The Montezuma Two-Step

Our hunk of Interstate 80 has three great qualities.

First, it's a rapid way of getting out of Iowa, albeit by the least interesting route available. (Eastbound, it also ejects you into the maws of Illinois SSR commissars.)

Second, it is America's most incontinent-friendly route.  In the 1950s and '60s, someone was having a sale on pissoirs and palaces to house them, and we planted them wholesale.  At the posted speed limit you are never more than 27 minutes from  relief. Back when our sappy official motto was "A Place to Grow ," a legislator grumpy about the cost of maintaining the "rest areas" said we should change it to "A Place to Go."

Third, it takes you within a few miles of Montezuma and (Mystery Revealed!)...

Where you may sit in a somewhat sterile front area, wander through the catalogs, and fill out your order.

And where you may peek through a window at, but not fondle,  Brownell's goodies.

And after your order is quickly processed by an extremely pleasant and efficient Iowa lady, you get to put your new essentials into your Homey Roller, bow to the Temple of Shooty Mammon, and be on your way to less interesting places.

It isn't as much fun as rummaging through Herter's during it's year-long quitting -business sale, but it's warmer than mail order, and you are permitted to discuss things with actual humans who are blessed with good sense. For example, I wanted a pint of magic cold blue, but they were out of the pint-sizes and had only the little four-ounce bottles at a roughly 50 per cent higher unit cost. I wondered if Brownell's might agree to sell me four 4-oz bottles at the pint price.  A quick phone call from the aforementioned nice lady to her boss yielded an instantaneous "yes," and she seemed as pleased as I was.

Good folks there in Montezuma. Stop by and say hi when you're in the area.

Oh. And, in case we Iowa taxpayers didn't afford you enough places to pee, be advised that Brownell's also offers gratis urinal access. Free Markets to the rescue again.

Hustling Newt Gingrich

On second thought, I'm glad the Des Moines Register doesn't fritter away money on copy editing. Curmudgeons wielding pencils deprive the world of laughter.

---

Newt was hustling Iowans. A homeless woman decided to tell him her sad story and began:

“This is difficult so bare with me.” 

At least she was speaking to the candidate most likely to respond, "Sure. Your place or mine?"

Jiggity Jig

...356.8 miles, almost non-stop; just three pit stops, including a gasup.

... plus one other refreshing pause unrelated to bladders, human or canine. I leave it as a deep secret until the morrow.  I now totter off to my pallet, hoping I hit it on the way down.

I will hint only that few places in the world approach this mystery site as a Mecca for those whose blood is fearfully diluted with Hoppe's No. 9.

Advice to young men

Written as I button up the place for a short holiday trip. The house sitter and her puppy  ("Sic," of large German heritage, including a 1939-ish German personality) are on the way.

Assembling the pocket things I carry on the road, it occurred to me that I might pass on a serious word or two of counsel to young folks venturing out into the civilized world of 21st Century America.

1. Never flash money. A wad tempts the morons who still believe American Federal Reserve Cartoons are worth stealing. They tend to be armed, if only with shanks they learned about watching "Lockup." It's better to look not worth bothering about as you pay for your Coke in the convenience store.  If you must carry large cash in a money clip, shield the 20s and 50s with a fews ones on the outside. (A side note on linguistics. This is the reverse of the "Kansas City Wad.")

2.  A good place for your real wallet is locked away in your vehicle.  When I'm in on the street in Injun Country like Washington, D.C. or Illinois, I like to carry a fancy one of imitation leather holding a couple of long-expired credit cards, six ones,  two fives,  and home-made IDs saying my name is Newton Perry Bachmann and listing an address at least 100 miles from Camp J.

3. Dress is a challenge. You want to look respectable enough to get decent treatment from the clerks and bureaucrats with whom you must deal but, again, too poor to  look profitable to the lurking goblin in the parking lot. I tend to go with clean jeans past their prime,  dirty tennies, and a completely noncommttal shirt. Mustard is a nice color for the latter.  (Avoid new Air Jordans at any cost.)

All this -- plus trying to keep my head out of my butt  --  helps my confidence that the .45 can stay comfortably hidden. Having one is a comfort. Using it exposes a guy to all sorts of inconvenience.

Happy trails.

Jim