And this is what it’s come to in smoky Portland, where Ben wears a mask indoors and implores us to as well, and wonders if we’ve gone to hell and I tell him no not yet but the world is heading that way, and he asks how anyone these days - with all the infernos and storms and melting glaciers and towns burned to the ground - can still not believe in climate change and I can only say they are sadly deranged.

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.

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.

Protests bring out the loonies. From the right side, “patriots” in custom-made riot gear shouted “USA, USA, USA!” From the left (some in sunflower disguise – typical PDX) came chants of “Compost Fascism! Compost Fascism!” Fierce debaters stood face to face and shouted the same thing, “That’s been debunked! That’s been debunked!”

Off to the side, the Unpresidented Brass Band served up a raucous backbeat to the cacophony. Turning a protest into a party. Where people come armed for a fight.

It was a beautiful day in Portland. Started sunny and ended sunny. Cops kept the powder-keg environment under control with the aid of a few flash-bang grenades. Protesters who were carrying kept their gun concealed. Human damage was minimal. Four arrests. No serious injuries. And no change in the forecast.

As homeless folks slept in the shade nearby, the Salmon Springs fountain provided a small rainbow. Nobody noticed.

Every once in awhile I write short, true accounts of encounters with random homeless folks in downtown Portland. The following is one such account.

No Hand Out

I first noticed him as I was heading into a convenience store. He was sitting on the sidewalk in a gray hoodie with one leg splayed out. He had a small ragged sign that simply said – Please help. I knew he would most likely hit me up for money when I passed by and he did. Only it wasn’t so much an ask, it was a look – lifeless eyes slowly lifting up to mine.

I took a dollar from my pocket and reached down to give it to him. He raised both arms and I caught my breath when I saw he had no hands or wrists. Each arm ended at the elbow. He used them to grab the buck, like a gray crab with pincers. I lowered my eyes and walked away.

When I got to my office I could see him from my window. He had his head down with his arms hidden inside his sweatshirt. At lunch, I walked to the post office and saw he was still there. I passed by him and caught my breath again. His one leg reached out like before; his other leg was missing. He had a prosthetic that extended just below the knee. It looked in bad shape, like it had been worn down over time.

I felt I had to know what happened. Was it a bomb in Iraq or Afghanistan? Did he step on a mine in Vietnam?  Was he in a terrible car accident? What cosmic catastrophe caused him to be so physically impaired and also homeless? His answer was quiet and succinct:  “I was born this way.” God didn’t even give him a decent story to tell.

I went back to my office and made him a new sign. It said:  NO HANDS, NO WRISTS, ONE GOOD LEG. BUT I HAVE HOPE. PLEASE HELP.  When I gave it to him he read it slowly, then said thanks, he would use it. He was probably humoring me. Now I realize he could have used two ten-dollar bills more than one new sign. I haven’t seen him since.

TAKE YOUR BRAIN FOR A WALK.  

According to studies, walking stimulates your brain. This official scientific image shows how the brain reacts to exercise. I’m no scientist, but it makes sense to me. In my line of work, I’ve found that when you need inspiration it helps to get the blood flowing and take a walk. Particularly if the walk is to a nearby bar. I have not come across any studies that show how the brain reacts to tequila.

Normally, I HATE websites that are so jammed and cluttered with content your eyeballs burst before you can figure out what the hell they sell and how to buy it.

One of the worst I’ve ever seen is SO BAD that it’s actually good. Not just good, but (in my addled mind) GREAT. It’s absolutely insane and hilarious.

It’s a website for a UK rental car company owned by a Chinese woman named Ling. It’s a chaotic conglomeration of bright colors, flashing icons, cheesy music, cheeky humor, and sassy attitude. Cover your eyes and go to www.lingscars.com.

It apparently works because Ling’s company is a leader in the market. It demonstrates that bad can be really good – if you have the energy and charm to pull it off. There’s no disputing it, personality sells like a mother.

Yes, Les is writing a blog. As if the world needed another one. I apologize up front. Topics to be covered include:  communication, writing, design, advertising, humor, roadtrips, bars, and the odd rant here and there. I vow to keep it short and maybe worth a laugh. As my father-in-law used to say, "Faster. Funnier!"

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