Although Mike had to confess that his interest in getting a bolo tie wasn't due to any kind of desire to play cowboy dress-up at this year's Doomtown Tournament, he's mainly looking to make his daily grind of playing career dress-up a little easier. A bolo tie, despite the name, does not tie at all. It merely hangs and holds a brooch. At this point I envision Mike like the dad from "Cheaper by the Dozen," timing himself doing buttons up or down to decide which path gets him out the door fastest and away from his screeching kids. Except Mike, being a teacher, is actually heading to the screeching kids.

Here's where I come in: I know of a genuine Western/country wear shop. There's been one down the street from my grandparents' house for years. I have vague memories of being in there once, perhaps age five, looking at a bin of sewn leather wallets.

Can you get bolo ties anywhere other than a Western wear shop? Honestly, my offered solution appears so convenient that we don't even bother to think of any alternate plans. Appears.

The place is called Cape Horn Western Wear, so we drive out to it. Or where I thought it was... it's nowhere to be seen. We are in the "Cape Horn" area of York, PA; every other sign proves that. The store is not where I remembered it.

I pull into a Giant and consult the Hiptop. Yay, the store does still exist. Whitepages.com gives me the address and phone number. I gamely try an online map, but the lack of notable street names has us zig-zagging aimlessly. Mike passes the time clicking through songs on the iPod.

We hit the "square" of Red Lion. And believe me, you'd only know it as the square if you're from the area. Sigh. Driving past the sidewalks where I used to roller skate with my grandmother - She'd walk, I'd skate. And not the same grandmother as mentioned previously - I pull into the parking lot of the small town pharmacy where I would have bought comics had I been born a generation earlier. Back to the Hiptop: this time to use as a phone.

I tell the Cape Horn Western Wear lady that we're at the square in Red Lion. She knows exactly where I mean; no doubt she's from the area. Turns out we're only a mile or so away from their new location. Which is no longer in Cape Horn, grumble grumble, but I guess that brand name was too good to lose.

I don't imagine Mike and I are the kind of folks that usually go into country western stores. On the ride down, I noted that it would probably take the clerks .00001 of a second to come to the conclusion that we're gay... I'm in a Hawaiian shirt and he's wearing sandals. Although who knows, maybe they get a lot of hipster doofuses like us who wander in just to buy crazy crap for the sake of it.

As soon as we enter the store, I'm struck by the overwhelming scent of cow. Compassionate vegetarianism isn't exactly compatico with cowboy style.

Surrounded by the modernized glitz of the Wild West, I start thinking about buying an outfit. Sure, Mike's just a lazy tie-tier, but maybe I'll cosplay my ass into this year's tournament. But the allure gets to him too; while I'm paging through the rack of sale shirts, Mike shows up with a Stetson he likes and goes to ask the lady how to determine his hat size. We could be the fanciest cowpokes around this Origins. We find a badass silk vest and gray undershirt combo that strikes me as something a spellslinging huckster might wear... but the $60 tag gives me pause. And anyway, I'd rather have Rhonda around when I'm buying clothes, to make sure I'm getting the right size and all that. I send her an IM to ask what I wear (Hiptop Use #3 for the day), but all the shirts seem to use a sizing notation more complicated than the S-M-L system I'm accustomed to. I think they even include the neck size.

There is a rack of bolo ties, the only noticeable differences among them being the shape of the gaudy metal clip holding the ends together. Feathers, bucking broncos, animal totems, that blue/green rock that always shows up in Native American motifs. The clerk even gives Mike a catalog of potential bolo ties, many of which would be perfect for Doomtown: Texas Ranger sheriff stars and such. I have a momentary pang of conscience when it occurs to me that the tie itself might be made of leather straps, but the clerk assures me they're probably nylon. We both pick out one. Mine has a steer skull and feathers over a lariat, reminding me of the Gift of the Thunderbird card.

Mike passes on the Stetson, but is happy to now know his hat size.