Dateline: April 14th, 2015

Hello, dear readers, and welcome to a special dispatch from the road. I’d normally be filling your eyes with typeset magnificence from my smoke filled den, but thanks to certain Acts of God (and, if I’m being honest, one certain man), I’m temporarily on the lam.

It all started when I heard the trade rumors swirling out near picturesque La Jolla, and just had to go find out for myself. I packed up the portable reel to reel in my wood paneled mobile headquarters and set off to get my first real scoop in about twenty years. The target? A one Phillip Rivers, star quarterback of the storied San Diego Chargers franchise.

Well, things did not begin smoothly, as I accidentally parked the car inside Mrs. Rivers. She was underneath the family van changing the oil, and with my vision and her years of hard labor, dear readers, you can’t fault me for thinking I’d found a guest garage. I’m not up on my theology, but I certainly hope the Catholic church has nothing against kegels, lest she end up like my dear aunt “Drippy” Doris–though the one saving grace was that wherever the Alzheimer’s caused her to wander, she was easy to track.

After a multitude of apologies, I was able to shake Philip’s hand on the verdant lawn of his lovely estate.

“Nick, thanks for coming. Glad to make the time.” he said, and I was immediately puzzled.

“Nick? No, sir. Winston, Bud Winston. I just wanted to–”

“Wait, you’re not Nick Canepa? I get all of you old geezers confused.”

Nick Canepa. The name sent chills down my spine, and for good reason–I wasn’t invited to his wedding, but I was compelled to testify during his divorce, if you know what I mean.

“Hold on a minute, ” Rivers said, suddenly grinning, “Bud Winston? You’re still alive? And is that a portable reel-to-reel? Wow.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, bringing the microphone up and trying to get the reels to start, “And if I could just get you to comment on Los Angel–”

I was interrupted by a screech of tires, and laundry list of expletives that grew in volume as the reddening behemoth came closer, until Nick Canepa’s screeching maw was right in my face, spraying bits of a sausage and peppers sandwich on my cheeks as they floated on the fumes of his morning coffee and cigar pairing. I cannot quote him directly–my apologies, dear readers, as apparently the reel-to-reel technology isn’t quite what it used to be (damn japs don’t make anything to last more than 20 years)–but the gist of it seemed to be that Nick had an interview scheduled with the Rivers family, that I was poaching his scoop, and that furthermore, he has never forgiven me for taking his wife on a sensual tour of the owner’s box way back when.

I need not tell you, dear readers, that I am a man that seeks to continue living, so I hightailed it out of there and to my favorite watering hole. After a couple of glasses of courage, I called back home only to find that Mr. Canepa had come by looking for me and had brought a furious disposition along with him.

So now I’m temporarily enjoying my time by the neon-lit poolside of my new favorite roadside shelter, thinking of old times with good wives–perhaps not my own, perhaps never my own–and enjoying the finest sunset Mission Valley has to offer. This is your old pal, Bud Winston, signing off.