STEVE JOBS FAILS ME

Teasdale, UT – April 14, 2014

I slip out of Las Vegas but notice that it is already 11:00 AM - late start to get to Capital Reef National Park.   I was going to take a more scenic route that would take eight hours, but after consultation with Kat on the phone where she said, “Are you crazy?  Do not take the scenic route pulling a trailer,” I elected to stick with Interstate 15 that would get me there in 6 ½ hours or so.

Utah and Nevada together are just short of 200,000 square miles in area.  The population of Utah is 2.8 million people.  All but 500,000 people live in and around Salt Lake City.  Nevada is the same.  The population of Nevada is 2.7 million but three quarters of them live in Vegas.  So that leaves about 1,000,000 people to share 200,000 square miles.  That compares with Manhattan which has 1,5000,000 people in an area that is 23 square miles!  In other words, you don’t run into many folks driving through Nevada and Utah on a Monday in April. 

Rush Hour in Utah

As a result I make real good time.  I am a little concerned.  Not because I am making good time, but because it seems to be my first truly uneventful day.  What was I to write about?  The scenery?  Truly impressive, but impressive in its emptiness.  I stop for gas…no crisis, no colorful figure.  The most impressive thing is the price of gasoline.  At $3.49 a gallon, Texas still stands apart as the cheapest gas I have seen and I am 3,200 miles into the journey. 

At about 3 PM I leave the Interstate to drive toward Capital Reef National Park.  I am happy to get off the highway.  It is more fun for me to pass through little towns and to really see the countryside.  I pass through the town of Greenwich, Utah, not to be confuses with Greenwich, Connecticut.  It seems this Greenwich has many more sheep than people, which is only one of the many differences between the two villages.  Interesting perhaps --- but not worthy of a blog.

I stop for gas around 4 PM and chat with a man who is filling his car and admires the Airstream.  This happens almost every time I stop. 

“Where are you headed,” says the man who lives in Torrey, Utah, coincidentally, where I am headed.  I tell him the short version of my story (leaving out the triple whammy, of course).   I also mention the RV Park in Capital Reef.  He says it is quite nice but fills up fast and is on a first come, first serve basis.  Maybe not this week, he adds, but next weekend as Easter weekend approaches it will be packed.  He says there is a trailer park right outside of Torrey where I could certainly find a spot for the night without a problem.  He wishes me luck and drives off.  As soon as I fill up I do the same. 

As I get to town Seri, the lady on my IPhone, who gives me directions tells me to turn right.  I follow her instructions faithfully as I pass down a quiet street on the edge of town.   As the homes thin out, the road starts to go up an incline to some treeless countryside.  I think to myself that this doesn’t seem like the right way, but I check my phone and the map says I am only 8.3 miles to Torrey.  The road continues to climb, eventually turning into a well-maintained gravel street. By the time this happens I have left the little town behind.  I keep driving and the road keeps climbing.  Eventually, the road becomes more of a dirt road than a gravel street.  Now, I have climbed quite a bit altitude wise.  I can look down and see the town I left far behind.  I stop and again question again if I am on the right track.  When I check it says Torrey is now just 3.1 miles ahead.  This can’t be right but I figure maybe its because I am headed to a national park.  Maybe this is the back entrance.  I know nothing about Capital Reef.  Never even heard of it until I started researching my trip.  I drive over the crest of a hill and as I

Where am i?

proceed down, now I am on a dirt and rock path.  This has got to be wrong.  The path now, however, is so narrow that there is absolutely no turning around; not with an Airstream on my back.  I check the phone and it indicates that I am only two miles away from Torrey.  I might as well keep going.  There is no way I can turn around. 

Suddenly, Siri says, “Proceed to the route.”  Proceed to the route?  What the hell?  I am on the route.  I glance down at my phone.  It indicates that I have passed a turn.  Passed a turn?  There was no road to turn on.  I can’t turn around.   The path keeps getting tighter and tighter and if that all wasn’t bad enough, the sun is starting to set. 

Alas, Steve Jobs has failed me.  There is no Torrey around here.  There is no route to proceed to.  I turn a corner and to my dismay across a broad barren pasture, see snow!  Not a ton of it but definitely a field

Where's the turnaround?

of snow perched on the sloop of a shaded hill.  Jesus, it’s April!  I suddenly am gripped with the feeling that I might be above the timberline - with the sun going down.  At last I come upon another dirt road that intersects the one I am on.  I have no interest in taking that road.  It does give me enough area that, if I am lucky and skillful, I can turn around.  The turn is tight but I have to do it.  The road ahead doesn’t look any better in the fading sunlight.  If I don’t give it a try here they may be no other opportunity.  If I keep going and it dead ends, which seems likely, I sure as hell can’t back up.  I am left with no choice but to take a shot.  So, I drive pass the intersection of the roads and put it in reverse.  I pause of a second and take a deep breath.  Man, if I screw this up I could be spending the night on this hill!  Rather than start to back up I slip it from reverse to park, get out of the truck and walk back to the Airstream.  I check out every obstacle that could spell disaster.  There’s this sagebrush here and there but I can run over it without messing things up.  There are a couple of rocks that I will probably by pass.  The road does drops off into a ditch.  If I screw things up I am pretty sure I will feel the trailer start to slid down and can stop before it passes the point of no return, but I think, all in all, this is doable.

Still breathing deep, I say to myself  “OK, Zimbo.  It’s go time.  No more trial and error. You gotta make this work on the first time.”  At least I think I said it to myself.  Maybe, I might have said it out loud along with, “Dear God, help me.”  No, I didin’t. I am certain I took a couple of deep breaths and thought, “suck it up, my Brotha.” I get back in the truck and start to channel all the gurus and advisors that have helped me back this thing up from Rick Luhr , my Airstream expert, to the RV veterans down at Dockweiler’s,  

to Kat and everyone in between that has ever said,  “Turn the wheel in the opposite direction you want to go.”  No time to panic.  It’s go time. 

 

It's about time to take a little action.

Strange how anxiety can trigger focus as well as fear.  You never know which camp you are going to fall into at any given crisis.  Turn the wheel in the opposite direction you want the trailer to turn.  I heard that refrain in my head - an exhortation that no matter how many times repeated never made sense in my right-brained, dyslectic, left-handed brain.   I crank the wheel to the right, start to back up…and the Airstream obeys.  I have this moment of total clarity.  It all makes sense.  Have I finally climbed the learning curve, or is this some sort of mystic Airstreamian divine intervention karma like event?  It could be dumb luck?  Mine is not to question.  I glide back into the intersecting road until I sense I should crank the wheel the other way and the Airstream and truck float back in place, ready to return in the direction I came.  I am in both shock and awe.  Have experienced something that is unworldly? Moment of spiritual awakening or dumb freakin’ luck?  The only thing of which I am certain is I am headed back from whence I came and that alone is good enough for me.

Obviously buoyed by the experience yet still sobered by the realization that I am on a mountain ridge with the sun setting I start to retrace my steps.   As Siri would say, my job is now to “proceed to the route,” but screw her.  Maybe Jobs was a genius but he had obviously never been to Torrey, Utah.  But it wasn’t Jobs’ fault.  A disgruntled Apple programmer back in Cupertino no doubt did him in?  Angry that Jobs did not like the way he programmed the maps, or dressed down in public, as I am told Jobs liked to do.  But why I have to suffer because of his retaliation?  I don’t know and at this point I don’t care.  I am dead tired, it is getting dark and I don’t have a real good idea of where I am headed.  I know one thing for certain.  I turn off my phone.  I am not taking Siri’s counsel. I gotta get out of this fix on my own.

By the time I get back to the original turn it is dark.  I figure I will just stick to the road I was on before Siri, (that bitch) advised me to turn on a road I knew was wrong. So I trust my instincts with no help from the GPS world and drive maybe two miles and am greeted by a sign next to the road that says, “Entering Torrey, Utah.”  Not funny, Steve.  Sooo, not funny.  I go another mile down the road and there is a sign reading “1,000 Oaks RV Park”.  I curse Jobs again as well as Siri.  Three hours ago I was right down the road, but no.  I go against my instincts and follow Steve and his evil yet mildly erotic accomplice Siri.  Would I follow these two over a cliff?  My God.  I almost did.  Now, for the first time in my life I contemplate buying a Samsung smart phone.  I like you Steve, but don’t fuck with me, man. 

As my friend at the gas station predicted the RV park have lots of available spaces.  The office is closed but there is a phone in a wooden box hanging on the porch that I pick up.  A pleasant woman comes on the line and just tells me to pick out a place and pay me in the morning.  I start back to the truck thinking that - Thank God, Kat stuck a cold piece of pizza in a goody bag she fixed for me.  Cold Pizza and pistachios tonight for dinner and I am glad to have it.   I am thankful simply to have arrived in one piece.  Well, almost one piece. 

As I return to the truck I glance down and am startled at what lies before me.   The stabilizer bar, this menacing steel contraption that is part of the wicked hitch apparently snapped a pin that holds it in place, which broke off the steel bar. No doubt the result of my bouncing dirt road journey.  It is lays under the Airstream hooked by a chain to the hitch.  I don’t knowhow long I have been dragging it, but when I pick up the metal bar it is apparent that most of the paint has been blasted off by miles of asphalt against metal on the highway. The steel, which was painted black, is now gray, heavily pockmarked, pitted and gashed, the result of bouncing along for miles under the carriage of the Airstream. 

Holy shit.  I am no Airstream expert but plainly, this is not good.  I unhook the chain but can only stare at the piece of metal.  I am alone, in the dark in the middle of a trailer park in the middle of Utah.  Nothing can be done about this now.  I am just going to retreat to the Airstream, have my pizza (an a glass of wine or three) and get a good night’s sleep.  I hook up the electricity, water and the sewer. 

But, my surprises for this day are not over.  I open the door and it looks like the Airstream has been ransacked by a marauding band of Nihilists.  The closets are opened and anything not on hangers is strewn on the floor.  Pillows that I left in neat arrangement on the couch look like they were discarded weapons in a failed pillow fight.  The toilet paper in the bathroom and the paper towels has completely unrolled themselves under their hanging holders.  I can’t even imagine the horror that went on unwitnessed at this place.  I am relieved to see that nothing is broken and that no one peed on my rug.  (My second reference in this paragraph to an epic movie.)  What is most disturbing is that when I go to pick things up it is impossible not to notice that everything is coated with dust.  The Airstream looks like King Tut’s tomb after 3,000 years.  Though marvels of engineering and widely admired around the world, I learn the hard way that the Airstream is far from airtight.  Evidently, as I bounced along in my F-150 on the Steve Jobs Memorial Highway I was apparently spewing dust that the Airstream sucked up like a vacuum. 

Cold pizza and pistachios is postponed in favor of the Dirt Devil and a mop along with something that my daughter Liz taught me about which is the true elixir of life for Airstreamers – Formula 409 All Purpose Cleaner.  This shit is the kryptonite of cleaners.   A miracle drug developed to cure the common mess.  Dirt doesn’t stand a chance against this stuff, provided you have enough paper towels.  (I have plenty - an entire roll had unrolled itself into the sink. 

After awhile and a bottle of Formula 409 All Purpose Cleaner I was feeling better about the day.   Yes, I almost perished in the Utah wilderness.  Yes, I have partially or, perhaps completely destroyed the hitch, but I had a great story to tell on what I thought was going to be a rather uneventful day.  I wondered as I dozed of, what will tomorrow hold?

NOBODY WANTS TO BE SINATRA ANYMORE

Las Vegas – April 13, 2014

I left LA, Kat and Loo Loo with a tearful goodbye, which is ridiculous because I am headed back in two weeks but sentimentality runs deep in the Thomas DNA.  My father used to say he’d tear up at a shopping center opening.  Military flyovers at Super Bowls, graduations, sappy movies (Bambi, Steel Magnolias and just forget It’s A Wonderful Life – I’m chocking up just thinking about it).  Even Budweiser Christmas commercials send all of us into hysterics.  But nothing tops goodbyes.  So Kat and I stand in the middle of the Dockweiler’s RV Park crying like little babies.  People might think it is the gash on my finger I got somehow trying to hook up the dreaded hitch but its not.  She is just such a nice kid and I love her so.  In lieu of my current situation I keep thinking I am due for some sort of emotional eruption but it hasn’t happened yet.  Just a nice little cry before I hit the road.

Happy Birthday to Kat!

We celebrated Kat’s 31^st birthday with an Airstream Beach Party the night before with her friends, my   Jon caught and cooked halibut straight from the Pacific Ocean and it stole the show.  A splendid time was had by all.  My niece, Emily brought her boyfriend, Chris who is a very nice guy.

My goal now is to make it to Vegas.  When you tell people you are going to Las Vegas they are always apt to give you advise. 

“Don’t miss The Bellagio Fountains.  It’s great.”

“Cirque du Soleil is expensive but man it’ll blow your mind.”

“The Roller Coaster at New York, New York.”

“The best breakfast in Las Vegas is at the Wynn.”

I came to Las Vegas for this?

No, my brother tells me I gotta find The Count.  Who is The Count you might ask?  Well, if you have to ask, you are a stranger to the disturbingly unreal world of reality television.  Danny “The Count” Koker is the star of Counting Cars a “reality series" on The History Channel.  Danny and his crew customize cars.  The Count's big break came when he made cameo appearances on Pawn Stars another History Channel program originating from Las Vegas.  The Count is a dark character, a big guy. With a black goatee.  His head is always covered with a black bandanna.  He wears sunglasses and black shirts with the sleeves cut off to show off Danny’s heavily tattooed arms, which I bet he thinks are pretty buff but the guy is 50 - Not a pretty sight.  The Count addresses everyone as, “My Brotha.” As in "my brother" pronounced in some urban dialect, street lingo I will never master.  In other words, The Count is a character. Yes, this guy's on The History Channel. Confused?  Allow me to explain.

I’ll tell you what customizing cars or pawnshops have to do with history.  Absolutely nothing, except ratings.  Cable television networks in the last decade have been racing to capture television viewers.  The History Channel, Rick’s Restorations, the third member of History’s Las Vegas troika, is the clear leader among cable networks in high rated, mindless television entertainment. 

Maybe it is due to the fact that I worked at the Discovery Channel, but I hold Discovery responsible for the dumbing down of cable television.  People love The Discovery Channel.  Just ask them.  We used to ask them all the time; in focus groups.  Focus groups are when you pay people to come after work sit in a little room and have a facilitator ask them questions while you sit behind a one way mirror, stare at them and hope like hell they tell you what you want to hear.  My buddy, Steve Jobs will tell you this is a complete waste of time.  He’s right.  It’s great for insecure marketing people to convince themselves and their bosses that they are doing something.  Having worked for an extremely insecure marketing person at Discovery, I sat through a lot of focus groups; wasting a lot of time.  What would happen at these focus groups is these people would be asked about what they liked on television.  Eventually, the facilitator would ask specifically, “What do you think of The Discovery Channel?” 

People would say, “Oh, I love the Discovery Channel.  It’s great.”

The follow-up was the killer.  “Which programs on The Discovery Channel are your favorite?”  No one could name a single program.  Now, I used to work for CBS.  If you asked that same question people would say 60 Minutes or Sunday Morning or Murder She Wrote.  They would have no trouble naming a list of programs.  What was the problem?  The insecure marketing mavens at The Discovery Channel never even thought about it.  They would just go back to their bosses and say, “People love The Discovery Channel!”  But the fact was, the ratings were always dismal.  Whether Discovery spent $1 million on a program or ran the test pattern, the ratings were .02 or .03.  You don’t need to know about the details of the Nielsen ratings to recognize that those are pretty small numbers. 

Discovery struggled with this for years until they stumbled on the answer – The Crocodile Hunter.  I’m sure you remember The Crocodile Hunter.  The guy was named Steve Irwin who, I’m also sure you will remember, was killed in a tragic accident with a stingray.  With Steve Irwin, for the first time in Discovery’s history, they scored a ratings success.  Why?  They had a personality on television.  Television is about people.  People watch people on TV.  Ask anyone their favorite news program and they will answer “Diane Sawyer” or “Brian Williams.”  Look at late night.  All about people.  Or the morning news shows.  About people.  The Crocodile Hunter wasn’t about crocodiles.  It was about this crazy guy, Steve.  For the first time the cable industry had themselves a star.

Once the cable industry figured this out they started to look for characters that could leap off the television screen.   The Crocodile Hunter was quickly followed by an array of characters like the Orange County Motorcycle guys on Discovery, Honey Boo Boo on TLC – (which used to stand for The Learning Channel) and the ultimate in brainless, bullshit television programming, Duck Dynasty on A&E – (which used to stand for Arts & Entertainment Channel).  The ratings soared and in the process cable television abandoned their original charters which was discovery, history and learning for junk TV.  The key is no one seemed to have noticed or cared.

Which beings me back to The Count.  So the idea here was for me as long as I am in Las Vegas to meet The Count and talk him into customizing Uncle Scott’s “station car” – a 1985 Dodge mini-van.  I’m supposed to track down The Count and talk him in to doing a do over of Uncle Scott’s mini-van, which the two of us envision as a great episode for his show.  

Pimp my ride

So, on Sunday evening, I arrive at Circus Circus, a resort casino on The Strip that times has passed by.  When it opened in 1968 Circus Circus was a huge deal. The premise was that as you gambled circus acts would be

Circus Circus

performing.  The man on the flying trapeze would fly high above the gambling tables.  (They used a net.)  It was an exciting yet unsustainable concept.   The old place is still there, however and I suppose still making money.  They have the only RV Park on The Strip, which also speaks volumes of the place.  So that is where me and the Airstream head.

Where The Count hangs out.

I find, thanks to my iPhone, of course, that Danny’s establishment is only 1.5 miles from the RV Park.  I drive over at seven o’clock on Sunday to check it out.  Count’s Kustoms (don’t ask me why the K in Kustoms) is in an industrial area right near the strip.  I drive over, check it out and take a picture.  It’s very accessible.   I am thinking I will cruise over at about 10 AM tomorrow, which is Monday.  It’ll give The Count the time to get to work and have a cup of coffee before I roll in.  Now, I am no dummy.  I know The Count has gotten his share of exposure on the tube.   I gotta jump the line in the morning.  So, last Thursday I wrote him the following email.

Count & Team,

 "My Brotha" - and I mean really "My" Brotha, Scott, lives in Chicago.  He owns a 1984 Dodge Caravan family mini-van.  It was the family van for years, taking his two kids to school and soccer games.  Once the kids went off to college it became a “Station Car”, hauling him the two miles to the Chicago & Northwestern commuter train station and back.  Scott is a huge fan of The Count.   I am headed to Las Vegas next week pulling my Airstream on a round trip from Dallas, (my home) to Venice Beach (my daughter’s home) thru Denver and back to Pilot Point (my real home, north of DFW.)  I am staying at the RV Park and noticed it was just a couple of miles from your place.  I wanted to drop by Monday to discuss what you can do with the van.   Let me know what time you are around Monday so I can drop by.

The human touch.  Understand, the last thing I want to do is to meet The Count.  I only watch the program when I am with my brother.  I enjoy it then, because I enjoy watching my brother enjoy watching the show.   But The Count?  The dude looks like a talentless thug to me; a low life, in your face, no account Count ,who I wouldn’t cross the street to see.  But I figure, what I hell?  I don’t like Cirque du Soleil that much anyway and I love my brother so I figure The Count will find my down home approach irresistible. I feel we are already in.

With all this organized I return to the RV Park and decide to go to dinner on The Strip.  I drive down to New York, New York, park and walk across the street to the MGM Grand, which I understand, has the best assortment of restaurants.  I find the entire experience overwhelming.  It’s not the lights, the buildings or the imitation extravaganza.  I expect all that.  It’s the people.   I am stunned by the people on the street.  First, is the mere quantity.  Sunday evening at 7:30 and the streets are as jammed as the outside of a football stadium on game day.  I can hardly walk down the street it is so crowded.   Second, and not surprising but disappointing is what those people look like.  T-shirts and shorts, sandals and football jerseys and cut off jeans.   It looks more like an afternoon at the mall than a night on the town.  Aren't you supposed to get just a little dressed up when you are going out to dinner and a show?  

This isn’t a surprise but I always thought of Las Vegas as “going out on the town.” - The place where Frank Sinatra and The Rat Pack taught everyone how to be cool and sophisticated.  “He was the spark that changed Vegas from a dusty Western town into something glamorous.” says former Lieutenant Governor and 50-year Nevada resident, Lorraine Hunt-Bono, who remembers Sinatra from his early performances.  “Frank wouldn’t go out after dark without a sport jacket on, let alone perform out of a tuxedo.”  To my mind, Frank was the epitome of cool and Vegas was his town, baby.  It was all about swinging broads. smoking cigarettes, sipping Jack Daniels and stretch limos.  Vegas was the place where you put on the dog - dressed up - went to some swinging show - ordered buckets of champagne that were brought to the table in those stands that held the bucket.  It was the place where you tipped the waiter for a better table, wore a pin stripped suit and a white starched shirt with gold cuff links. 

Well, no more.  The tattoo has replaced the cufflink as the foremost fashion accessory.  The dress code is anything goes.  There is no difference between the people who stroll the Las Vegas strip and the ones who saunter down “Main Street” at Disney World.  It’s the same bunch and they are complete slobs.  Frank must be doing pinwheels in his grave.  The entire scene just overwhelms me.  What the hell am I doing here?  By the time I get to the MGM all I want to do is leave.  I find Emeril Lagasse’s restaurant where I can grab a quick bite of New Orleans seafood at the bar and retreat to the safety of the Airstream. 

The next morning I make another stab at going to The Strip.  I drive down to The Wynn to do, what else? The famous brunch that they serve.  I drive down, park, walk through the lobby and, as a should have expected, am greeted by a mob scene at the buffet –which is $22.50 per person.  Judging from the line you would think that they are giving food away.  I can't stand it.  I am not going to wait in line twenty minutes for some scrambled eggs.  Besides, it took so long to drive down the strip, park my car and find the buffet that I noticed it is already 9:45.  I gotta go see The Count. 

I jump in my truck and drive to the industrial area where I went last night.  As I turn the corner I am surprised to see that there are cars lined up in front of me.  Limos and SUV’s.  And people walking on the sidewalk.  All headed apparently headed to Count’s Kustoms!  I see that there is a guy at the entrance of the parking lot that I drove into last night turning people away.  I drive up, full of confidence. The young fellow, I’d say 25 years old, is dressed totally in black – black jeans, black tshirt, straight billed baseball cap that says, “Count Kustoms” on it.  He is obviously a weight lifter with bulging biceps that The Count can only wish he had.   The kids most striking feature however is he is, except for his face, literally covered in tattoos.  I mean every inch of his body.  Both arms on covered and on his neck as he leans forward to speak to me, I notice the word Colorado tattooed across his throat.  I try to be nonchalant but have to stare when I realize that not only does it say Colorado across his throat but behind the words is a backdrop of the Rocky Mountains stretching from ear to ear, complete with snow capped peaks and clouds.  I am deeply impressed.  

The guy stops me and asks, “Are you here for the tour?”

“No, no,” I reply with my best, gray haired, I know what I am doing, act like I own the joint approach.  “You see. My name is Bruce Thomas and I am hear to follow-up on an email that I sent to Danny about a project I need to discuss with him.”

“Did they answer your email?”

“No,” I reply, “But I told them I was passing through town and would drop by.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but it’s Monday morning and everyone is tied up in meetings,” he responds politely letting me know I am not going to get anywhere.  Meanwhile people keep streaming by me on foot and in cars.  It’s 10 am Monday morning.   Who in the world is up and around in Las Vegas at 10 on a Monday morning?

“Maybe I’d better check it out,” I try one more time.

“Sure, you can try, but these guys are all tied up like I said,” Trying in a nice way to tell me that there was no way I could bluff my way into see anybody, if there really was anybody to see.  “There’s no parking in there,” the tattoo dude says pointing to the parking area that I had scouted out the night before.  “But you can park over there if you want.”

Pouring in to see The Count

I back the truck out of the driveway and notice two more cars headed to The Count.  I swing around and park in an alley of what looks like some warehouse surrounded by a chain link fence.  As I get out of the car and start walking back to The Count’s place of business I hear someone yell, “Hey, white truck.” I glance over my shoulder and see that I am being waved at by some guy who looks he could have been Nicholas Cage’s stunt double in Leaving Las Vegas.  “Hey, it’s five bucks to park there.”  I turn and keep on walking.  “Hey, Hey You.  White truck!  You hear me.  It’s five bucks.”

As I pass my friend, the tattoo boy I say, “Some guy is trying to shake me down for five bucks to park on the street.”  The kid shrugs as if to say, “You know, everybody wants to get in on the act.”  But he just shrugs. 

“Is it always like this?” I ask the kid.

“Everyday.  It’ll really get bad in another hour or two.”

“How long you been with The Count,” I asked trying to strike up a conversation. 

“Almost from almost the start,” he says.

“You always direct traffic?”

“No, I’m interested in customizing cars, but I gotta help out here and it’s all good.  But no, I don’t care about all this publicity.  I just want to work on cars.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” I said realizing there is no way I am going to get in to see The Count.

“Mind if I walk in and take a picture?” I ask

“Sure,” the kid says. “Go ahead.”

“Say, who do I really talk to if I want to get a car worked on?” I ask

“You should contact Kyle.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I think its Harder.  Kyle Harder.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Good luck.”

I walk in and take a couple of pictures of the building along with about a dozen other people.  I notice the obvious lack on Dodge mini-vans being worked on.  Could be an opportunity overlooked by The Count?  The Count's crew seems to be working on a truck of some sort but it seems a little more than Scott and I have envisioned.

but can fit in the garage?

As I leave, suddenly I come to a stark realization.  An epiphany.  Everything I have witnessed for the last 18 hours makes sense.  It all comes down to this.   
Nobody wants to be Sinatra anymore.  They want to be The Count!  People want to dress up in head scarfs and say, “My brotha" to everyone they meet and have tattoos and wear cut off shirts.   They don’t want to sing, “Ding-a-ding ding” and have to make certain that two inches of shirt cuff is always visible under their tuxedo sleeves.  My brother is a prophet.  
He understands that The Count is the new idol of Las Vegas not Frank and The Rat Pack.

It makes me kind of sad as I drive off.  I return to the tired Circus Circus, pack the Airstream and head off to Utah feeling a little empty, not just because I haven’t had breakfast but because a swinging era has ended.  The t-shirt has triumphed over the tuxedo and I can’t help thinking that a lot of the pizazz has been lost as well.   

 

The Count or The Chairman of the Board
Who deserves to run the joint?