Road Trip!

So, it seems that the pathetic excuse for a human that Las Vegas elected Mayor has declared war on homeless people.

It is now illegal to "feed the indigent" in Las Vegas. So, whether you merely hand over your uneaten sandwich half to that salivating bum, or engage in wanton free food hand-outs, you are liable to be arrested and fined. The Lord Mayor of Las Vegas, one Oscar B. Goodman, fully supports this atrocious new law.

Goodman has also suggested that panhandlers with signs asking for food be sued for "false advertising."

Dear God.

I do not travel much these days, but I am sorely tempted to gather up a posse and descend on Sin City. Our valiant crew will be armed with sacks of donuts and sandwiches, hamburgers and fresh fruit. What the hell, we'll even throw in some minis of booze. Life on the streets is tough, and no sane person chooses it. Yes, the homeless deserve a break today. *#&! Mayor Goodman!

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

A mere week ago, I was blathering on about the unseasonably pleasant (merely high double digits) weather here in good old TJ. Ah, but it seems I spoke too soon. We had a triple digit kind of weekend (109 degrees, or so the crazy old man with the thermometer says), and last Sunday night, 'round about just after midnight, we who were sleeping the sleep of the just (or at least the sleep of the righteously drunk), were awakened by the sound of terrorist planes dropping bombs. No, actually, it was only thunder. There once was a time, a more innocent time, that we would have known this. (Cue the music, Raoul).

Lightning slashed from the sky, and threatened our rooftops with fire. Thunder boomed, and so forth. Then came the welcome rain. Very unusual that was, for So-Cal. Alas, the rain ended all too soon, and we returned to our usual programming. And so it goes, in Swelter City. They (whoever "they" are) say that there are a million stories in the naked city. Well, this is one of them. Only I am not naked. If I were, I would stick to my leather chair, and that wouldn't feel very good.

Over and out.

end of transmission

The Savage Chef May Have To Go Away For A While

So, last weekend we went to buy a present for a very special little boy. He will be five years old next month. He loves the Power Rangers and the Disney movie Cars. We have only one real toy store in Tumbleweed Junction: Kay-Bee Toys. It is the most child-friendly of stores, unlike the evil Toys-R-Us, which posts a warning that children are not welcome inside without an adult. What the hell? Well, I guess they don't need my money. I never shop there.

Inside Kay-Bee, a joyous pandemonium reigns. A constant soundtrack of beeping, barking, crunching and whirring is punctuated with the silvery bells of childish laughter (good one, huh?) and the frequent parental exclamation, "Wow! Cool! I had one of those when I was a kid." The aisles are narrow and stacked high with a fantastic collection of playthings. We found the perfect remote-control Cars vehicle and we should have been happy, but for what had greeted us on the way into the store, and returned to assault us at several inside displays.

A freaking giant Santa Claus snow globe! Playing Christmas music!

Christmas in July? I DON'T THINK SO!!!

It's July, damn it! They should be pushing pool toys, sand pails, and little toddler-sized sunglasses. This is ridiculous! Next thing you know, they'll start wishing you a Happy New Year in May! Argh! Agh! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *

* The Savage head explodes. We will pause for a moment of silence...

I Still Hate the Desert

So, we have a rare pleasant night. I can turn off the air conditioner, but first I must pull back curtains and draperies, yank up blinds and shades, and open seventeen windows. The one in the library stuck, I had to bang it with the meat pounder to get it open.

Sailing downstairs to open more windows, I once again missed the last step and had to do a sudden balletic leap to avoid breaking anything I am attached to.

Really, 'twas nothing. On worse days, I miss the last two steps, fall in a heap and moan and curse.

Someone here is watching Monty Python's Holy Grail. What a perfect movie it is! If for nothing else, I would have to admire the boys for managing a song in which they rhyme "indefatigable" with "Clark Gable."

You can't buy that kind of clever.

No. Really.

Musings on the Fourth of July

So, I should have known that things were going downhill fast when I opened the fridge and found a praying mantis flexing its legs in front of the vegetable bin.

But what the hell, it was our nation's birthday. I did not bake it a cake, but I made it some damned good baked cornbread and the Grumpy made ribs--not the piggy kind, the beefy dinosaur bone kind.

Traditionally, we start out the day with the playing of patriotic songs, not the least of which is our national anthem. No one batted an eye when we lived on base, whether overseas or stateside, but in Tumbleweed Junction, some of our neighbors find our patriotic fervor just a little bit strange. Damned commies!

Ahem.

Anyway, I can see how folks are not quite as jazzed up about the Fourth as they used to be when your Savage was just a wee little thing. When I was a child, fireworks were sold on every corner and vacant lot and everyone gathered in the street to shoot them off. Folks churned homemade ice cream and barbequed meat and drank lots of beer and stuff like that.

Even the littlest ones were handed a "punk" to wave around in circles. The orange glow would linger long enough to make a pattern in the night air, sort of like drawing on an Etch-a-Sketch. Nowadays, fireworks are illegal most places. Our nation's special night has been robbed of its brightness. They tell us that fireworks are dangerous. People have lost eyes, fingers and maybe other appendages as well.

Hmm... I know something else that is very dangerous. Every year, thousands of people die and millions are injured, in automobile accidents. Let us ban those murdermobiles!

A few of my more renegade neighbors bought illegal fireworks in the one local county that can still sell them, or they bought over the border in Mexico. The 'works were exploded as clandestinely as possible, to avoid arrest by the roving fireworks detection squads.

I did not actively participate in the limited fireworks display. Instead, I climbed to the top floor of the big pink pile of stucco and watched the governmentally limited display. I watched my next door neighbor share the magic of sparkly fireworks with his little son. I swear that if I had heard one more ooh or aah from that darling little child, I would have dissolved into a puddle of mommy goo.

Aah! The colors! The sizzle! The howling dogs!

The sulfurous stink! How could I have forgotten that?