Safe at the Undisclosed Location.

I'm snugged up in the home of a prominent Nevada blogger, who may or may not want to own up to having one of the black sheep of the b-sphere in his guest digs. (I think my husband had a full FBI-level background check done on The Gentleman Blogger before permitting me to stay here; A the H was deeply reassured that a mutual friend of all three of ours with a military intel background gave my host the thumbs up.)

So far, Gentleman Blogger has fed me bitchin' lasagne and given me the most essential information about politicking in Clark County:

a) It is not a taboo to refer to Las Vegas as "Vegas." (Not at all analogous to referring to San Francisco as "Frisco," which is a fun parlor trick for Californians who want to see their Bay Area relatives flip out. Try it some time.) Some locals say "Vegas," and some do not. Personal preference.

b) It is unacceptable to refer to the state as "NevAHda," as GB and I both did, instinctively. (That could be an "educators-in-the-family" thing, or a California native thing.) The locals taught him, and he taught me, that the first "a" should sound like the "a" in "dad."

Nice to get to talk to GB a bit tonight, since they'll keep me busy at McCain HQ all week. There are several of us volunteering from California, and even a few who travelled up from Arizona. ("An army of us from nearby states, who want to help you turn Ne-vatta red.")

This state is so important; this election is so important. If it weren't for the unions' stranglehold on Las Vegas, it would be a slam-dunk for McCain . . . but Las Vegas is, they tell me, considered an integral part of the state. One citizen I spoke with today said the whole thing would be a cinch if it weren't for the city of Vegas. "Well, yes," I replied. "And California's electoral votes would go elsewhere if we could surgically remove Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Oakland from it. Not that that would be fiscally prudent."

"Yup. The day I moved here from SF was the happiest day of my life," he affirmed.

"Well, we may be right behind you, once my husband retires," I told him.

Of course, no one seems to be asking what a carbon-correct version of The Strip would look like. I understand that Al Gore has been fantasizing about a "sublte," "toned-down" version of Las Vegas Blvd. that offers the tourist more of a "starry evening sky" effect . . . he's been consulting with Sarah Palin about whether a "Northern Lights" vibe would be classier and ultimately more compelling than all these tacky incandescent bulbs. Good luck with that, Al.

As to the work at hand, I've discovered that:

• I'm decent on the phones, except unable to properly cut short conversations with the uber-patriotic and the elderly; I tend to burn up "too much company time" telling them that if they are disabled and cannot travel to Henderson to help, the national phone banks may have campaign work that they can do from home, or, finally (with the very elderly, and very chatty) to explain that we're all praying very hard, too, and the race is neck-and-neck, if one accounts for crazy poll methodologies. "So keep the television off, and keep praying. Talk to your friends, relatives, and neighbors whom you might be able to persuade."

Of course, since I'm a volunteer no one has said a critical word, but I feel like I should be able to get through my calling lists more quickly, and entice more people to commit to some "get out the vote" time. I'm considering the "Jewish mother" approach: "I drove out from L.A. to spend nearly a week doing this, and you can't commit to three hours of precinct-walking this Friday? For people like you, I'm pouring my heart and soul into a campaign for a guy who isn't even quite libertarian enough for my taste?"

Then I'd tell them they need to eat more, and that they are breaking my heart.

• I'm fine on the door-to-door stuff. One has to balance the fact that I tend to get lost a lot (especially since my sunglasses aren't prescription-level, due to my cheap streak) against the fact that I'm learning (ever-so-slowly) to sweet-talk my way into the "guarded communities" (even tougher to get into than the "gated communities").

If all goes well I'll take off a little time to visit Attila the Hub's cousins on Saturday afternoon. It's a delicate matter, since a few of his relatives have defected to the Other Side lately, and we don't know if they have. (I doubt it; he's retired LAPD. Also, A the H's relatives trend as conservative as mine do liberal. Even in voting . . . I know there are California propositions that A the H and I voted on differently, and that's not even counting the gay marriage thing. Shockingly, we disagree as to when public monies might legitimately go to certain types of infrastructure.)

And if I can sneak away briefly on Sunday, there's a shootin' event I'd like to attend with some of the locals. I haven't clung bitterly to a firearm in a long time; my former editor at the gun journals tells me I just have to go to the SHOT Show one of these years, preferably when it's happening here. (The availability of ranges where full-auto weaponry is available is, of course, a draw.) I actually wonder whether that might be a justifiable expenditure, since they know I'm a decent gunwriter, and a damned good editor (if I do say so myself). It probably wouldn't hurt to re-introduce myself, although until I go on one hunt (even if it's a guided one) I'll always feel like a second-class citizen within the firearms community. (Though I do know a few prominent gunwriters who are not hunters; I choose not to "out" them.)

As Gary Sitton would say: "Be safe; and shoot straight."