This is our 2nd collaboration - our first being “Driving Strangers: Diary of an Uber Driver” produced a few years ago. The 98-page book is available on Amazon.

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.

In short, it’s a first-person crime noir with a memoir undertone. It takes place in Portland, New Orleans, and Montana (mostly Billings) and clocks in at 292 pages, according to Kindle. I’ve self-published it as an ebook.

If you’re starved for some riveting action – like watching a train wreck (it has a train chase) – then A KILLER STORY might be for you. It will certainly help kill some time. In truth, it could be so wretchedly bad that it’s good. That’s fine with me.

If you’re interested (and I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t), there’s a book synopsis below and a couple links to where you can find it – on Amazon Kindle, Apple Books, and a few other places I’ve never heard of.

It will set you back $4.99 (money back if you hate it and can find me). I’m happy to send you a standard pdf file of the book for FREE if you want to forego the five bucks. Just message me your email.

A heads up: This book is a bizarre work of FICTION. In other words, it’s not entirely true.

Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086H5PHGY/ref=kwrp_li_stb_nodl

Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, and others: https://books2read.com/AKillerStory

SYNOPSIS
Based in part on personal journals, A KILLER STORY is the morally strangled tale of a guy named Teddy Murphy who in his younger years is coerced to take photos for a gang of vigilante New Orleans ex-cops who dispense justice and pain for profit and pleasure. He tries to skip town, is tracked down, and commanded to kill someone or his daughter will disappear, never to be found.

Teddy can’t kill someone (he thinks), so he concocts a mad scheme to fake the hit. The wheels come off and Teddy’s outlandish plan takes a wild turn, ending in the backcountry of remote Montana, where grizzlies and wolves outrank humans.
Will Teddy make the hit? Will he be the one killed? Will his wife leave him? Will he use his “escape bag” to run for his life? Or will he face justice himself and be redeemed for his sins? Whatever the outcome, it’s a killer story for certain.

It’s true, I’ve got a gut. It’s not a huge gut, but still I must admit it is indeed a gut. Unlike a washboard gut, it’s more of a “washtub” gut, as my wife jokes.

My gut has instincts like our President’s gut, but I would never make life or death decisions based on those instincts. My gut instincts are more like not to use the mayo that’s been in the fridge for years. Or not to wear a Speedo in public.

One thing my gut tells me is that laughing is good for you, particularly during tough times. Of course, that’s not exactly a revelation. My gut is no genius, but it does have a sense of humor. Research shows that infants and kids laugh multiple times a day and as we age we stop laughing as much. We get serious. That’s sad. My gut says we should try to make each other laugh.

With that in mind, here are some things that have made me laugh.

From the Internets:

- I haven’t cleaned the house for 2 years because I’ve never had the time. Now I see that wasn’t the reason.
- If you have trouble staying home and social distancing, shave your eyebrows.
- Wash your hands well, as if you were making dinner for Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
- Sometimes I wish I was an octopus so I could slap eight people at once (then wash all my hands).

Funny quotes:

- Never slap someone who is chewing tobacco. (Octopuses take heed.)
Will Rogers
- It is an ironic habit of humans to run faster when we have lost our way.
Rollo May, Psychologist
- If God exists, I hope he has a good excuse.
Woody Allen

Kids notes to God:

- Dear God, Instead of letting people die and having to make new ones why don’t you just keep the ones you got now? - Drew
- Dear God, I am an American. What are you? - Emily
- Dear God, I bet it is very hard for you to love every body in the whole world. There are only 4 people in our family and I can never do it. - Satchell
- Dear God, I went to a wedding and they kissed right in church. Is that ok? - Hazel

Babies laughing uproariously:

Hope you have a laugh today, or several.

Be smart, be kind, be funny.

Click your heels together or click the link below to sign up.

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30 YEARS SERVING THE ENTIRE EARTH

Many thanks to clients and associates who have made it possible for Les Overhead to exist for 30 plus years. As mentioned in the "Wall Street Journal". It's amazing what you can achieve with passion, hard work, creativity, scissors, and double-stick tape.

Les Overhead
Do more with Les

I flew to Billings last weekend for a friend’s memorial service and got more than a flight into the past. On August 13, 1976 this friend banged his head on an armrest while lying in the backseat of a car heading home from a bar.

The vehicle had ventured just a few feet off the road, for just seconds. The bumping broke a vertabra and cracked his universe, throwing him into a wheelchair for the rest of his life, a distance of some 40 plus years.

He was one of the good ones who so often get a bad hand. Generous beyond belief. The one who’d gather everyone left at last call and buy us all a late night dinner at Wong Village.

He was a genius math whiz poker-faced Packer fan. A railroad worker with a pocketful of cash on fire. A true class act.

His quadriplegic existence wasn’t easy but he went on living, aging, engaging in life as he rolled his shoulders forward and back and friends raised his drink with straw to his mouth. He swallowed deeply. It was a tough road to roll.

At the memorial service I talked with a guy I hadn’t seen in 25 years. I recognized him and thought he did me. But an hour later he came up and said he had no idea who I was when we talked earlier.

I was taken aback. Everyone else had aged and changed a great deal it seemed, but not I. I wondered how he couldn’t recognize me, until I went to the can and looked in the mirror and wondered who invited my dad. I must have shocked the guy. And no doubt others who pretended to know me.

The next morning after the Memorial Service I visited two matriarchs of family clans who were best friends of our family growing up. They now live next door to each other in a senior care center in Billings.

One had the marks and blotches common with an aging body, but her mind was tack-sharp. The other had not a pockmark on her, her smiling complexion still creamy smooth. But her mind was off skipping to a different tune and time. She didn’t follow too well. Both are exactly alike in one way: they face their future with grace and courage.

My visit with them left me wondering which is better – to look your worst, and have a sharp mind that knows it. Or to look fine, but have a mind that won’t focus. I vacillate between the two. Of course I should pick mind over body. But Vanity is almost my last name and it’s hard to shake.

I most surely will be an ugly old cuss and some will say I already am. Then again, maybe I won’t have to worry about it.
While in Billings I heard that the father of a rancher friend of mine had received a health diagnosis that didn’t sit well with him. So after making and eating breakfast one morning he loaded a revolver, put the barrel to his temple, and shot the diagnosis all to hell.

My mind works in morbid ways and I wondered what he’d made for breakfast. Eggs over (to the other side) easy? Scrambled? Ten pieces of bacon? Had he done the dishes? We all discussed it solemnly, put a brave face on it and said assuredly we’d do the same thing. Maybe not by pulling a trigger, but with surefire thought and action.

I wonder if I would really take that fork. Eat some eggs and bacon, clean up, then blow out the candle for good. I have no idea. I doubt it. I’m not that strong of mind, or that steady a shot. And to give up bacon forever would be hard.

When bored, I often think of ways to die. It’s amusing to me. In my mind, if you imagine in detail the circumstances of your death – like getting bit by a rattlesnake while hiking near Pictograph Cave, or keeling over from a heart attack in the grocery store and causing a cleanup on aisle 7 – the scene you imagine is guaranteed not to happen.

Because NOTHING ever happens exactly the way you envision it. It would be a cosmic fluke, near impossible. But if it does occur that I die in a grocery store on aisle 7, it’s proof the game is fixed and there’s order in the universe. Science will be advanced.

So when I saw the kangaroo headline in the Billings Gazette this weekend – the one that said, “Driver rolls car to avoid kangaroo” – I was pleased. I thought of the scene (near Fort Belknap).

The driver was taken to a hospital and a state patrolman checked on her. She said it was definitely a kangaroo. He said sure, with a smirk no doubt. Then he drove back to examine the scene and sure enough spotted a kangaroo standing 30 feet off the highway. It turned out to be a wallaby.

Now I KNOW I’ll never die in a car wreck caused by a kangaroo (or wallaby). I hope not to be paralyzed by one either – left in a wheelchair, unable to hold a gun, someone making breakfast for me.

Aging is a losing battle and time wins every time. But we still control how we spend it. I plan to spend less of mine looking in the mirror. Get lost vanity.

RIP Kevin D. and Bert H.

Hey! Your your should be you're. But no sweat. You're human!

Somewhere, a robot is laughing at me.

Typos used to bug the holy bejezus outta me. They drove me berserk. Whenever I saw one on a sign I wanted to tear it down. If I saw one in a news story or magazine ad I wanted to set fire to it.

Once when a Portland brewery used the words MISSION STATMENT in a huge headline in a full-page ad, I wrote to the brewer in cheeky, smart-ass style: “E” now on sale at Les Overhead! Les Overhead is my one-man business, boss, and alter ego. I didn’t get a reply.

As a freelance copywriter/CD for nearly three decades, typos have long been the bane of my existence. Years ago, I was saved from my own terrible typo incident when my client called at the last minute to say she thought I had misspelled a word in their new ad which I was about to send to the publication.

The all-important call to action I’d written had only four words: Think positive. Hire smart. The designer had retyped the copy in her layout in a small serif font and spelled positive as “positve.” I totally missed the missing “i” when I proofed it.

When my client brought it to my attention (embarrassing enough) and I saw the error with my own eyes, it dropped me to my knees. I almost blew chow thinking of how stupid I’d have looked if the ad had run. It was a full-page ad for a law firm, in a book of ads for other law firms. I’d have had to leave town. Positively.

But I have a different view of typos now. I actually like them. Because, for better or worse, typos are caused by humans. They show that an actual living, breathing person created the message and he or she made a mistake, which is human. We all make mistakes. Some are damn funny.

Artificial intelligence and machine learning will be the death of us all if we’re not careful. Forget the Russians, it’s the robots we should be worried about. Someone should remake the movie: The robots are coming, the robots are coming! They’re already here, of course.

Automated content-generating writing is already being used in journalism and elsewhere.
Companies like Narrative Science and Automated Insights provide news bots that generate content for many different companies and publications. It started mainly with reporting on sports and stocks.

Now they’re moving more into general news. The Washington Post uses Heliograf, a news bot featuring arguably the most sophisticated use of artificial intelligence in journalism, thus far.

Narrative Science trains computers to write news stories. Its CTO and cofounder, Kristian Hammond, says these basic news stories are just the first step toward a world dominated by automated writing.

When asked what percentage of news would be written by computers in 15 years, Hammond said, “More than 90%.” He went on to say that in 20 years “there will be no area in which Narrative Science doesn’t write stories.”

When told that pontificators had predicted that a computer would win a Pulitzer Prize within 20 years, Hammond disagreed. It will happen in five, he said. I hope he’s wrong. I hope it doesn’t happen for a thousand years. Go ahead robots, laugh.

A P.R. pro once gave me a “tip” on how you can get an editor to read the press release or article you send in. It’s a risky move but kinda genius.

The idea is to deliberately insert a typo or other error in your opening sentence. Something subtle. When editors see it they will scoff, guffaw, and think how awful to have a typo in the opening line! And then they will read on, to the end, looking for more typos. They can’t help it. It’s an addiction. Of course, the rest of your press release must be smoothly and flawlessly written, sans typos.

That’s how you get an editor to read your submission. Just add a typo or spell a word wrong up front — like I did with bejezus (correctly spelled bejesus or bejeezus). Yes, it’s risky and you may look like a fool. But I like taking risks and I don’t fear looking like a fool. It won’t be the first time.

In short, I’m proud to be human. And that’s a sentence no robot anywhere, no matter how advanced, can write. Assuming it’s honest.

Long live typos! Write on, humans!

Hope somebody reads this all the way through.

There’s a line to get in. It’s not long but it’s lively. Everyone is excited for the doors to open. It’s like this every Sunday evening at six o’clock when NWA Blue Collar Wrestling takes the stage at the Eagle’s Lodge on North Lombard. Bus 75 goes right by, within shouting distance. It's performance art of a more physical kind. This is just one of many stops along Bus 75 that photographer Geoffrey Hiller and I feature on our photo/essay blog - Bus 75: Hidden Portland.

To read more posts on Bus 75: Hidden Portland go to www.bus75.org.

Directions to Hidden Portland: Board the #75 bus and get off and on often. Do not take a guidebook. Do not follow the crowd. Discover for yourself the underside, upside, downside and unknown side of our city.

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.