Quote of the Day: “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.” –last words of Pancho Villa
TB’s bank here in Ridgeland was robbed Friday. They know who did it, sort of. It was this dude:
Best Bank Robbin' Disguise, Ever
I wanted to call him Pancho Villa. Because the Federales let him get away. Out of kindness I suppose. But they will probably catch him any day. At least that’s what they say. I can see this man beneath that Brilliant Disguise: But they’ll probably catch him. Bank robbers never seem to get very far. In which case, I’ll have to give him the moniker Sancho Panza. And anyway, while a vest would certainly be the sort of garment chosen by a modern-day Pancho Villa, going with the orange reflective variety is much more up Sancho’s alley. And while Pancho would definitely have been armed, the pea shooter in the photo is more likely a part of Sancho’s arsenal.
Sancho Panza
Really, this story should’ve blown up by now. A possible illegal immigrant trying to pass himself off as some kind of blond Aryan just robbed a bank at (heh, heh) gunpoint in a law-abiding, hard-working, upper middle class, mostly white suburb. Could somebody please get Beck on the phone? For me personally it would help. You see, God help me it must be something from a prior life, but I can’t help that I partly hope he gets away. And if Fox got on the story I’d feel less guilty about that. It’s not that I condone crime and I certainly condemn the use of a (heh, heh) gun in a crime. It’s just that it seems like such a grand, hopeless adventure, almost romantic in its desperation. And oh how I would have liked to have used ”desperado” in that last sentence. The other part of it is that I’ve grown so bitter about the true American/transnational corporate criminals who not only continue to terrorize our nation in a never-ending crime spree, but are actually rewarded annually with millions such that my small bank branch, to say nothing of our little desperado (I feel a little better now), can only dream about. So Sancho/Pancho, whoever you are, if you are in some little cafe searching the web for information about your heist, I leave you with two suggestions. One, if any of your confederates go by the nickname “Lefty”, pay him off and be done with him. Then do your best to emulate this guy:
“I went home with a waitress, the way I always do; how was I to know, she was with the Russians too?” –Warren Zevon
Far and away the most interesting, non-depressing news story of the summer is the recent capture and subsequent exchange of ten Russian deep-cover spies for four agents of our own. Here’s an article from today that sums up the affair nicely.
What is so great about this story, a story I’m pretty certain in which we have been told very few details, is that the spies were just living ordinary lives. Again, that’s the narrative. Seems implausible that the Russkies would send over a group of folks to join the PTA and Facebook, but I’ll accept it. Here is something else that is unlikely–that we got them all. Now, maybe we know where some more are and we just wanted to round up enough to make a trade, or just to let Putin know we’re paying attention, but if there were ten sent over here to lead “normal” American lives, isn’t it just as likely there were ten thousand? Think of the mayhem they could create in an effort to undermine American unity, cohesion and civility, sending chain emails, starting Amway pyramids, driving too slow in the passing lane and whatnot. Truth is, this deep cover operation the Russians are using to attack us could be much more dangerous than the “so-called traditional media” has even begun to report.
Never fear, TB has been on the case. I have collected a preliminary list of things to look for as you go about your daily life, trying to spot the Russians amongst us.
At cocktail parties your neighbor, “Joe” always tells jokes that start out, “A priest, a rabbi and a capitalist-imperialist-pig walk into a bar…”
Your co-worker let’s slip during that uncomfortable period of enforced small talk that is required after monthly birthday cake time in the break room that as a child she could “see Alaska from her house.”
Your college roommate’s favorite teams are the Cincinnati Reds, the St. John Red Storm and the Chicago Bears.
When the plumber comments admirably upon your home brew set-up, he casually works in a question about your nuclear capabilities.
At book club, the moderator is constantly complaining that Oprah won’t make “War and Peace” one of her selections.
Your bartender, Svetlana, speaks Russian, Czech, Hungarian, Mandarin Chinese, and ebonics, and occasionally asks you to leave an unmarked, sealed manilla envelope behind the yellow fire hydrant up the street–NOT the red one–the yellow one that’s got all the bushes growing around it.
Your friend’s Facebook status reads “Boris like Borscht, Vodka, the 1972 Summer Olympics Basketball Final, Vladimir Putin and 6 other pages.”
Your wife thinks the “Rocky and Bullwinkle Show” is crude, borderline racist and completely not funny.
Your insurance agent, Natasha, thinks the war in Afghanistan is going swell, and what we really need to do is commit to remaining in country for at least a generation longer.
“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at closing of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” –Dylan Thomas
About six weeks ago TB woke up sore. You know that kind of sore you get when you’re in pretty good shape, or like when you’re a kid, and you exerted a lot of energy and you wake up the next day sore? Good sore? That ain’t at all what I felt.
Well, actually I DID feel that way. The only problem was, I hadn’t exerted any energy whatsoever the day before. Hell the entire month before, for that matter. I put it out of my head.
Until the next day. It was there again. Again and again, four or five days a week I’m feeling it. I’ve had to face the fact. I’m getting sore from sleeping. Holy crap, that pisses me off. I don’t even hit 4-0 for another month and a half. But long time readers know, I’m an anticipator. Apparently my whole being is, my physical baen as well as my accursed travellinbrain. My body decided to get a head start on the milestone.
It so happened that I was advised twice within the same week of the onset of soreness that I ought to start exercising again. I’m not getting any younger, you know? And coincidence continued to layer upon coincidence. After several years of generally declining or stable weight, I suddenly shot up ten pounds over the course of one gluttonous weekend. Ten freakin’ pounds? I didn’t do anything that bad. Yeah, there were do-nuts and pizza and a few beers even, but come on. Ten pounds? And they stuck? Yeah, that pissed me off too. But contrary to the opinion of almost everyone I’ve ever known, I listen to good advice, even take it sometimes.
And this was one of those times. Hey, forty ain’t dead, right? No need to take all these attacks from my aging bones lying down, right? So out into the hottest part of the day I charged, hundred degree temperatures and hundred percent humidities be damned. I was pissed, I wasn’t scared. I did run, true, but not out of fear–out of rage. For over a month now I’ve been out there struggling, fighting, suffering. What has it gotten me? Well, I’m a damn sight hungrier all the time, so I haven’t drop any pounds. I’m a little happier I guess, since I now attribute that morning soreness to my run the day before, though I still pause occasionally to consider how it makes my shoulders ache. And I was even beginning to make some real progress, feeling the strength in my ever-protesting legs, the tautness of my lungs.
Then last week my hip came disjointed as I tried to extend myself a little too far. I was irritated, but not totally pissed. I was due a few days off and I thought it would be nice to let the body recover. Then today I hit the course with gusto, and new shoes. I felt good, global heating be damned. I was going to easily hit that mark I’d been shooting for last week when the hip gave way. I was oblivious of the pain, the heat, the egg sucking, mentally planning my future, a lengthy, prosperous future, and humming a loop of a Hayes Carll tune I recently heard. When suddenly, a sharp pain shot up through my calf. I tried to walk it off, but it wasn’t a cramp. A pulled muscle, I guess. I stared blankly to the sky, but received only blankness in response. Boy oh boy, am I pissed.
But I’m not beaten. I’m not even dreading my 40th any more. It already came, calendar be damned, like a thief in the night some six weeks ago. What’s done is done. I’ve read on Facebook and heard from friends how great their birthdays are this year, so many I’ve known for so long turning 40 along with me in 2010. They are all handling it with graceful aplomb. They have embraced it, spoken of their joy, of their excitement, of their blessings. Not me, I’m fightin’ it. I’m pissed about it. I don’t like it. And I’m not scared of it any more either. No matter how much pain it continues to inflict. I’ll be back out there next week dammit.
In the meantime, I’m goin’ to Buffett with Little Boy. Take that, 40.
Your move.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
(laughing) “I never noticed how much gray you’ve got. Boy are you going gray! Well, at least you’re not losing it. Yet.” TB’s very old Dad, about three weeks ago, without any provocation or justification whatsoever
The eminent statesman, Joe Barton, speaking the truth as he sees it, indeed the truth of how 99% of the GOP sees it as well as probably half of the Democratic Party, has reminded us all that what we need in this country is not recrimination, not the blame game, not responsibility for one’s actions, but rather a tone of reconciliation. TB is inspired. I have a few apologies I’d like to make.
Dear BP, TB is sorry too. I’m sorry our country isn’t seizing every damn one of your assets and thumping your Tory supporters on both sides of the pond right in their upturned noses.
Dear World, I’m sorry we don’t appreciate soccer enough and I’m sorry that we don’t call it football or futbol or whatever. I’m sorry I don’t even know who the hell came up with a nonsense word like soccer. However, if we continue to take the best shots your refs can throw at us and still whip your collective asses, especially if we do it in the bottom of the last inning like we did today, I have a feeling that we will start to come around.
Dear Sarah Palin, I’m sorry I have begrudged your fame and fortune. The truth is you deserve everything coming to you, and so does our nation.
Dear President Obama, I’m sorry General McChrystal said bad things about you. You should fire his ass, because what he has done has serious constitutional implications. And though it is a completely separate issue, I’m sorry that what he said held so much truth. Please get off your ass and fire the appeasers in your inner circle.
Dear General McChrystal, I’m sorry you got your ass fired. I’m sorry you didn’t just resign in the first place, and then blast the administration, which would have not only been honorable but would’ve had more impact in affecting the policies and the politicians determining those policies than taking the dangerous, dishonorable route that you chose.
Dear Governor Barbour, I’m sorry the oil spill has caused you to go on record with all those asinine statements that will prevent you from becoming President in 2012. You are probably the sanest and smartest dude on your team. I’m sorry we’ll now get stuck with Newt or Sarah or Beck or the like.
Dear Sandra Bullock, I’m sorry that I don’t think you’re all that hot. I do think you’re better looking than Palin, though I must admit, she’s politics hot. I’m sorry I don’t know much about Jesse James–and just to be clear–it’s not the wrasslin’ Jesses James is it? And I’m sorry that chick-kiss didn’t work out for you. It was a pretty good idea though.
Dear “Get Him to the Greek”, I’m sorry I was busy wiping the Diet Coke that came flying out of my nose away during the “fur stroking/Jeffrey” scene and might have missed a joke or two. And Dear Judd Apatow, I’m sorry you haven’t discovered me yet–really sorry–I have some good material for you.
Dear Congressman Barton, You are one sorry sonofabitch.
There I feel better. I should apologize more often. Good for the soul and whatnot.
“Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.” –Joseph Addison, English essayist
TB’s Little Scamp. The apple of my eye, light of my life. Sweeter than Tupelo honey. Pure innocence. She thinks I can do no wrong, can cure any ill, fix any problem, drive a really long ways. Last of the truly politically independent thinkers. Book lover. Pre-materialistic. Green. A sensible eater. Reveler in the smallest of blessings. Hope for the future. Train and ladybug aficionado. Loves her friends unconditionally, as well her Grandparents, cousins, mother and her doting father. Constantly learning new things, words like booger for instance, and that’s hardly all. Wants to be tickled, within reason. I love to catch her as she walks by, unsuspecting as always, and snatch her up in a flourish, finishing with the big wet kiss that always draws a hug and a laugh. And then suddenly, yesterday,
“The power of accurate observation is often called cynicism by those who have not got it. - George Bernard Shaw
First of all, let me say that the first five of these are stolen from a friend; they are also the funniest. I thought they were worth passing along in addition to my own contributions. Feel free to add to the list:
Good news, Bad News from our Friends at British Petroleum-
Mermaids are real! But they are now extinct.
Fish from the Gulf of Mexico are more oil rich than those from any other place in the world. But it’s not Omega 3.
So far, only tar balls have washed up on most beaches. Unfortunately tar wieners are on the way.
The company just hired an oil whisperer to talk to the oil in hopes of taming it. His name is Glenn Beck.
Dozens of new family beach activities have been developed by the PR department. Among the best are “Count the Dead Birds”, “Smack the Greasy Manatee” and “Mommy I Got Crude Oil in My Eye!”
An internal company expert panel has determined the spill will have no negative impact whatsoever on the children of the Gulf Coast. So long as they are born after April 30, 2107.
Company environmentalists have made a major breakthrough in communicating with dolphins. A preliminary translation gave great hope that we had much in common with the species as it was thought the dolphins were saying “Holy crap, the freakin’ ipod is killer!” After further review the final translation turned out to be “holy crap, you freakin’ killed my whole pod!
Black is the new brown. Pelicans can’t fly or breathe any more.
The oil industry has a history of paying all legitimate claims and staying involved with cleaning up their messes until everything is restored to a pristine condition. Oh wait, no they don’t.
Sandra Bullock is back! The oil spill is now ten times worse than the Exxon Valdez and growing.
Condos in Orange Beach are going to be really cheap this summer. But you probably shouldn’t strike a match.
Louisiana and Mississippi are not the only places that produce shrimp. We can’t understand why this didn’t make everyone feel much better.
The CEO of BP’s life has been utterly ruined by the disaster. He’ll still make more money next quarter than most of us will in our lives.
In a sideways universe BP is a force for good. An ethical, honest company that contributes to the economic, environmental and social well-being of the entire world. Sadly, sideways universes are fictional. (caveat, if they are real, BP probably still sucks.)
We never thought we’d see the likes of Katrina. We never thought we’d see a spill like this. The odds of both occurring in one decade were remote, but this is probably as bad as it can get. The odds are just astronomical of another similar calamity happening. Then again, bad things come in threes.
BP is firing 147 people connected with the company’s negligence. The have all been hired by Exxon.
The board of directors has allocated a billion dollars to pay preliminary financial awards to all legitimate claimants. They have determined that Tony Hayward has the only “legitimate” claim for damages.
The chemical oil dispersants are successfully breaking up the oil. They are also creating a race of mutant laser wielding jellyfish bent on world domination.
“He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher….or, as his wife would have it, an idiot.” –Douglas Adams
If by happenstance, or otherwise you should come into possession of a limited edition, heirloom quality Travellinbaen Universe official ball cap, there are a few responsibilities that go with it, to wit:
Wear it. In public.
Travel with it and send in a photo to the TBU, via my email. I want pictures from anywhere you think is cool, fun, funny or otherwise suitable for publication to the TBU. I want this hat to see the world, and me, in turn to see the hat seeing the world.
Bonus points if you are wearing goggles of some type. Shades will do in a pinch.
Now, one thing you should be prepared for if you (a) possess one of these caps and (b) wear it. In public. is that you will be queried by ignorant TBU aliens. For instance, someone may say, “that’s a dumb hat.” If this happens, you just say either (a) oh, yeah? Well the jerk store called and they’re running out of you; or (b) oh, yeah? Well I can take this off and be free of dumb whereas (you need to say whereas, it will make you look smarter) your stuck with being a dumbass your whole life.
More likely, you will get this question: what the hell is Travellinbaen Universe? This is the one I want you to be prepared for most. And (ahem) whereas that question is the most important one to respond appropriately to, I am providing a list of potential responses to such an uncouth, unsophisticated acquaintance. This list is by no means all inclusive, so if you want to posit another option for consideration by the citizenry, please do. Here we go, and remember, you must stare blankly at your interrogator, at all costs:
The first rule of Travellinbaen Universe is you don’t talk about Travellinbaen Universe.
I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill a beer.
Did Little Boy send you?
That’s a damn dubious question.
Hmphh (snort derisively–but maintain your blank stare) I guess you don’t know what Thursday Pickin is either. Do you?
“Boogers.” (laughter) “Boogers!” (more laughter) “Boogers!!! “(hysterical) –the Little Scamp
It was a milestone moment at TB’s house last night. The Little Scamp, already showing signs of a strange and wonderful sense of humor in other ways, looked up at me mischievously. “Booger.” I stifled my natural response to laugh, and instead looked down upon her sternly. “That’s not a nice word.” Nonplussed, she was, “Boogers!” I tried to ignore her, to deprive her of whatever response she hoped to provoke. I knew better than to encourage this new, clumsy attempt in shock value humor. But the LS is persistent. “Boogers, Daddy! Say Boogers!” I just walked away, her devilish laughter burning in my ears. “Daddy doesn’t use that word, LS.” And I don’t.
The truth is, it IS, kind of a funny word. Even if she probably doesn’t know what a booger is yet. Actually, that makes it funnier. Besides that, I don’t know another word for booger. Is there some scientific term? Is there a way to describe the booger in polite society without actually saying it? What did Jesus call boogers? If I knew these things, perhaps I could combat this little antisocial experiment the LS is conducting. And if there is nothing to replace the offending word, if there is really nothing wrong with it but my own hangups, maybe I should just let her win this little battle. Maybe when I get home today and she says, in the deepest tonal octave she can manage, “say Booger”, maybe I’ll just say it. And then we’ll laugh. After all, it really is kind of funny.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
“You’ve got the brain of a four-year-old boy, and I bet he was glad to get rid of it.” –Groucho Marx, from Horsefeathers
“Most loathsome events become humorous tales with the passage of time.” –Jimmy Buffett, from “Tales From Margaritaville“
From the archives….
Six foot two, one hundred and twenty pounds, a permanent sneer, pale skinned, hair hanging down closer to his ass than his ears and one helluva beer drinker. Greekson had taken it easy for some reason that night, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten. Probably had a six-pack or so, just to have something to occupy his nervous hands while he waited on his opponent to shoot and miss so he could get back to sticking all the solids in those gently sloping, nearly worn cloth pockets that characterized the particular billiards room we frequented in those days. He was also the finest automobile operator I have ever known. Smily and me, we were drinkin’ a lot harder, so naturally, Greekson volunteered to drive. “I’m fine. Y’all get in.”
So we did. And fifteen minutes later we all saw the dizzying blue lights in the distance, the tell-tale signs of a roadblock. “Turn off Greekson,” we implored. There was a twenty minute detour we still had time to make to avoid the trouble ahead. “I’m fine,” said Greekson. “Y’all just sit still and shut up. And put those beers down.” And he was fine, least he was by our standards. But the law, well, the law sees things its own way. They took his skinny ass to jail. The cop just shrugged when I said, “you really want ME to drive the rest of the way?” They were getting their numbers, that’s all that really mattered.
Greekson had never been to jail before, not even the drunk tank. He wasn’t drunk either, so he was fully mindful of his predicament as he handed over his shoes and belt and looked over his shoulder at the half-dozen new roommates he was about to meet. There was one cot. Upon it lay a very large man, with tattoos and muscles and scars. He was holding his package with one hand, beneath his orange jumpsuit and snoring loudly. A couple of benches lined the walls but there was no room for him so Greekson sat off to the corner in the only space available, on the floor, right next to the toilet. It smelled bad. He tried not to see it. He sized everyone up and knew there was damn little he’d be able to accomplish among them, but Greekson was a philosophical sort, so he just stared blankly but alertly around the room and considered the folly of volunteering the good deed of driving us all, now several hours ago, and wondered what we were doing.
We were still drinking and toasting Greekson’s loyalty and working on these two girls we knew and trying to find out how to get Greekson out of the drunk tank as soon as possible because that was no place for him and scrounging up the hard cash to bail him out from all our friends at five a.m. ten bucks at a time.
His thoughts were interrupted when a tray of fried bologna and egg sandwiches were shoved through a slot in the door and everybody grabbed one. Except for Greekson. He had no appetite. And the big guy. He was still snoring.
By and by the next biggest dude in the room, an athletic black guy with an unkempt, out of style afro and a probable attitude problem (if looks were any indication) got up and shuffled toward Greekson. Or maybe the toilet. In the moment, Greekson couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was not a positive development. He stood over Greekson and looked down at him menacingly. Greekson just cut his eyes upward, defiantly, inquiringly. The dude turned his head toward the man on the cot. “He gonna wake up soon.” There was a pause while that probability sunk in. “You with him, or us?”
Greekson looked over at the scars and the tattoos and the muscles, then straight ahead and then back at the inquisitor. “I’m with y’all man.” What else could he say? He would later tell us there was a part of him curious if he’d have stood by that pledge if it came down to it.
“You gonna eat yo’ bologna?”
“Nah, man, its yours.”
An hour later or so, Smily and I stepped carefully over the threshold of the Starkville jail and triumphantly slammed down our hundred and eighty-five bucks, mostly in fives and ones, with about a dozen quarters. Greekson could hear us from the tank, but he showed no emotion or any other sign of recognition to his cellmates. Our slightly overloud, partially slurred demands that he be released immediately to our custody reached his ears and in spite of himself he had a little hope that the night would soon be over. At the very least he stood to pick up a little company. Then he heard the steel grating on steel and allowed his natural sneer to replace the blank stare as the jailer motioned for him to leave.
The big man began to stir with the commotion and Greekson noted the nervous looks of the remaining allies as he strutted out the door. “So long, suckers.” He flipped the hair away from his eyes and nodded crisply at the forlorn prisoners in his wake. He took one look at us when he emerged from the back and said “I’ll drive” and nothing else until he woke up many hours later and we admired the rising sun together and I wondered idly how we’d find beer money for the next week or two.
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Johnny Cash, telling about and singing “Starkville City Jail”
“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Napoleon Bonaparte
TB has diligently research-i-pedia’d the history of Cinco de Mayo today in order to enlighten and entertain myself and hopefully those of you travellin’ through the TBU. It turns out the holiday, widely ignored in Mexico, commemorates the victory of 4000 Mexicans over a superior force of 8000 Frenchmen at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. And I suppose this is precisely the reason Mexicans, with ready access to tequila without need of a special occasion, think little of the day. After all, who hasn’t whipped the French.*
Before I go on, let me make clear one thing. I’m cool with the French. I dig the permissive sexual mores, the rich, languid culture of food, the hidden signs at the Louvre, Hemingway’s years there and Pepe Le Pew, among other notable achievements. In fact, I look forward to visiting the country some day and determining for myself whether a French waiter’s sneer is more offensive than a McDonald’s teenager’s shuffle. And I never uttered the godawful phrase “freedom fries”, even when I was mad at Pierre for opposing the US invasion of Iraq. Oh, and I don’t even know why they call them Froggies, so I don’t.
But let’s face it. The French–the culture that produced the greatest general ever and the baddest ass teenage girl general ever, the nation that brought all of Europe to heel once and whose ancient conquest of England centuries before that changed the world, and whose assistance after 1776 ensured the very existence of America–this great people have been on a losing streak in the game of war. And it all started with the humiliating loss to the Mexicans on cinco de mayo, 1862.
A recap of the French misfortunes of war since that time, again thoroughly research-i-pedia’d by moi:
Franco-Prussian War–1870-1871; Lost. Alsace-Lorraine went to Prussia. Worse still, the German states united.
World War I–1914-1919; technically they won. What did they win? Hmmm. ‘Bout all I can think of is the 42 surviving males under 60 had very little competition for the ladies. Oh wait, I think the doughboys and Hemingway ended up with most all the mademoiselles.
World War II–1939-1945; again they get the win on a technicality. What most people remember about this rousing victory is that they managed to pull it off from beneath a jack boot heel. Oh, and this time the Americans ended up with the Frauleins instead.
Algerian War–1954-1962; technically they lost because Algeria expelled them. Ironically, this can arguably be seen as their greatest triumph of the century.
Indochina Wars–mid 20th Century; lost Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. What’s worse, America was finally unable to overcome its close association with French military disasters and has been on a strategic losing streak ever since. Thanks France.
It ain’t pretty, kind of like an (here it comes) old French whore. (This is where a video of Garth Brooks as “Coco” the Old French Whore would be linked if I could’ve found it.)
With all this in mind as you head off to your local Mexican joint and for a few hours forget how much you hate illegal immigration, consider eschewing the margaritas in honor of America’s original ally. It really is kind of low to be having too much fun on a day that commemorates nothing of import for the winners, but inaugurated an era of infamy for the losers. So please, a little respect for the home of the little general (digression–isn’t it ironic the/their greatest general was ultimately a loser?). Skip the tequila. Order up a pitcher of sangria instead.
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*Though it takes away from the humor I find in the new knowledge that today commemorates a Mexican Army victory over the French, I must note, lest you get into a debate during your third round of sangria this evening, that the French actually recovered from the loss on May 5 and eventually occupied Mexico City. They installed Emperor Maximillian and presumably collected the money they were sent to collect. So they “won.” Then again, they abandoned the country a few years later to the previous Mexican leadership because we “asked” them to. Guess they couldn’t count on us to save ‘em if they got into a war with, um, us.
But they’ll probably catch him. Bank robbers never seem to get very far. In which case, I’ll have to give him the moniker Sancho Panza. And anyway, while a vest would certainly be the sort of garment chosen by a modern-day Pancho Villa, going with the orange reflective variety is much more up Sancho’s alley. And while Pancho would definitely have been armed, the pea shooter in the photo is more likely a part of Sancho’s arsenal.
