This is wild. Here I am a transplant from the Pacific Northwest to the high desert of Southern California in an end of the road place called Twentynine Palms. Why, you ask? I was finally tired of all the gloom and rain. Retirement was on the horizon by about ten years, and I won at the Lottery. Not big, you understand, but enough that my finances were suddenly improved and this was one chunk of cash my ex, Velma, couldn’t extract from me. So here I am, Samuel Goodfellow.
I figured Twentynine Palms was such a small city that securing lodging at the 29 Palms Inn would be a cinch. Wrong. So I picked one of the fancier motels. Who knew they were charging that price in this small urban area? Then they told me about the casino, but recommended the 29 Palms Inn Restaurant and a couple of other p
