I was feeling a little restless last week and decided to get out of the county of snow to check out our friends to the south--Twin Falls. With no apparent plan in mind and in the midst of singing high harmonies to songs of the 70s on the 1984 Cadillac Coupe DeVille's radio, I spotted a sign that read: "Jackpot, 45 miles from Twin Falls--Come on!" Several songs later, I spotted another sign of invitation to the gambling mecca and decided, "Why not?"
So, instead of being tempted to shop outside of Blaine County and being riddled with guilt for not shopping locally, I skirted the marketing metropolis and deadheaded to Route 93 and the promises of good times and fortune at the casinos of hope.
Later that night, I found myself staring at a "Yosemite Sam" character on a video slot machine called "Texas Tea" that was screaming at me, "Come on, pardna', let's drill for oil!" The only person who got drilled was me by the "old prospector."
"There will be blood," I muttered as I made my way out of Cactus Pete's to head for the casino across the street. At the pedestrian crossing light, I looked up at the sky to ask "why" and spotted what I thought was the full moon, but what I viewed was a blot of eerie color. The orb was in a total lunar eclipse.
"It's a sign!" I cried out to no one in particular at the crosswalk.
"No kidding, pal, it's green--go," said a grizzled veteran of Nevada gambling wars, "You can cross now."
I made my way to the HorseShu Casino, entered and spotted another "Texas Tea" machine. This time I beat the old prospector to a pulp, cashed in my winnings and headed for my hotel room happy as a clam. On the way, however, "The Wheel of Fortune" beckoned, whipped my butt relentlessly, rendering me clammy. I retreated to my room vowing to ignore "signs," settled in and was asleep in a few minutes.
I awoke the next morning amidst the violent shaking of my entire room. Items on tables were thrown onto the floor, rafters were vibrating loudly and the scenes in the landscapes of the paintings on the walls had been totally turned around 180 degrees.
"I'd call that a sign!" I yelled to absolutely no one.
I hurriedly packed up, checked out of the hotel, jumped in "The Spamobile" and tore out of the doomed city of Sodom fleeing to the open road of freedom and salvation, crying out, "Maybe I can get back in time for the next snowstorm!"
Before long I spotted a road sign that said "Sun Valley--121 miles." It's a sign!
Nice talking to you.
