I once read that Hunter S. Thompson, as a young and ambitious writer, tried to improve his writing by copying word for word the opening chapter of The Great Gatsby.

At that age, long before he became a literary legend, Thompson considered Fitzgerald’s book to be the great American novel, or close to it. So he typed it out to better understand the cadence, the rhythm, the style, the mood.

When we are all young, we copy our heroes, our mentors, our parents – until we gain a footing ourselves and go off on our own. We learn to flap our wings, or gums, and take off.

Recently, I came across another idea on copying that goes further. The idea is this: When you copy something, don’t just type it, write it by hand. The thinking is that copying something down in handwriting makes you go slower and actually think about what you are writing.

It also shows you why short sentences are better and why commas are important, and where they should go. It’s like learning in slow motion, which is a better…way…to…learn.

This doesn’t just apply to writing a book or story. If you are a cook, for instance, writing down a recipe by hand makes you think about each ingredient and step. Odds are you are less likely to forget to put garlic in the Tex-Mex Lasagna (as I have done).

Everyone loves receiving a handwritten letter. Unless your handwriting is indecipherable, like my mother’s was, which was exasperating (a word she said often to me in person, but if she ever wrote it I couldn’t read it).

If you are writing an important email, try it first long hand, with cross outs and new starts. Then type it and send it. It will help you clarify your thoughts and improve your message.

And when you type it by reading your handwriting, you’re less likely to have typos. I remember my horror when I wrote an ad for a client that said, “Stay smart. Think positve.” I had left out the second “i” in positive. My client (Linda F.) spotted it and brought it to my attention. It got changed fast, before it ran thank god – a full page ad in the Portland Business Journal.

If that law firm ad had run with the typo, I would have had to leave town and I'd still be hiding out today - perhaps with Hunter S. Thompson, in the clouds and bars above. Looking for a pen.

Call me Les.

It didn’t last. After 600 years, the resort town was sacked by Muslim raiders in the 8th century and by 1500, Baiae was abandoned. The water level slowly rose (through volcanic vents) and the ancient ruins are now an empire under the sea. Makes me think of our current fledgling (compared to Rome) republic. How long will it last? The waters are rising. That’s a fact.

It also made me think of that gut-punch of a movie, Planet of the Apes, with Charlton Heston coming upon the Statue of Liberty buried to her waist in the sand, as he realized the planet he was on was Earth, sometime in the future.

I tried adding a photo of the Statue of Liberty to the picture above, half sticking out of the sea bottom. But using only scissors and tape (lacking Photoshop skills), the image looked stupid. Laughable. Just as I’m sure ancient Romans, if alive today, would deem the image above to be.

Photo: Baiae, Atlas Obscura

What’s more, I’ve heard some say that he’s alive and that he did not die in 1917 as recorded – which would make him about 170 years old. This is definitely a story worth pursuing I told myself (and my wife who said get outta my sight), and thus I set out six days ago in search of Buffalo Bill, aka William F. Cody or Colonel Cody to those who knew/know him best.

My route went south to West Yellowstone, east across Yellowstone Park, out the east entrance, and on 60 miles to Cody (a town founded by the good Colonel) whereupon I checked into the Buffalo Bill Antler’s Inn.

I caught numerous sights of the Colonel over the next couple days (mostly at the world-class Buffalo Bill Museum), but we didn’t have words together. I did see him talking sign language with an old Indian friend who’d been with him in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, in which Cody convinced Sitting Bull and a whole passel of Indians and cowboys to sail across the ocean to London and Paris and put on a mythic “frontier” spectacle for 30 odd years. I mean, who does that? I’ll tell you who. Nobody – except my presumed great, grand relation – Uncle Bill.

Bill’s tracks led north from Cody and I followed them toward Montana. After about 18 miles, they angled west and I headed that way – across the Sunlight Basin, now known as the Chief Joseph Scenic Highway. It’s a vast expanse of heavenly mountains and hills that will bring you to your knees – dangerous driving because your eyes simply cannot stay on the winding road.

This is where “This land is your land” really means something. Old westerns should’ve been shot here and I thank god they weren’t. The roads are near empty; strange since it’s only 50 miles from the horde of numbskulls traipsing out into bison herds for selfies in Yellowstone Park.

Sunlight Basin is a spiritual place in ways I can’t begin to put words to; if you’re an atheist you may want to stay away if you wish to remain one.

But alas, my eyes kept wandering to the mountains and I lost the trail of my kin Bill Cody. I think he’s out there, along with many others in these parts, some I know personally who have passed on to greener pastures. (RIP Maizie).

I decided to let Bill be and drove on over Beartooth Pass to Red Lodge, a small town on the edge of the mountains where I and many others were tear-gassed on Main Street, July 4th, 1975 (see attached photo of local news of the mayhem). But that’s a story for another day.

While I didn’t catch up with my great ancestor Buffalo Bill and cannot confirm if he’s alive, I did see why he settled in this part of the universe. There’s really no place like it.

I like to think he and I will share yarns some day in the future, though mine would pale in comparison to his. I could tell him about coasting down Beartooth Pass in my parents’ Toyota in neutral with the engine off to save gas and make it to Red Lodge. He’d be amazed at that, and would want to try riding this Toyota – such a strange name for a steed.

Wouldn’t it be grand? The Colonel and I riding off together through Sunlight Basin again, as kin. If only I could ride a horse.

But no, I wasn’t smuggling anything. I did have a bottle of Smirnoff but that’s not illegal (although I could be charged with lack of taste). Like any red-blooded American patriot, I felt compelled to see what this border crisis is all about. I went to Naco, a small Arizona border town south of Bisbee.

Naco’s nothing much. Dirt streets, low-slung adobe homes, shaded windows. Huge dump trucks were parked by the iron-ribbed fence, a mile east of the border crossing. I pulled up next to one in my rental car and got out for a look around. Nothing was happening.
I stood and waited a half hour for the caravans to arrive, the horde of migrants. But nada. No migration invasion anywhere. It got boring.

I went back to the car and listened to the radio – Spanish songs and announcers. I did not hear the word “emergencia” once.
And then I saw him. Or her. About a hundred yards down the road, on the other side of the fence. A single figure crouched on a teal blue bucket seat torn from some long-gone vehicle. The bucket seat was sitting on the gravel on the Mexican side.

As I came closer, I got a good look at the crouched figure. There was no doubt. It was a Chihuahua. The bony dog had its head deep into a tin can licking out the last drops. My mind flashed: photo op. But when I stepped up to the iron bars to take a pic, the pooch heard me and slunk off, tail curled through tiny legs, continually looking back to see if I might have something to eat. Emergency rations for a hungry mutt.

I had little to offer other than sunflower seeds and gum. I went to my Camry and brought back a handful of seeds and a stick of Big Red. I offered them through the fence, but the Chihuahua wouldn’t come near. Didn’t trust me. Can’t say I blame him. Or her. Or them.
Before I left, I sent my apologies and best wishes through the iron bars.

Mexico has had its fair share of immigration problems. It was in the San Pedro Valley, near Naco, where Coronado and his immense force of Conquistadors marched through in 1540 heading north in search of the fabled Seven Cities of Gold. It was a fruitless journey. As was mine.

Finding no crisis in Naco, I headed north on two-lane roads and came to Sonoita. At a wide intersection, turning onto a road toward Tucson, I turned too early and ended up in the wrong lane going the wrong direction. A simple mistake. One anyone could make.

Two Border Patrol vehicles were parked on each side of the road. The officers saw me and no doubt smirked. One of them tailed me for two miles before pulling me over. I like to think he was waiting to see if I’d make a dash for it, but in reality he was probably running my plate.

I stopped the car and two officers approached. One stood back and to the side, in my blind spot. The other spoke and asked for my ID which I handed over. He asked what I was up to and I didn’t lie. I said I was investigating the border crisis. I think one of his eyebrows raised.

“Mind if we take a look in your trunk?” he said.

I paused to ponder it. Do I mind that? Did he have the right to search it? What if there’s something in the trunk I don’t know about? My inner voice said hell yeah I mind, but my outer voice said, “Knock yourself out,” and I popped the trunk.

They found nothing. No drugs. No warrants. No bust. No glory.

The officer seemed disappointed. He looked me in the eye and said smugglers often miss the same turn I just missed when they see their Patrol vehicles. In other words, I fit the pattern of a smuggler. I smugly put my sunglasses on and pulled my hat down low as I drove off. A codger to be reckoned with.

The fact is, illegal border crossings are at a near 40-year low.

Dept. of Homeland Security data shows that undetected unlawful entries into the US from Mexico decreased from 851,000 in 2006 to 62,000 in 2016. Other reviews from independent groups seem to agree there is no emergency crisis at the Mexican border. Chihuahuas may beg to differ.

Coronado on his quest for gold went all the way to Kansas before concluding he’d been hoodwinked. He had his guide, a native known as the Turk, killed by garrote. Then he mounted up and slunk back down to Mexico City, his tail through his legs (he fell off his horse and had to be carried part of the way). He died at age 44, a bankrupt and broken dude.

Makes me wonder what folks 500 years from now will think of our current Coronado – and his deluded search for gold, glory, and fame – again in vain. To those in the future, I send my apologies and best wishes. Happy trails.

Found this old photo of my grandfather, Lazlo Overhead, who played college football for the Nebraska Copywriters, before they became the Cornhuskers. Copywriting and football run in the family.

Okay, I’m lying. Lazlo played for the Carlile Copywriters, not Nebraska. And before being called the Cornhuskers, Nebraska’s team was known as the Bugeaters (no lie). My maternal grandfather, Bob Whitmore, did play for the University of Nebraska in 1926-27. You can look it up.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1926_Nebraska_Cornhuskers_football_team

For more info on copywriting, go to www.lesoverhead.com.

- Thomas Jefferson

“Happy evolution, America. Stay cool. Don’t blow off any fingers.”

- Tom Vandel and Les Overhead

And such fine penmanship

In my mind, these are the greatest 273 words ever written. If you have better ones, let's see them.

Gettysburg Address

273 words
10 sentences
2 minutes
51,112 American deaths over 3 days (almost as many as the entire Vietnam war)

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”