Price Gouging

Every time the wind blows hard, some politician stands up and makes menacing remarks about the legal woes that will befall anyone who dares to gouge victims for things like ice, water, plywood, generators, and bourbon.
(For any of you who have actually gone through a category three hurricane, you know that liquor is an important survival commodity).
I’ve never actually heard of someone doing time for charging $6 a gallon for drinking water after a catastrophe, so I guess our “justice expectation meter” shouldn’t be too surprised that gouging on a mammoth scale will never be a crime.
I’m referring to the recent admission by Exxon/Mobil that they set a new record for third-quarter profits, earning $9.9 billion from July through September.
Remember September?
When leaves were falling?
Along with trees, buildings, and Volvos?
If I remember correctly (and I should, since I haven’t endured any hurricanes since moving to Nevada, so my bourbon supply is nearly untouched), the oil companies claimed that they were nearly wiped out by Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita, which damaged oil refineries, oil platforms, and just about everything except stock options.
And yet, with less product available (according to them), they managed to set a new record.
Does anything sound odd to you?
Of course, the oil companies insist that they didn’t gouge.
I’m sure they set a new cha-ching record thanks to a sudden rash of drive-thru oil changes.
Or that there was a nationwide rush on silencing rusty door hinges.
It couldn’t possibly be that they were charging $3.30 a gallon for gasoline that they bought, shipped, refined, and stored at 90 cents a gallon, then took advantage of a panicked country that bought the petroleum line of impending gas rationing and potential legions of gas pumps wearing “out of gas” signs.
Fortunately, our sitting president is a former Texas oil man, so he knew exactly what to do.
He did what he does best.
Nothing.
(Before my Republican friends start calling for my head and other critical body parts, let me remind you of Mr. Bush’s “actions” and how they turned out. To be honest, I prefer his inactivity.)
So now, mysteriously, the price of gas has gone down.
Some.
Trust me, we’ll never see gasoline under $2.50 a gallon again in my lifetime, but we’re to the point where we’re referring to $2.75 as “reasonable.”
But I suspect that will only last until the next natural disaster.
And it doesn’t have to involve hurricanes.
I’m sure that Exxon and Texaco and the rest of the oil bandits already have their marketing departments working on ways to capitalize on other temper tantrums by Mother Nature.
For example, don’t be surprised if the next California earthquake is accompanied by oil companies lamenting the rupture of some mythical pipeline that will disrupt petroleum distribution for months.
A series of twisters through America’s heartland will be responsible for ripping up oil derricks all through the Midwest, devastating our oil supply.
And the first serious Alaskan snowfall will be the causative factor in shortages all over the country, as critical pipelines will freeze and oil tankers will be harbor-bound by ice floes.
They’ve found a new way to suck deeper into our wallets.
And if the oil companies are noted for anything, they’re known for how much they suck.

Spammers Win This Round

Okay, Gang, I'm sorry to succumb to the evil bastards who have no soul but plenty of bandwidth, but the spamming has become intolerable.

Therefore, I've been forced to invoke the "word verification" feature on this blog, which will require that you type in a word to post a comment.

I apologize for the inconvenience, but I figure it's the lesser of two evils: impose word verification, or continue to serve as the repository for every scumbag spam on the planet.

Hopefully, this will be a temporary situation, until the spammers get tired of hitting the roadblock, or some genius figures a way to filter out the crap.

Again, I'm sorry to add this pain-in-the-behind extra step, but those of you simlarly afflicted will certainly understand.

Thanks for your patience and loyalty.

Stocks Don't Cheat People...

It’s time for us to ban all investments.

We need to shutter the New York Stock Exchange, layoff everyone from the American Stock Exchange, and retrain stock brokers and analysts for exciting new careers in the food service industry.

I say that because there is simply too much cheating in our financial industry.

Such rule-bending has received celebrity endorsement over the last few years from such high-profile offenders as Martha Stewart.

In Martha’s case, I still don’t understand how it’s a crime to sell your stock in a company when your friend, who happens to run the company, tells you things aren’t going well.

For example, if my friend at the Wal Mart knew that the price of a cordless drill was going to be reduced by 75 cents next week, and he kept his mouth shut when I told him of my plans to buy a drill this afternoon, well, he wouldn’t be getting any more Christmas cards from me.

But maybe I just don’t get the whole idea of stock market investing.

After all, I still own 200 shares of Enron that I purchased a couple of years ago using my “bounce” theory of economics.

My theory was that a company as huge and integral as Enron would eventually rebound.

So I bought a couple hundred shares at $9 each.

(This was long before I became a newspaper writer, back when I used to actually have money.)

Last week, Enron was trading at 20 cents a share.

It bounced like fresh Play-Doh.

Enough said about my investing prowess.

Now, it seems that United States Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist is on the griddle over a Martha-esque escapade.

According to reports, Dr. Frist (yes, he’s a surgeon, which means he honed his budget-cutting techniques on appendix patients years ago) sold stock in his family’s hospital company, HCA Inc., just before the stocks tanked.

Martha got a heads-up from a friend, and she went to jail.

Dr. Frist probably got the inside scoop over apple pie at mom’s house one Sunday.

So you have two pretty smart people, well known in the U.S., who have allegedly been caught with their hands on the “sell” button.

(Although, in another indictment of the American society, some of you are scratching your heads saying “Bill who?” regarding the fourth most powerful man in the world’s most powerful country, while everyone knows the name and story of a lady whose most notable accomplishment is a perfect pineapple upside down cake.)

I’ve decided that maybe the gun control nuts are right.

They have insisted for decades that handgun murders shouldn’t be blamed on the person actually pulling the trigger.

It’s the gun manufacturers and sporting goods stores that should be hanged.

Using their logic (an oxymoron if ever there was one), Frist and Martha shouldn’t be the scapegoats.

It’s those nasty old stock manufacturers and traders.

Let’s go after them.

Oh sure, you’ll have lobbyists and stock lovers like the soon-to-be-formed National Stocks Association claiming “stocks don’t cheat people, people cheat people,” but such rhetoric doesn’t seem to be doing the NRA any good, either.

I say that if we eliminate stocks and the stock market, there won’t be anymore stock cheating.

(I just re-read that sentence, and it actually sounded logical, which scares me.)

Until the federal legislature tires of pointing fingers at each other over who is to blame for a category four hurricane and enacts valuable legislation outlawing the trading of stocks, we’ll have to look out for each other.

I don’t care what the Stock Exchange Commission says.

Friends don’t let friends buy United Air Lines.

But if you insist on playing the stock market, then I have 900 leftover Bethlehem Steel shares I’d like to offer you.

And don’t listen to those financial idiots who might tell you that Bethlehem Steel went out of business two years ago.

I still think it’s going to bounce.

Blog Spam

I guess the blog spammers have found me.
I know I should be honored, that it's a sign of "making it" in the blogosphere.
I should be jumping up and down like Navin Johnson in the movie "The Jerk" yelling "The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!"
But it's really just a pain in the behind.
I'm constantly amazed at the lengths marketers will go to in order to hawk their sites and products.
It's bad enough that my e-mail "In Box" stays crammed with junk mail, offering me over 400 sources for that ever-important Viagra or Cialis.
Eventually I'll be old enough to need such medications, but I'm sure I'll have a brain hemorrage before I'm able to reach a decision about which of the 400 sources to use.
And to all of you poor rich folks in Nigeria who want me to help you smuggle your $14 million out of the country, I'm the wrong guy to ask.
In fact, I think they should start a club over there for all those unfortunate families.
If they were to pool all of their $14 million dollar inheritances, they'd have enough to buy themselves a decent country.
I think Guam is for sale.
In fact, after hurricane Wilma, I'm sure they could get a discount on the nation of Mexico.
After the e-mail blitz, I get to wade through the electronic War of 1812.
That's the conflict which spawned our "Star Spangled Banner."
These days, every time I fire up my browser, I'm bombarded with "Pop ups bursting on screen."
I use a Popup Stopper, but I have to leave the darn thing off in order to see certain sites that feature legitimate pop-ups (like my Fantasy Football site).
And of course, every site I visit has some form of advertising.
I'm guilty of this myself, since my site is now graced with its first advertiser.
Of course, that advertiser is me, with an ad for my new part-time computer business, so I'm not sure that counts.
And now the sales vermin have infiltrated the blogosphere, pretending to offer patronizing accolades about your blog before offering people a place to find the latest info on a 2006 Buick Lucerne, or intriguing merchandise pertaining to ceramic cactuses. (Or is it ceramic cacti?)
I'm glad they're finding my site.
It means that I exist on some search engine somewhere.
But even if I'm lost in the Sahara desert, I don't relish the vision of being found by the Cialis guy.

*Morris Workman

Shower Warning Device

Once again, I’m lost in a luxurious shower of steaming hot water and silky suds letting my muse whisper in my ear while preparing for another day of journalistic battle.
Suddenly, a stinging barrage of cold water hits my skin like the attack of the ice mites.
Yes, someone in the other bathroom (presumably my teenage daughter with the shower addiction) has started their own shower, robbing me of the precious contents of the water heater.
Without warning.
It made me realize that someone needs to invent a Shower Warning Device.
I’m envisioning a large flashing red sign similar to the “On The Air” light found at TV and radio studios.
You would hit a button before entering the shower, which would light the sign in the other bathroom as a warning to anyone contemplating a shower or flush.
The deluxe model would be automatic, with the sign lighting up whenever someone turns on the shower faucet.
The super-deluxe model would automatically turn off the water to any liquid-control device in the house (other shower, sinks, toilet, washing machines, dishwashers, and refrigerator ice makers) until the main shower was completed.
Following this episode, I was pining for the good old days, acknowledging that the development of the multi-bathroom abode wasn’t such a great advancement after all.
As a kid, our house had one bathroom.
I know the concept is as antiquated as the telephone party line, but it was far more practical.
Like a “poop party line,” only one person could use the bathroom at a time.
It also made it pretty easy for everyone else in the house to realize that a shower was taking place.
If the bathroom door had a decent lock, it also cut off access to the most dangerous burn-inflicting device in the house.
No, not the stove.
With a stove, you knew it was hot.
If you got burned, it was usually your own stupidity or a plastic-army-man experiment gone awry.
The burn inflicting device to which I am referring is a flushed toilet.
(Which could take your showering experience from comfortable to scalding in 2.3 seconds.)
The lock was sufficient notice to the other occupants of the residence that the water facilities were in use, ensuring a safe and enjoyable showering experience.
Unless of course you had a mischievous sibling with malicious flushing on their mind.
Today, with multiple bathrooms, every shower is like a reconnaissance mission in the jungle.
You never know when a surprise scalding or fast freezing is imminent.
It comes without warning, and usually without remorse.
So to any inventors out there who might be tuning in, here is an idea for you to make your first million dollars.
Once you design it and market it, just send me 25 bucks and we’ll call it square.
And if that works, send me an e-mail and I’ll provide you with a few of my $100 ideas, brilliant flashes of inspiration that usually involve advanced plastics and frickin’ lasers.

Baseball Playoffs Around Here Somewhere

I am proud to announce that I finally caught some Major League Baseball.

Not a whole game, mind you.

In fact, not much more than an inning.

And I ended up tuning in not because I was interested in watching a collection of steroid abusers and bawl babies attempting to earn their multi-million-dollar paychecks.

I actually checked it out to see what a record-setting 18-inning playoff game looked like.

I’m glad I did, because there was actually some drama and heroism to be found.

It was the final National League Divisional Series game between the Houston Astros and the Atlanta Braves.

Back when I used to enjoy Major League Baseball, before cheaters like Bonds and Giambi and Palmeiro ruined it, the Braves were one of the teams I liked to follow.

But I also liked to watch Roger Clemens in his prime (which, judging from Sunday’s performance, was about 10 minutes ago).

So the 6-6 battle into the 17th inning was rather intriguing.

Clemens came on in relief for only the second time in his career, pitching three brilliant scoreless innings after the Astros emptied their bullpen.

But in the bottom of the 18th inning, the equivalent of two full games, Chris Burke came to the plate.

Burke, a 25-year-old player for the Astros who had just five home runs during the season, appeared to pose no threat to the logjam.

But a stroke later, the ball was beyond the left-field wall and the Astros were on their way to the National League Championship.

That was pretty heroic.

But the true heroism came after the game.

With Burke and Clemens leaping around the field in celebration, a TV sports reporter began chasing Clemens for an interview.

It was obvious she wanted face time with the big-name star instead of the unknown player who had just hit the game-winning homer.

When she finally caught up with Clemens, Burke started to walk away.

However, the seasoned veteran reached out and pulled Burke back into the camera frame.

A few seconds after the reporter’s first question, Clemens pulled Burke into the interview and turned it over to him, ensuring that the kid would get his deserved 15 seconds of fame.

It was a classy gesture from a guy who has been there so many times before, a guy who took a pay cut to be with a team he believed in and wanted to help.

And while Clemens has the reputation of being a bully and a bad sport, those charges always seem to emanate from his adversaries and not his teammates.

Tomorrow, baseball news will again be filled with cheaters and cheating suspects, superstars who are all about the gain instead of the game, and criminals posing as baseball players.

But for this one beautiful moment, it was about the honor and beauty of America’s misplaced pastime.

New Home

Welcome to the new home for the Workman Chronicles.
Okay, it’s the same old home.
But it’s now the sole repository for these rambling diatribes, since the Workman Chronicles is no longer being published in the Desert Valley Times.
I would like to explain the falling out between myself and my employer, but that would be bad form.
It also might get me fired.
Suffice it to say that my editor and I had a difference of opinion.
I wrote an article uncovering a heinous activity by H-
Whoops, almost spilled the beans.
Anyway, my boss pulled the plug on the article.
So I pulled the plug on the Workman Chronicles.
I like to think of it as a noble gesture, since I felt that to continue putting my best efforts into a publication that lacked-
Darn, almost did it again.
Of course, I guess the other perspective is that I’m being a big baby, and that I gathered up my marbles and went crying home to mommy.
Since I know what really happened, I’m okay wearing that tag.
Besides, my mommy said it wasn’t true.
This entire situation makes me sad.
The Workman Chronicles was my favorite part of the job.
It also evoked the greatest number of responses from the community, both good and bad.
But the reason it got such attention is because it unabashedly faced the truth and told it in a, hopefully, humorous way, even if it cost me popularity points in the community.
(I still have red marks from where the Yearbook kids and their moms whaled on me.)
Unfortunately, that zeal for the telling the truth isn’t shared by-
See, I have to watch that.
Not only is the St. George-owned newspaper my employer, but my boss has access to “paper by the ton and ink by the barrel,” which means he could respond with his own scathing perspective that would reach 7,800 people (according to our latest circulation numbers) while only the 20 or 30 of you who visit this site would get the tr- um, my perspective.
So, until I come up with a new job, or a new distributor for the Workman Chronicles, this will be the only place to find it.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to attend most of the VVHS games and local sporting events, writing about our teams, and giving you the latest scores.
In other words, I’m going to do what one local H** president suggested in a Letter to the Editor, which is stick to writing about sports.
I figure since my editor seems to agree with this guy on most other important issues, he probably feels the same way on this one as well.
So at least somebody will be happy.
(By the way, to Mr. B and the rest of the evil overlords engaged in turning this beautiful city into the unfriendliest place on Earth, congratulations. You win.)
As for me, life will go on.
I’ll eventually find a newspaper or magazine interested in what I have to offer, although it will probably require me to leave the town I have come to love.
If not, I can always go back to earning an above-average living in the insurance or computer industries.
Yes, giving up the poverty and 55-hour work weeks would be a hard call, but it may be a sacrifice I’m forced to make.
Until then, enjoy the Workman Chronicles here on Mesquedia, where $3.95 a month to my internet webspace provider can still buy freedom and truth.

Bigotry For Fun And Property Value

NOTE-This article was rejected by the Editor of the Desert Valley Times

I’ve been thinking about joining the board of an HOA recently.
It’s not that I have some overwhelming desire to bully innocent lawn ornaments or join the garden-hose patrol, but I can see the advantage to being one of those carrying the whip.
It’s also one of the last places in America where bigotry can be practiced without some group with lots of A’s, U’s, and other vowels in their name threatening to hold their breath and throw lawsuits like so many rocks.
Before you get the wrong idea, the bigotry has nothing to do with skin color.
It’s not about anyone’s cultural heritage.
It’s not even a prejudice against a particular religion.
If you listen to the charlatans beating the association board drum, it is a bias against one of the lowest life forms in the human genome, a group of beings so lowly and despicable that they shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe, much less inhabit a building within the gun-turreted walls of a particular PUD.
According to the “prophets,” these two-legged vermin are responsible for declining property values, dead grass, toy proliferation, noise complaints, diphtheria, and global warming.
Unfortunately, the movement is gaining traction as innocent homeowners are taking the bait, convinced that their lives and neighborhoods would be better off without “their kind.”
That’s right, I’m talking about…renters.
To their credit, none of these anti-renter zealots are suggesting that renters be crucified, hung, or put in stocks, but I think it has more to do with the fact that such structures would violate architectural review committee rules.
The bigotry is manifesting itself in “rental restrictions” popping up in the CCR’s of homeowner associations all over the city.
Rental restrictions dictate that homeowners cannot rent out their homes to other people unless they are already doing so.
It also says that new buyers, particularly investors, cannot rent out their home.
In my not-so-humble opinion, I think it’s one of the most un-American rules I’ve heard of since Jim Crow died.
Although you think you own and control your home and property, a board can make a rule that tells you what you can and can’t do with it, and restricts who you can sell it to.
According to the myth which has been proffered in the propaganda pushing for the eradication of renters in our lifetime, the elimination of non-owners will increase your property value.
Apparently, renters are the bane of the residential world, leeches and parasites that drain a community of its escalating resale values and destroy its quality of life.
Of course, the “increasing property value” is the same excuse they use for punishing wayward residents who fail to get their garbage cans in on time, or who don’t get permission before planting rose bushes.
I suspect we’ll eventually see “increasing property value” as the reason why residents aren’t permitted outside their homes between 7 p.m. and dawn, why families will be limited to no more than 2.3 children, and why Subarus and cars built before 2003 will be banned from driving on local HOA streets.
According to several realtors, the rental restrictions are having the opposite effect, chilling property values because up to 40% (depending on which realtor you talk to) of the new home buyers are investors, or folks who intend to rent the property for two or three years until they are ready to retire.
I’m not the smartest person (I’m a renter, so how smart could I be?), but according to the most basic economic principle of supply and demand, if you have six potential buyers instead of 10, meaning less demand, your price must go down.
But I’m more disturbed by the discrimination against the mortgage-challenged.
Before long, I expect to see signs cropping up in stores saying “Non-Renters Only” and little posters above drinking fountains with “Renters” and “Non-Renters” separating the bad people from the good people.
I’m even more disturbed because some of the people voting for this evil codicil were once renters themselves.
They’re the ones who say “I don’t have anything against renters, I just wouldn’t want my daughter to marry one.”
To the homeowners in associations which haven’t yet adopted these measures, I implore you to have a heart, be an American, use some common sense, protect your property values, and vote against these idiotic anti-renter rules.
And to the association board members promoting rental restrictions, I would beg that you stop hating the poor, downtrodden renters, and go back to hating people who paint their fences tan instead of taupe.

Reporter Decked During Game

Published in the Desert Valley Times
September 29, 2005

During Friday’s JV football game between Virgin Valley and Faith Lutheran, a member of the local media patrolling the sideline was upended in an unfortunate out-of-bounds incident.

The sports reporter, who shall remain nameless due to concerns about dignity, the potential for embarrassment to his family, and Federal HIPAA regulations, was wiped out during the fourth quarter of the game.

He was toppled when VVHS quarterback Doug Hafen was hammered out of bounds by a Faith Lutheran defender.

The two JV players hit the intrepid newspaper writer full force, knocking him flat on his prodigious behind.

A flag was thrown on the play.

Contrary to initial reports, the penalty was for a late out-of-bounds hit on Hafen, and not a “Roughing The Photographer” foul.

According to sources, it was the first time the former varsity offensive lineman had been pancaked since 1977, when he was flattened by an all-county linebacker in the annual Havre de Grace-Aberdeen High School football grudge match between the two northeast Maryland institutions.

Following the collision, a quick inspection of the adjacent running track was conducted.

Since there were no cracks or dents in the track surface, it was ascertained that the reporter’s head never came in contact with the asphalt.

While there were no injuries reported, or at least none that the writer would admit to, one page of the Reporter’s Notebook sustained a fatal tear, and an emergency mud extraction was required for a camera lens.

Adding insult to injury, the downed photographer didn’t get the shot on film.

Immediately following the collision, the writer jumped up laughing.

Trainers were initially concerned about a possible head injury, but were unable to determine how much brain damage existed prior to the incident.

The writer remained on the sideline throughout the rest of the JV contest, and continued to prowl the Virgin Valley side of the field through the varsity game, although he was occasionally heard muttering about a truck and stars.

In a statement released by the pummeled pundit, the collision will be remembered as one of the highlights of his Mesquite career.

“I’m embarrassed to have been knocked down by a couple of JV players. I mean, I know the ‘Dawgs hit hard, but, I’m a big guy. I’d have thought it would have taken at least a couple of varsity beefeaters to bring me down.

“However, I’m honored to have been hammered by Doug Hafen. A few years from now, I expect to be watching college football on TV, and I’ll be proud to brag to everyone else in the nursing home day room that I was once plowed by USC’s starting quarterback.”

In lieu of flowers, well-wishers and fans are encouraged to forward their donations to the “Let’s Install Air Bags In The Fat Guy’s Suspenders” fund.

The reporter is expected to return to the sidelines in time for the Oct. 7 VVHS home game against Boulder City.

According to sources, he will be the only member of the local media clad in shoulder pads and a DVT helmet.

Necktie Blues

Published in the Desert Valley Times
September 27, 2005

I miss neckties.

For our younger readers who have probably never seen one, a necktie was a piece of cloth men used to wrap around their throats and drape across the front of their long-sleeve button-down shirts.

In a future column, I’ll probably explain that long-sleeve button-down shirts used to come in lots of colors that weren’t plaid.

Believe it or not, neckties were an accoutrement of fashion, and used to change shape and width more often than Oprah.

They were usually worn by people attending functions that involved a church such as weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, and high-stakes Bingo.

Ties were also worn regularly by doctors, lawyers, teachers, and other professionals as a statement of social and intellectual superiority which said “I’m smarter than you because I know how to make a Windsor knot.”

It made life a little easier, because you could tell the difference between the guy who was going to remove your pancreas and the guy who was going to offer you fries with that burger.

Today, the caste system reinforced by the necktie has been eliminated by the emergence of the polo shirt.

Everyone wears polo shirts in this era, including accountants, police officers, surgeons, insurance agents, and sanitation engineers.

Unfortunately, the polo shirt has also doomed the hippie movement, because it’s tough to figure out exactly who is “The Man” when corporate executives are adorned in the same collared t-shirt as the guy carrying the “Make cookies, not war” protest sign.

(Again, for our younger readers, “The Man” was a sixties euphemism for the Establishment, or those in authority. “The Man” is not to be confused with “Da Man,” who is usually a superior golfer or athlete, as in “You da man!”)

I must admit that I miss wearing ties.

When I was in the business world a few years ago, I proudly wore multi-hued ties as part of my corporate battle armor.

Again, it was easier to discern a company’s pecking order based on the ties worn.

The lower-level flunkies usually wore red and blue diagonally striped ties.

As I ascended the corporate ladder, stripes gave way to more intriguing patterns.

When I reached upper-level management, my ties often involved cartoon characters like Bugs and Tweety.

(Only the boss could get away with such frivolity. Yes, they were wild and swinging times.)

Ties were also handy at lunch time.

Depending on your skill in making lunch selections based on the color and pattern of your tie, you could spill almost anything on it and still make that afternoon presentation with confidence.

Obviously, this is why I preferred the period when wide ties were in fashion.

The only down side to wearing ties came if you were a) color blind or b) your wife didn’t dress you every morning.

You could tell the guys in either category because their orange ties with large green polka dots would clash with their blue and purple striped shirts.

I also miss the 80’s, when “power ties” were in fashion.

Of course, it took me a few months to figure out that a “power tie” was one that featured a single bold color like canary yellow, and not an adornment that required several AAA batteries to power the flashing lights and the electronic “Jingle Bells” tune.

Eventually, like all fashion trends, ties will make a comeback.

I’m hoping that we’ll one day return to a world where NASA scientists wear ties and crew cuts while launching space vehicles that don’t shed parts like a 1978 Chevy Chevette, and business leaders wear three-piece suits to places other than their sentencing.

When they do, me and my Taz tie will be ready.

We're Back!

After a vacation and extended absence, we're back online.

It all started with the simple idea of bringing my mom from Lincoln, Delaware to a new home in Mesquite, Nevada.

After the proverbial and actual "Six Days On The Road," we arrived with the Penske rental truck (I'm giving them a plug because the diesel International 26' truck was a dream to drive, reasonably priced, and gave us not the slightest bit of trouble, although it didn't seem to enjoy the long pulls up the mountains around Denver, Vail, and Frisco).

No, not San Francisco. Frisco is a little ski town near Vail, Colorado. It is a beautiful place, picturesque, nestled in the Rocky Mountains, clean, architecturally unique, and way too expensive for any real human being to live in.

Eventually, we arrived in Mesquite.

Then came the unloading.

Now, for the last two weeks, it's been the unpacking, rewiring, furniture arrangement, unpacking, furniture rearrangement, wonderful dinners with my mom, furniture disassembly, more unpacking, furniture assembly, cleaning, furniture re-rearrangement, more unpacking, and furniture re-re-rearrangement.

I've also managed to squeeze in 14 football games, 12 boxing bouts, two soccer matches, and a musical performance as part of my day job at the newspaper.

The good news is that we now have family here in the Wild West for the first time since moving here in 2001, with my 97-year-old grandmother slated to fly out next week.

The bad news is...heck, there IS no bad news.

In addition to the moving-in process, we've also been busy showing off our town, taking mom to the theatre (yes, we have some culture here in the Wild West), out to dinner, to football games, Bingo (see, I TOLD you we have culture), shopping, and even a boxing match (more of that culture I was telling you about).

Mom is 65, and I can tell you after all of that activity over the last two weeks...that I'm getting old. It is tough to keep up with that lady!

She's also been busy becoming official...Nevada drivers license, new phone, new cell phone, new car insurance, and of course the first official screwing by a government organization.

Nevadans are rather cocky about the fact that we don't pay state income tax.

But like any and every government entity, Nevada makes that money back in other ways.

One of the ways is the righteous rip-off for sales tax on vehicles.

Mom's 2005 Honda, which she bought in Delaware, cost her over $1,300 in Nevada sales tax before she could get her car tags.

Welcome to the Silver State.

Anyway, my wonderful mother is here now, and I'm the luckiest guy on the planet because she and my wonderful wife get along. (I'm fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful women...just ask me about my wonderful daughter some time, who is in the band, in chorus, in softball, and in just about everything else except trouble.)

My mom and my wife are becoming best pals, particularly when shopping together and plotting how to make me a better human being. All I can say is...the shopping thing is working out.

So, to those of you who have loyally and faithfully checked the 'blog over the last three weeks, I appreciate your patience.

When you get a chance, I also recommend that you visit our website at www.mesquedia.com, where we are offering a new $25 Bingo game, as well as some new features.

Again, thanks for your wait. I hope you feel it's been worth it!