The Ballad of the Perennial Candidate

I once knew a man who ran for Lieutenant Governor of Nevada every election cycle, and by “ran,” I mean he slapped his photo on a glossy magazine, parked himself outside the Union Brewery, and campaigned to the tourists stepping off the trolley.

His name ain’t important, but if you believe half of what he said—he was not only the publisher, founder, and editor of a magazine but also the next great hope for the Silver State. The other half of what he said involved aliens, parades, and something about starting a university for business ambassadors.

I can’t say I knew him well, but I knew enough to recognize a fella who could out-talk a radio and outlast a campaign season. He had a way of inserting himself into every conversation, like cilantro in a potluck casserole. You don’t invite it, but there it is, making itself known.

One afternoon, I tried to interview a young woman who was a Miss Nevada contestant. She was poised, polished, and had a real story to tell—until he plopped himself in the nearest chair, smiled like a game show host, and declared, “She’s here because of my foundation.”

Now, I don’t know what kind of foundation he meant—it could’ve been charitable, structural, or cosmetic—but whatever it was, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Every time I asked a question, he’d cut in, answering for the young woman.

It got to the point where I wasn’t sure if I was interviewing her or ghostwriting his campaign speech. I finally gave up. The article never saw the light of day, and the poor girl looked like she was silently begging me for an escape rope.

Years later, I saw an actual campaign flyer for him—a cowboy hat, American flag, and all. It looked like something cooked up on a Xerox machine in the back of a souvenir shop, but by God, it had a website and a “paid for by” disclaimer. He even had a slogan, though I can’t recall if it was “Nevada First” or “I Was on the Cover of My Own Magazine, Twice.”

The truth is, he never won anything, but that never stopped him from running. He treated the campaign trail like a carousel—you keep going in circles, waving to everyone and hoping someone throws candy. Some folks campaign because they have a platform.

The man? He had a folding table and a stack of print copies with his face on them.

The last time I saw him was before the Union Brewery shut its doors. Dawn Grant, the heart of that old saloon, had passed on, and the taxes finally caught up with the liquor license.

It got locked up tight, and the sidewalk in front of it felt emptier without her, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d moved his operation to a new bench, or he’d finally found an audience that didn’t mind being interrupted every ten seconds.

I thought, for half a second, about writing for his magazine—to say I survived it—but I figured I’d rather keep my sanity and my sentence structure intact.

Still, Virginia City wouldn’t be the same without its perennial candidate. Every town needs a mascot, and every mascot needs a mission.

And the perennial candidate? Well, he’s been on his mission for years. He may not win an election, but he sure wins attention.

And in Virginia City, sometimes that’s enough.