hoping he tears an Achilles or something. Yeah, that party would be pure Hell.

Yeah, so I nixed Death Valley and headed for Las Vegas.

On pins in Needles waiting to see Trixie!

When you are on the road, time is a blur. But not as much for me as this dude I was stuck behind in traffic. (pic related)…

Recently, whenever that was, I went out looking for adventure. Funnily enough, at the same time, adventure, claiming it had a score to settle,went out looking for me. We met somewhere in the middle.

I drove to Cleveland National Forest just to see what was there. Winding roads and a hill. I climbed the hill and snapped a pic…

They call this a “vista”

Feeling my work here had been done, I chose to leave CNF (Cleveland National Forest…I used initials to save a bunch of unnecessary typing. We call this “abbreviating”. Spares my thumbs a lot of work)

I wanted a shower. I plugged Planet Fitness into my GPS (heh heh, this reminds me of a joke I saw outside of a bakery. As a New Year’s thing, they wrote on a sign in chalk,

“We are into Fitness!” Then drew an image of a treat and wrote underneath. ..

“Fitness whole cupcake into my mouth.”

And, I just laughed and laughed! It was great!) and saw that I was only 7.8 miles from one. It was in a town called Lake Elsinore. I was geeked and drove further into the mountains. The road got windy and the air got windy. I had to slow.

I got to a turn and the pavement ended. I was on a dirt path. I pressed on.

It got worse. The EM-50 Phantom Rambler was shaking violently. Deep channels, gouges, and sharp rocks appeared on the path. It was a very narrow, one-laner that was abutted on one side by the sheer rise of the mountain and on the other by a sharp drop off to certain doom. In fact, I was pretty sure that at any moment the “road” would give way under my left tires and send me tumbling down the mountainside.

Years of spring run off had sliced through the road causing it to be, what any other cartographer would call, “impassible”.

But, I had faith in the good people of Garmin (also, no way to turn around and “reverse” was not an option. I had picked my way through carefully). With no alternative , I pressed on some more.

If you can believe it, the road got worse. Then came hope, of sorts. Two dirt bikers motored up behind me.

I stopped to let them pass. Hell, if I did get stuck, and it was looking increasingly likely that that would happen, at least I could send them for help.

They stopped next to the Rambler, flipped up their visors, pulled down their face masks and gawked at me.

“Hey man, what are you doing way back here?” One asked.

“Communing with nature.” I deadpanned.

They went on to inform me that, as far as off-road motorcycle, X-Game, enthusiasts or whatever, go, this trail is like a Triple Black Diamond or something and were genuinely curious how I even got a van back into here.

When I failed to provided a satisfactory answer, they shook their helmeted heads and moved on.

“Punks”, I muttered. And, watched them go.

I was focused on keeping the tires away from the deep crevasses and still trying to hug the mountain wall, all while the “road” rose and fell sharply and unevenly, threatening to puncture my gas tank.

Several minutes later, I passed the dirt bikers. One of them had gotten stuck. I shit you not. An off-road motorcycle, designed for this terrain was stuck. I waved as I slowly rolled by.

I came around a bend and, for about 40 feet, the “road” smoothed and flattened out, relatively speaking. It was enough to allow me to snap a quick pic…

Also, since my fingers were already pried loose from the steering wheel, I called Trixie to let her know this might be ALL for good ol’ T-Moose. A chance to say my goodbyes and give her an idea of where to find my body…stuff like that.

She stayed on the line, and somehow, The EM-50 Phantom Rambler made it down off of the mountain. I was now in a neighborhood of mansions/horse ranches. I wondered exactly how many rich MFs live in California.

I decided I had earned a prize. I went to Wal-Mart but could not decide between a device that allows you to make you own poop and a bottle of Gorilla Snot…

So, I got neither.

In the morning I thought it would be neat to have a sharp contrast to how I began the week, you know, in The Slabs, so I went to Malibu.

I drove the Pacific Coast Highway – it’s nice if you like that sort of thing – and settled in at Duke’s Barefoot Bar.

Shit is right on the water.

I engaged conversation with the couple seated next to me, Rob and Michelle.

She, like so many women named Michelle, was very friendly.

Rob, for whatever reason that I did not uncover, had recently been to The Slabs.

When I asked about things to see and do in California, the first thing he recommended was Big Sur, which is weird because my cousin Jen, when she found out I am in Cali, said the same thing. I mean, it is a big ass state, yet that is the recommendation from both. Weird. I might have to find out what that is all about.

I left Duke’s. My plan was to camp on the beach.  I needed ice. I stopped at the Circle K in Malibu and paid 6 bucks for a bag.

I tell you, there is something about carrying a $6 bag of ice to your car that kind of makes you feel like a big shot. You know, you got that kind of cash to toss around.

I drove north to Mugu Point and parked the EM-50 on the sand. It is along PCH, wedged between the mountains and the ocean.

The salt air, the crashing waves, the spray. Nice enviroment.

The temperature dipped into the fiddies (50s) at night.

In the morning, I drove to Oxnard and couldn’t find a gas station. But, I did find Boskovich Farms. A goddamn radish farm, of all things. (No pics. It’s not interesting enough) who knew such a thing existed.

Trixie on Friday!

Headline of the day: Baby Swallows Fly!

If this made you conjure an image of an infant eating a bug then you are WAY off.

If you got a picture of a small bird leaving its nest then you have most likely figured out that I am in San Juan Capistrano.  Home of the Migrating Swallows. I’m just kidding.  I don’t know what the local high school mascot is. Prolly, though.

Before I marvel you with local wonders (don’t hold your breath) let me tie up a few loose ends.

Before my ill-fated attempt to visit the Jack Dempsey Museum, the one in which I was driven back by a scary storm,  I mentioned to Trixie, so casual that I was fit to bust mind you,  that I had driven by the “World’s Largest Arrows or Some Such Shit”.  No big. Except to her. She insisted I backtrack and find them. I did, but I don’t think I ever got around to posting them. So, live (not really) from Colorado…

World’s Largest Arrow!

World’s Largest Head Getting Shot by World’s Largest Arrow

EM-50 Phantom Rambler Getting Shot in the Butt With World’s Largest Arrow. ..we goof around sometimes. Heh heh…He’s a good sport.

Back to business. As you should be aware, I spent a few days at The Last Free Place in America. I was there for NYE. In the morning, I broke camp and got outta Dodge (just an expression this time).

But before I left, I drove around for a few minutes with my celly set on VIDEO mode and gave a brief tour so that the curious among you could have a real-time visual of Slab City.  To make uploading a breeze, I broke the video up into 5 parts.

I have been jacked in to the Capistrano Public Library free wi-fi for several hours now and am only 25% through part 1. Don’t count on success. (screencap related)

Back to the Miracle of the Swallows.

Back in the day, (sometime prior to 1812) an angry innkeeper took a broom handle and smashed to smithereens the mud nests the white-breasted cliff swallows had manufactured in and around his establishment. He was quoted as saying, “Fuck dem boyds.” We think he was from Brooklyn.

The swallows got the hint and sought summertime shelter elsewhere.

Construction of the famous mission in Capistrano began in 1776. It was finished in around 1812. It was impressive as hell (pardon the expression).  But, God, showing that he is not without a mischievous side, brought down a massive earthquake that year which caused several walls to collapse.

Father Johnny Juniper, for whom San Juan Capistrano is named somehow, who was tired of construction, as anyone would be after 36 years, said, “Fuck it. God wills it. I ain’t fixing it”

The swallows ducked into the mission and started building their mud nests.

When someone pointed out that this could make quite a mess,  the Franciscan said, “Shut up. It’s God’s will.” And, so the swallows were welcomed!

Some of this stuff might not be historically precise because Fr. Johnny Juniper died in 1784 before the mission was complete, but you get the idea.

Anyway, they turned it into a real celebration. Parade and balloons for the kids, all that stuff. Souvenir shops on every corner.

Every March 19th (St. Joseph’s Day) the cliff swallows return from their winter homes in Argentina, and go to their nests in the mission. Swarms of them! Like gnats! It is quite a spectacle! People come from all over the world to boost the local economy and watch them blot out the sun! Haha! Yay!

Even The King sang about it…

Elvis Presley-When the swallows come back to Capi…: http://youtu.be/caYaNd5rICc

Except…

Well, I hate to break it to you but, the swallows don’t come back here anymore.

About 10 years ago, some genius, who may have been an innkeeper in a previous life, decided that the old clay (mud) nests in and around the mission were looking kind of tired and ratty and, in the name of preservation, I shit you not, had them knocked down and swept away, figuring the swallows would just build nice, new clean, mud nests. And, he or she was right. They did. But they built them in the I-5 overpass that runs through the middle of town – several miles from the Mission.

So, every October 23rd (San Juan Day) the swallows leave town. And, every March 19th,  The Chamber of Commerce organizes an event and gets everyone to pretend that nothing has changed.

It is all very festive, I am told. With or without the birds.

One more thing about California. I have always heard that the people are weirdos. Even the weirdos is southern California call the people of northern California “Real weirdos” like they know it is true but still want to be distanced from their upstate brethren.

And, so far, it is true. For instance,  they preface interstates with “the” like they all attended Ohio State or something.

“Take the 10”, or “Get on the 5” they say.

What’s up with that? I would never tell someone to take The 95 or the 495 or even the 70.

Trixie might, tho. She’s kind of a weirdo.