Layoff notice

Well, I'm back in Vegas. We left Minnesota on Monday a.m. and pulled into town Wednesday at 10 p.m., with stops in Kansas City and Frisco, Colo., along the way. I knew we were getting close to "home" when I saw a billboard featuring an AK-47, pimping a local establishment where you can go and fire said weapon. As we neared the Strip, the billboards flying past my face became even more symbolic of this den of iniquity -- beer, adult superstores, personal injury lawyers. Add it all up, and nothing says Vegas quite like deadly weapons, alcohol, sex, and frivolous lawsuits.

Which leads me to my next point. This blog might be in for a name change, because our future in Henderson is currently in doubt. Kris returned to Vegas in early August, two weeks ahead of the rest of the family, to get back to work. The next day, she was laid off.

I can't remember who I've told about this, either in person, over the phone, via e-mail or Facebook, etc., so I'm just putting it down in this blog post and asking you all to keep us in your thoughts. We've got a few months to work with thanks to severance and unused PTO, but in this job market, you never know how quickly things will move.

Actually, I'm far less concerned with my wife finding suitable employment than I am with selling our house in this foreclosure-saturated market. Talented people don't stay unemployed for long, and Kris is the most talented person I know, so I'm fully confident she'll find something even better soon enough.

But her job was the reason we came to Vegas, and even after four years, it's pretty much the only thing tying us here. Sure, we've made some good (great!) friends, gotten involved in our church, found a wonderful school for our kids, and enjoyed the mild winters. But when we look at what we truly value, it's pretty clear that we're ready for a return to Minnesota.

We're not in the position to be terribly picky right now, of course, so we're exploring opportunities in all major metropolitan areas (major-league sports is a must this time around, so I can jump-start my sports reporting career). Still, the Twin Cities offer all of the tangible benefits we're looking for (proximity to family and friends, pro and college sports, good schools, summers that don't reach 115 degrees for three months, lakes, biking trails, a vibrant arts/music scene) and the one intangible that Vegas never seemed to represent to us: Minnesota is home. It just is.

We're never going to regret moving here. It's been a wonderful four years in so many ways. Kris learned a lot and gained invaluable experience in her career. We've learned a lot about ourselves, our values, and what family means to us (both extended and nuclear). I wrote my first book here. I started my first blog here. Our beloved cat, Twilight, lived out the last of his 16 years in the warm, dry air here, prowling our fenced-in back yard with a freedom he'd never experienced before. I completed my first triathlon here. Fiona became a soccer star here. Nora lost her first tooth here. Kris started running half-marathons and also completed her first triathlon here.

No regrets. It's been a great run. But change is in the air. We'll keep you all posted.

Original conservative thought, and other myths

You know those lame e-mails that miscreants send around about your favorite politicians? Those screeds filled with "facts" -- most of which are easily debunked -- that clog your inbox during election season? Of course you do. You probably got more than your share of them about Obama or McCain or Palin last fall. I even wrote about the phenomenon, and did a little research that indicated that Obama was the target of about six times as many false attacks as McCain in the accountability-free world of e-mail land.

I recently got another one of those screeds from one of my most reliable right-wing trolls, purporting to compare the "gaffes" of Obama's first 120 days with the record of one George W. Bush. You might have received this e-mail too. It's been posted repeatedly on right-wing websites and in online discussion forums the past week or two.

Well, apparently the editors of the Las Vegas Review-Journal don't get out much, or they don't have any right-wing friends, or they don't read right-wing political sites, because they just printed the very same comparison as a letter to the editor on Friday. Some local genius named Warren Willis Sr. did the old cut-and-paste thing and sent it almost verbatim to the R-J, and the paragons of journalistic virtue ran it as the top letter in Friday's editorial page.

I'm not even here to debate the content of the letter -- it points out some of Obama's inevitable and regrettable missteps, blows a few others out of proportion, but seems to endorse the idea that Bush's record of incompetence, corporate cronyism, fiscal malfeasance and utter disregard for the truth compares favorably to four months of Barack Obama in the White House.

My point is that either the R-J can't differentiate between a recycled e-mail rant and legitimate, original political criticism, or they didn't have anything better to run in its place. Either way, it's a sad statement on the journalistic ethics or competence of the R-J's editorial board and opinion page staff. Nice going, Sherm.

Dance like no one's watching

That's Nora's philosophy. Actually, she does crave an audience, but has absolutely no qualms about breaking and popping, shucking and jiving, and shaking her booty anywhere, any time, in front of anyone. Some of our fondest memories are of sneaking up to Nora's doorway and peeking into her room while she's dancing, entirely oblivious to our presence. The pure joy in her face and in her movements is one of the highlights of parenting.

So, with that said, check out these videos of Nora's first school dance performance. They've met once a week for two months and came up with these two routines -- High School Musical and some hip-hop number. It was a gas. (She's the kid in the UNLV jersey, for those who haven't met her.)

#1 High School Musical

#2 Some hip-hop thing

Drew Carey and March Madness

In my most recent Weekly article, I took a look at March Madness from the fan's-eye view at local sports books. It was a lot of fun and a great excuse to watch hoops with some friends ("I'm working! Swear to God!"). And I got to witness the sublime become the ridiculous, when Drew Carey interfered with the festivities.

Check out the article.

Nevada in a nutshell

This just struck me as the perfect example of how Nevada is different from the rest of the country. I saw this on a blog called The Hazean. It's a recap of a recent ESPN.com poll regarding the length of the NFL season. There's a push to expand the regular season from 16 to 18 games by eliminating two preseason contests and starting the regular season in late August. ESPN did one of its patented state-by-state polls and here are the results:

You might have to click on it to enlarge the text, but basically, Nevada is the only state whose citizens (that is, those who voted in this poll) approve of the expansion in the NFL regular season. Why? Of course, because it gives us two more meaningful NFL weekends in which to gamble. And two more weeks in which I can hit my patented five-team parlay.

Hey, in these tough economic times, you can't blame us, can you?

We stand where he stood ...

... and we should damn proud of it. One of the documentaries I mentioned earlier this week that I saw at CineVegas was "Where I Stand," the story of Hank Greenspun, the founder and longtime publisher of the Las Vegas Sun. (Full disclosure: He's also the founder of Greenspun Media Group, the company that puts a roof over my head, food on my table and clothes on my back, but I'll try to be as impartial as I can.)

I love documentaries in general, because the truth is usually stranger than fiction, but this one really stood out for me because while I knew Hank was a pretty amazing guy, I had no idea just how much he influenced not only Las Vegas history but U.S. and international events as well. Now, of course in a documentary you're only hearing one side of the story, so some of this has to be taken with a grain of salt, but from what the director said, the family had no involvement in the project beyond providing interviews and the like, so I really have no reason to believe the lily was gilded too much in this film.

In a nutshell, Greenspun was a Jewish kid from New York City who moved to Las Vegas to find his fortune in 1943. After spending a short time as Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel's PR man at the Flamingo, he founded the Sun, wrote an influential front-page column called "Where I Stand," and became a multimillionaire through smart investments in real estate. His son Brian now publishes the Sun, while his son Danny runs GMG, and his daughters are involved in the business world and philanthropy. And his wife Barbara is still with us as well, the matriarch of a great family.

I won't go into too many details, because you really should see this movie for yourself (and negotiations for a distribution deal are ongoing, so it may come to a theater near you, no matter where you are). But to pique your interest, here's a brief rundown of Hank's accomplishments and intersections with history.

• He helped supply arms for the Israeli army to help the country survive after it was granted independence in 1947. Not funding for the arms -- the arms themselves. There's a great anecdote about him sneaking guns and ammo out of a munitions dump in post-WWII Hawaii that illustrates how dirty his hands got. He was convicted of a felony and fined $10,000 for violating the Neutrality Act, but JFK later pardoned him.
• He was one of the first public figures to stand up to Sen. Joe McCarthy during the Red Scare of the 1950s. McCarthy called him a commie (presumably because he was in the newspaper business and had warred with Nevada Sen. Patrick McCarran, a crony of McCarthy) in a speech in Las Vegas, but Greenspun was actually in the audience and grabbed the mike after McCarthy left the podium. He shouted at McCarthy as he left the arena, turned the crowd in his favor, then used his column to rail against McCarthy and all he stood for. And you all know how that turned out.
• He helped integrate the businesses on the Strip. For years, blacks were allowed to perform on the Strip, but not stay in the hotels or eat in the restaurants. When the threat of a strike by the many minority Strip workers led to the fear of a riot, Greenspun used his influence with the casino owners to gather them and hammer out a compromise that effectively integrated the Strip in the early 1960s.
• He helped kick the mafia out of Las Vegas. The mob mostly ran the show until the late 1960s when a guy named Howard Hughes moved to town. Hughes needed a place to stay, and he holed up in the penthouse suite at the Desert Inn. When the DI's owners wanted him to move on because he was taking up space they could rent to people who would actually gamble in their casino, he ended up buying the property. With Greenspun's help as a liaison between the mob's money men and Hughes, the reclusive billionaire bought up a handful of casinos and the mafia's influence dried up in the desert.
• He was knee-deep in the Watergate scandal. Nixon heard a rumor that Greenspun had compromising information about his longtime confidant Bebe Rebozo, who also was a friend of Hughes. The infamous Plumbers were plotting to break into Greenspun's office at the Sun and steal or break into his safe when the whole Democratic Party office thing blew up. At one point on the Watergate tapes, Greenspun's name comes up, and when one of his lackeys said he didn't know who Hank was, Nixon sharply retorted, "Jesus Christ, everyone knows who Hank Greenspun is. He's the publisher of the Las Vegas Sun!"

Let's see ... Israeli independence, McCarthy, civil rights, the mafia, Howard Hughes, Watergate ... have I missed anything? Probably -- he was a crusader against the IRS, he tried to help broker a Middle East peace pact, he owned TV and radio stations here in Las Vegas, and he basically bought up all the land between the Strip and a sleepy little burg called Henderson, the area now known as Green Valley and my back yard.

After seeing the film, I couldn't help but think that Hank Greenspun in a way was a real-life Forrest Gump, except he wasn't a passive observer at so many key points in American history. He actually affected it. It's hard to say how this world would be different if Hank Greenspun hadn't made that long drive from New York to Las Vegas, but one thing I know for sure -- I wouldn't be sitting here typing this if he hadn't.

Worst. Movie. Ever.

Well, I got to experience a personal "first" tonight -- the first time I've ever walked out in the middle of a movie.

We went to a 7 p.m. screening of a film called Memorial Day, an indie flick that was described in the literature I'd read thusly: "A wild Memorial Day weekend takes an unexpected turn in this brutally thrilling roller coaster ride through over-exposed national obsessions."

Sounded like an interesting premise. I figured it would be about a group of people whose vacation weekend goes awry when something horrible happens -- murder, kidnapping, something along those lines. And the resolution would teach us something about our cultural indulgences.

It started out with cinema verite passage as the camera followed young men and women partying over said holiday weekend in Ocean City, N.J. From the setup, the message seemed to be that these kids were overindulging in a "Girls Gone Wild" kind of lifestyle, and I figured the tension would ramp up as one or more of them suffered the consequences.

Only it never happened. It just dragged on and on, 45 minutes of unlikable, unknowable characters -- we never even find out their names -- getting drunk, acting stupid and swearing up a blue streak. And because of the faux-documentary style of filmmaking, you never really knew which of the people were actors and which of them were just random party kids who were caught on film. They just kept being annoying, screaming into the camera, and generally making asses of themselves in a variety of unfunny ways.

I started fidgeting in my seat and looking for the exit about 25 minutes in, when two of the characters had sex in an SUV on the way from the bar to their hotel. The girl was a willing participant at first, then obviously wanted the guy to stop, but he was being cheered on by his buddies and kept at it (yes, it was as bad as it sounds). But when they got to the hotel, they just stood around in the parking lot as if nothing happened, then moved inside to the after-bar party.

There, it went from bad to worse as we were treated to the characters' inane and profane "conversations" about sex, booze, and whatever else seemed to be on their simple little minds at the time. The last straw for me came when one guy ranted for a couple minutes straight about "butt sex" and how he just didn't understand gays. Believe me, it was a lot more disturbing and ridiculous than it sounds -- I truly can't do it justice.

Other people began walking out about 20 minutes into the film -- including the entire front row, about eight 20-somethings who filed out grimly. We bolted and caught the second half of the Celtics-Lakers game in the food court while we waited for our nephew, Paul, who stayed around to see if it would get better.

Sadly, it didn't. Apparently the "unexpected turn" was that the characters suddenly appeared in an Abu Ghraib-style prison in Iraq, torturing the Iraqi prisoners in the manner depicted in those infamous photos. That had to be the director's "artistic intent" -- to show us that a party can turn into war, and war can turn into a party or some such crap.

Frankly, it didn't work. The first 45 minutes could have been condensed into about 10, and from what Paul said, the last 45 minutes also could have been shortened considerably. Maybe if it had been a 20-minute short, it wouldn't have failed as miserably. But it wasn't, and it did.

The weirdest thing was that we were sitting right behind the director and a few of the actors in the movie. It was the film's world premiere, so maybe they didn't know just how bad it would look. Or maybe they thought it was brilliant -- I don't know. I didn't stick around for the Q&A that followed, nor did about half of the audience by my count.

The thing is, I'm not a prude -- I have no problem with sex or violence or profanity in a movie if there's a purpose for it. And I don't mind it when a director takes a chance or three -- hell, I thoroughly enjoyed Your Name Here, even the part where a stillborn baby came back to life and talked to the main character while covered in mucous membranes. Sure, it was weird, but this is a film festival, after all, so you expect directors to push you to the edge once in awhile.

But nothing in this movie seemed to have any purpose to it. Mrs. Gopher and I both noted that the part we sat through felt exactly like being the designated driver and lone sober person in a group of obnoxious drunks. Only, you'd do that voluntarily for your friends, to ensure that they got home safely. I don't know why a director would expect you to put yourself in the same position for a bunch of strangers who are painted in the most unflattering way possible.

All in all, it was a craptacular evening, although at least now we've got a story to tell when somebody complains about a movie so bad they had to walk out in the middle. We can now join in that conversation. The Verdict: negative-infinity stars.

Lights ... Camera ...

and plenty of action at the 10th annual CineVegas film festival, which kicked off Thursday night here in the valley of sin. It's probably my favorite local event of the year, because we don't really have an art-house theater the likes of the Lagoon or Uptown back in the Twin Cities, so it's my only chance to see movies that don't feature Ashton Kutcher or an explosion every three minutes. Or, as in the case of Strangers With Candy two years ago and Oceans 13 last year, we get a sneak preview of movies that will be released nationally later in the summer.

We've seen three movies so far -- here's a quick recap:

The Rocker -- Rainn Wilson (Dwight Schrute of "The Office") sort of takes on the Jack Black "School of Rock" role, in that he helms a group of precocious musical prodigies, except here they're teenagers playing in a straight-up rock band. Wilson's character (Fish) was a drummer for an 80s hair band that kicked him out just before they surged to international stardom. Fish broods about his dashed dreams for 20 years before his nephew asks him to fill in on the skins for his band's first gig. Hilarity ensues.

And lots of hilarity. It's a brilliant sendup of 80s hair metal and the music industry. SNL's Jason Sudekis is fantastic as a slimy label rep, and the kids more than hold their own. But this is Wilson's show, and he's dynamite as the dinosaur drummer stuck in the 80s who embraces (literally, and sweatily, as you'll see) his second chance to live out the rock star lifestyle. (National release: August 1) The Verdict: 4 stars (out of 5)

Big Heart City -- An ex-con returns to the real world after six months in the can, only to find that his pregnant girlfriend has gone missing. Did she leave on her own, or has something terrible happened to her? That's the basic plot summary, but it's not nearly as suspenseful as it sounds. The movie is basically a look into the psyche of the main character, who seems to be living in his own little dreamland. By the end of the film, you wonder if that's literally what was happening. The Verdict: 2.5 stars

Your Name Here -- This one was a real mindf--k. Bill Pullman stars as a sci-fi author (loosely based on Phillip K. Dick) who in the process of completing his masterpiece snorts a little speed and blacks out. When he wakes up, he finds himself trapped inside some kind of alternate reality that mirrors the twisted, conspiracy-filled world of his novels.

Visually, it's a treat -- it's set in 1974, so you get plenty of sweet disco-era duds and hair, as well as a strong dose of Nixonian paranoia. Pullman is brilliant in a role that pushes him beyond the affable supporting roles that he typically plays. The plot is likely too confusing challenging to appeal to a broad audience, but those of you who like a movie that makes you think -- or allows you to get out of the way and let the plot and characters just wash over you and carry you away -- will get a kick out of this. Pullman's performance alone is worth the price of admission. The Verdict: 3.5 stars.

After the last movie, we checked out the CineVegas 10th anniversary party, poolside at the new Palms condo tower. Decent crowd -- saw Pullman and his wife, as well as the star of Big Heart City. But the big buzz was the presence of one Britney Spears, who was holed up in a cabana with three beefy security guards keeping the crowd at arm's length. In the one glimpse of La Spears that I got, she looked healthy, sober, and appropriately attired. So, there's that.

It's getting all hot up in here

We just came off a three-day stretch of record high temps here in the valley. And we're not just talking about a degree or two. On Monday, we reached 108 -- the previous record was 102 (registered just two years ago). That's the equivalent of Mark McGwire raising the bar from 61 to 70 home runs in a season.

Someone oughta look into this. All I'm sayin'.

Lawd, I was born a ...

... what was it the brothers Allman sang? Oh yeah, a Travelin' Man. Aspen you know about. Tucson you do not. Atlanta either.

I got a chance to land some key interviews on Tuesday for an upcoming story on the Colorado Rockies, so I high-tailed it to Tucson on Monday night. It ended up being much cheaper to drive than fly so I put 800 miles on the ride (just a week after putting 1300 miles on it from the Aspen round trip), spent about 7.5 hours in a hotel room in Tempe and another 5 hours at the ballpark before returning home 28 hours after I'd left. But I got the interviews, so there.

On Friday I fly out to Atlanta to meet Mrs. Gopher, who is running in the local half-marathon, her second such feat of epic physical prowess. Needless to say, I'm very proud of her. I also get to visit old friend Corey and meet his new gal, and we're going to take in the Braves-Pirates game on Monday, the 2008 home opener at Turner Field. Wow, baseball is upon us already. You know what that means -- daily Twins posts! Or something like that.

Carry on.

Easter romance?

So, what happened in Henderson today? Well, it was Easter Sunday, and on the way back from Mass, Nora and I looked up at the brilliant blue sky to see this:

By the time I'd retrieved the camera, the characters had faded a bit, but you should still be able to tell that it said "H (heart) J" at one time. Then another image appeared:

I actually held the camera upside-down (rather than taking the time to invert the image) so you could clearly see the smiley face added to the composition.

So ... skywriting? Seriously? I thought that went out with penny candy and the Charleston. Still, it was a nice sentiment, and it went well with our Easter egg hunt.

Finally, something happened!

I named this blog "What Happens in Henderson" because it's a play on the famous (or, around here, infamous) line about Las Vegas. Basically, I like to joke about my new hometown because compared to its neon-addled neighbor, nothing really does happen here.

Except finally, I have something to write about -- something that actually happened, right here in Henderson! On Saturday night, my friend Spencer and his wife Kate held a house party to celebrate their 10th year here in the valley. They live in a cozy, typically suburban neighborhood of Henderson called Anthem. Now, before you say, "What's the big deal about a house party?" let me point out that they actually had a live band, right there in the living room of their typically suburban home in their typically suburban neighborhood.

And it wasn't just any band, either. No, it wasn't The Killers, but an up-and-coming young Vegas band called A Crowd of Small Adventures. I had heard about them because Spencer wrote a pretty cool article about them in the Weekly last fall, so it was a pleasant surprise to get a chance to see them up close and personal -- like, very up close and personal. It was kind of like a show at the Entry, minus the spilled beer on the floor, the mysterious gunk dangling from the ceiling and the drunk guy screaming in the back of the room.

Oh, and he had a keg of Fat Tire out back. What more could a guy want?

I liked the music -- they have a cool 80s rock sound, with a violin thrown in for good measure. I told Spencer afterwards that it sounded like the soundtrack to a John Hughes movie, in a good way. I think these guys are going somewhere. This could be a chance for me to say, "I saw them before they made it big."

In honor of the party, check out their My Space page (link above) and read the article Spencer wrote that got the ball rolling.

I'm so excited! Something happened in Henderson!

Proud moment for Nevada

The libertarian atmosphere of Nevada brings all types to our fair state. One recent newcomer is noted Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss, who two and a half years ago announced plans to open a brothel for women -- not employing women, but for women -- outside of Las Vegas, in the outlying areas where prostitution is legal. (That fact that Fleiss' announcement coincided with my arrival in town was purely coincidental. As far as you know.)

Well, it appears the desert air has not been kind to the 42-year-old Fleiss, who was arrested this morning in Nye County on charges of drunken driving. Yes, she was nabbed at 9 a.m. for drunken driving. What the hell, it's 5 o'clock somewhere, right? Like, Kurdistan?

I hate to crack wise about the demise of a young actor, but if the producers of the new Batman movies need a replacement for Heath Ledger as the Joker in their next picture, it appears that Fleiss could pull it off, sans makeup. Yikes.

Moron alert

I just couldn't get over this. A guy in Illinois is suing the Blue Man Group because he claims they inflicted bodily harm on him during their throat-camera gag.

Perhaps I'm rushing to their defense because they, like the Gopher family, have found life in the desert to their liking (or at least profitable). Perhaps it's because I enjoyed their show when I attended with my family nearly two years ago.

But I think this story struck a nerve because the man in question is obviously a moron. The gag to which he's referring is a bit where the Blue Men come down from the stage, pick out an audience member and put a camera on a long cord into their mouth (kind of like the spy cameras you might see in a high-tech action movie like the good guys in "The Rock" used when they were breaking back into Alcatraz).

But as soon as the camera enters the subject's mouth, the footage on the big screen switches to a previously taped feature showing the inside of a human body. That's it -- it's a bit. If the plaintiff (whose lawyer must be Lionel Hutz, Esq.) truly has endured physical problems in the wake of attending the Blue Man Group performance, the odds are infinitesimal that his injuries were caused by the Blue Men.

I'd hate to see this guy at a Globetrotters game -- he might end up suing them for confetti-related trauma.

Don't bet on it

Some people (who shall go nameless) just have to have action on a game in order to enjoy it. And even putting money down on a side or an over won't get it done. That's why there are ridiculous prop bets on the Super Bowl, the kind of propositions that make wagering on the coin flip seem sane by comparison.

You can check out the whole list here, courtesy of one of the bigger online gambling sites on the net. There are plenty of crazy bets, but here is my favorite:

Who will the MVP of the Game thank first?
Teammates		+225
God		+200
Family		+200
Coach		+400
Doesn't thank anyone		+600
(Only listed options). If Two or More MVP's wagers will be No Action. Singles Only. Max $100

You know, if you just have to bet.

Oceans of time

I finally watched the original version of "Oceans 11" tonight -- the Rat Pack movie from 1960 that spurred the recent Clooney-Pitt franchise. A friend who loves all things related to old Vegas recommended the DVD to me a couple years ago and I finally got around to watching it.

For those who want a look at a time when there were basically five casinos on the Strip, this is an excellent way to relive Vegas' salad days. The DVD contains a bonus feature with five short vignettes on the history of those casinos -- the Flamingo, Sands, Desert Inn, Riviera and Sahara. And of course there's the classic cool, the undeniable hipness factor of the Rat Pack.

But the highlight to me was getting to watch one of the greatest actors of any generation working in his prime. In every one of his scenes, he dominated the screen, holding your attention with his every word or action, and some of the biggest stars of the day paled in comparison to his greatness.

I'm talking, of course, about Norman Fell.

Yep, that's him in the picture above -- second from the right, glowering at the camera, striking the toughest pose of the group. Sinatra? Martin? Davis? Lawford? A bunch of no-talent hacks compared to Norman Fell.

I only wish that Soderbergh had had the balls to cast Don Knotts in Fell's role in the remake.

With friends like these ...

Yesterday I briefly discussed the ongoing feud between the publishers of our cozy little burg's two daily newspapers, the Review-Journal and the Sun. To recap: the Sun is owned by the Greenspun family, longtime figures in the Las Vegas business and journalism communities, and though its publisher claims to be a Republican, it's got a decidedly liberal editorial bent. The R-J is owned by Stephens Media Group, a Las Vegas-based media conglomerate that was founded -- and still does much of its business -- in Arkansas. Its publisher -- Stephens Media Group CEO Sherm Fredrick -- says he's a Democrat, but he frequently attacks Democratic politicians and progressive causes in his weekly column and oversees an editorial board that is just slightly to the right of Fox News.

Today, the R-J gave us a perfect example of its editorial philosophy when it endorsed Barack Obama for the Democratic nomination in the upcoming Nevada caucus (the paper will endorse Mitt Romney for the Republican nomination in its Thursday edition). You can read this "endorsement" for yourself, but if you haven't got the time or the stomach for it, suffice it to say this is the most backhanded support for a candidate you'll ever see.

Basically, the R-J is just using this as another opportunity to slam right-wing boogeywoman Hillary Clinton, their favorite punching bag of the campaign. It "lauds" Obama as being ... well ... "likeable." What the paper really means is that he is not a Clinton, so if you're one of those pathetic liberals who hates America and wants to turn this great country over to al-Qaeda and illegal immigrants, at least give your support to somebody who doesn't remind us of the Great Republican Nightmare of 1993-2001.

Here's a excerpt that illustrates the R-J's disdain for the Clintons:

The Clinton campaign cites Sen. Clinton's "experience." In fact, she's a one-term-plus-a-year senator whose lackluster legislative record rivals Sen. Obama's. Other than that, the "experience" in question must surely refer to her presence as a witness and enabler during her husband's presidential terms.

Suffice it to say there are dozens of issues that Americans happily dismissed as "water under the bridge" as the Clinton era came to a close, but which would quickly ensnare Sen. Clinton and her party in a presidential race that would soon look like a struggle to escape the La Brea tar pits.

For starters, imagine Sen. Clinton and "co-president" Bill Clinton invited onto a "This is Your Life" talk show where they're joined by Juanita Broaddrick, Kathleen Willey, Paula Jones, Gennifer Flowers and Monica Lewinsky.

And that's before we even get around to a HillaryCare plan that could have sent you to jail for offering to pay your doctor in cash to "get to the head of the line."

Keep in mind -- these aren't the fevered rantings of an op/ed columnist whose goal is to drum up readership and loves to tweak the opposing party in the process. This is coming from the official editorial voice of the newspaper, which at most professional journalistic organizations refrains from taking childish potshots in offering up its opinions.

Can't wait to see how the R-J spins its Romney endorsement. Surely it will dig up tired references to the disasters visited upon the country in the previous eight years of Republican rule in its effort to explain away its lack of support for the rest of the Republican field, right?

Right?

The night I met Bill Clinton

So we were out on the Strip last night, swingin' with the big dogs, when ...

OK, not really. This photo is about a year old now, but I thought with the debate in town tonight, this might be a good time to dust if off and tell a story.

That's not a Bill Clinton impersonator. That's actually the former POTUS. Last January, I believe, we were invited to a book-signing event for Terry McAuliffe, the former chair of the Democratic National Committee and a close friend of one Mr. Brian Greenspun, head honcho of my wife's employer, Greenspun Media Group.

Mr. McAuliffe was signing copies of his memoir, "What A Party! My Life Among Democrats: Presidents, Candidates, Donors, Activists, Alligators and Other Wild Animals." The author also serves as the national chair of the Hillary Clinton presidential campaign, and there was some speculation that perhaps Senator Clinton's unemployed husband might carve out some time from his busy schedule of playing golf and watching the History Channel to join the festivities.

The former President, you see, is a longtime friend of Brian Greenspun. Brian and Bill apparently were roommates (either in college or law school, I'm not clear which and didn't get a chance to clarify it with Bill), and the Clintons and Greenspuns often vacation together, apparently with the McAuliffes crashing the party at times as well.

(Possibly irrelevant aside: Greenspun continues to claim that he is a Republican, despite his relationship with Bill Clinton and his documented support for Hillary Clinton in the 2008 campaign. In his weekly column in the Las Vegas Sun, publisher Greenspun frequently laments the current dismal state of the Republican Party, which he attributes in large part to the actions of the Bush Administration, but he maintains -- last I heard, anyway -- that he is a card-carrying member of the GOP. Meanwhile, over at the arch-right-wing Las Vegas Review-Journal, publisher Sherm Fredrick claims to be a Democrat, although he never misses a chance to rip Harry Reid, Nanci Pelosi or the Clintons, or take childish potshots at "ultraliberal" Brian Greenspun. Again, only in Vegas I guess ...)

Anyway, back to the book-signing. After some introductory comments from Brian Greenspun and a short speech by McAuliffe, a buzz grew from the back of the room, the crowd parted and in walked the man who once was the Most Powerful Man In The World. Wearing blue jeans, sneakers and a navy blue polo shirt, he was the most comfortably dressed person in the room. And he graciously posed for photos with everybody in the room (about 75 of us). Nobody flung panties or room keys at him that I could tell, but the famed Clinton Magnetism was clearly on display. In the 20 seconds or so that we stood with him, the guy made us feel like we were the only people in the room. So inspirational it was almost unsettling. Clearly, he was made to be a politician.

After the photo, we noticed that a few other notable political wonks had joined the party as well -- namely, former RNC chair Ed Gillespie and those wacky kids James Carville and Mary Matalin, the Lockhorns of the Beltway. They sat together in the back of the room near the bar, yukking it up and back-slapping like the political animals they are. At one point, Gillespie ran past me waving his arms like a giddy tourist on the Strip and saying, "Hey, let's get a photo of the President with James and Mary!"

At that point, it dawned on me that this whole political game is just that to them -- a game. I've seen Gillespie on various talk shows saying terrible, horrible things about Democrats -- accusing them of treason and immorality and various acts of puppy-kicking -- and yet he and McAuliffe apparently make the rounds together, signing books and mugging for photos like a couple of retired professional wrestlers whose longtime rivalry was all an act for the cameras.

And I'll admit, it pissed me off a little, getting a peek behind the curtain like that, because I now know what I always suspected -- for most of these political operatives, it's all an act. Every partisan attack, every mudpie slung and insult fired off the cuff is calculated to reach a certain audience and sway gullible voters into voting for their candidates, not based on the issues but based on personal attacks, most of which they quickly put aside when the cameras are gone and the scotch starts flowing.

So it was a memorable night for a few reasons, but at least I got that photo with Bill. My wife's grandma showed it to all of her friends at her assisted-living residence back in southern Minnesota, and that was enough to make even my disillusionment with the political system worthwhile.

Only in Vegas, magic-style

Had another only-in-Vegas moment on Sunday night. I was out to dinner with Mrs. Gopher and the Gopherettes at a hip new pizza joint in Henderson -- south of the 215 on Eastern, to be exact. We were enjoying a delicious pesto/sausage pie and a ham-n-cheese calzone for the girls when in walked none other than Penn Gillette.

No sign of Teller. Just Penn, two other dudes, two women and two urchins about the size of Mr. Gillette's gargantuan head (he's a big dude). I'm guessing one of the women was his wife, and maybe the kids were his. Hard to tell from two tables away who was with whom and what they were all consuming. I didn't want to get all celebristalker on him and ask for a photo -- even magicians deserve to get a Sunday night dinner with their family in relative peace.

So, Wayne Newton in December, Penn Gillette in January. Can Paris Hilton in February be out of the question?

My first rodeo ... literally

OK, so we're taking a break from the football talk because you certainly don't want to read my ramblings on a topic about which I apparently know so little (1-3-1 on the parlay this week).

Last night, I had another one of those "only in Vegas" moments. My beloved wife scored us front-row seats at the National Finals Rodeo, an annual 10-day event that brings in more money to Las Vegas than even the adult video awards -- seriously! I wrote all about it in this month's Las Vegas Life magazine (and yes, check out that belt buckle -- that is my name at the bottom of the oval -- kudos to the LVL art department). And since I've been writing about it, I figured I'd better go see what it's all about.

The front-row seats made the experience even better than I could have imagined. We were close enough to be peppered with clods of dirt as the horses raced past us, if you can imagine that. In fact, the rodeo was televised on ESPN2 last night and I'm guessing we were probably on TV at some point.

But the highlight came 10 minutes after we settled into our seats, when another party of four came down to join us. And for the next three hours, just two seats down from my wife was none other than Mr. Wayne Newton. We're not exactly the star-struck types, but my mother-in-law did get a photo of Mr. Las Vegas. And I thought he might get hounded by autograph seekers but the rodeo crowd played it pretty cool.

That was the highlight. The lowlight? Well, people who know me know I despised the Twins' in-game production crew for foisting Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A." on us at the 7th-inning stretch for no apparent reason than to pander to the faux-patriotism crowd in post-9/11 America. And I should have been suspicious last night when representatives from our local Air Force base were handing out little American flags as we entered the building.

Sure enough, we were treated to "God Bless the U.S.A." before the national anthem, live and in person by Lee Greenwood himself. The crowd went nuts. Flags were waving. Whatever. I truly enjoyed the anthem itself, sung by another airman from Nellis AFB, and we had numerous opportunities to applaud for our boys and girls in the military as it seemed they were introduced during every break in the action. That was all very cool. I guess I'm just jaded by Lee Greenwood, because all I could do during that song was shake my head and remember the nights in the Metrodome press box when that song would send me, Brad Zellar and a few other regulars into fits of eye-rolling.

(Seriously, not to digress too much, but would it have been too hard to mix in Neil Young's "Rockin' in the Free World" or even some Mellencamp, something less brazenly right-wing? I don't ask for much ...)

As for the rodeo itself, it was very entertaining. I enjoyed the speed of the barrel racing, the power of the bulls, the agility of the ropers, and the tenacity of the bronco riders who hung onto those bucking steeds for eight seconds like their life depended on it.

So, the rodeo joins a list with Celine Dion and NASCAR as events I never would have seen had I not moved to Vegas, as well as events I probably wouldn't pay to attend again but I enjoyed seeing anyway. Actually, I could see myself paying to go back to the rodeo, except the tickets are sold out a year in advance.