Ah, Virginia City! A grand experiment in human coexistence, where the ingenuity of horseless chariots meets the timeless dilemma of “Where in the blazes do I leave this contraption?”
If ever there was a job I would not care to assume, it is that of the town planner tasked with balancing parades and parking—an occupation more thankless than refereeing a saloon brawl after half-price whiskey night.
The locals, ever passionate and armed with all manner of grievances, took to hurling revilements—presumably the metaphorical sort, though with Virginia City’s history, one can never be too sure—at our esteemed constabulary. Their crime?
Denying the privilege of parking along C Street, where ample spaces beckoned like sirens on the rocks. But alas, the parade masters, in their infinite wisdom, had shuttered the street hours before the grand Christmas procession, forcing us to confront the terrible truth: we might have to walk.
For my part, I parked on B Street, which, while technically legal, involved an odyssey through a local business to attend not the parade, mind you, but a somber memorial at the city’s farthest reach. I pause to reflect: does any planner truly relish the role of such chaos? Surely not. And yet, someone must endure the slings and arrows of public opinion, or so the theory goes.
Waltzing on that symbol of simpler times, where one might trip the light fantastic or, as in my case, merely trip, is the boardwalk. Yet even as I kept my balance with the poise of a drunken heron, I could not help but notice a peculiar breach of entrepreneurial etiquette: cups of free coffee and cocoa doled out with reckless abandon.
Now, one might applaud such generosity, should it not be the cruel irony that the largesse occurred within sight of at least three businesses whose very survival depends upon selling such liquid warmth. I ask you, what manner of madness is this? To offer a free alternative while the hardworking purveyors of steamed beverages sit idly by, wondering why their carefully calibrated espresso machines are as silent as a church at sunrise?
The shame of it all lies not merely in the giveaway itself but in the failure to promote the livelihoods of these merchants. A cup of complimentary cocoa might be a grand gesture, but could we not also spare a thought—or at least a sign—for those whose livelihoods rest on the sale of precisely this product?
These businesses should have been given top billing, with their wares paraded as the superior, handcrafted, premium-priced experience they undoubtedly are. Instead, they were left to watch as would-be patrons gleefully slurped their way past the very doors that might have fed their children.
It is curious about humanity—our tendency to undermine ourselves in the name of good intentions. Charity, when misapplied, becomes a kind of economic sabotage.
And while I do not grudge a man his free coffee, I must lament the oversight that left the merchants in the lurch. For what is a boardwalk without its small businesses? Merely a path of wood, cold beneath our feet and devoid of the rich aroma of commerce.
Let us learn from this travesty. If free cocoa is to flow, let it do so in partnership with the local vendors, who might benefit from the goodwill and return the favor by selling even more sumptuous confections, or, failing that, let us at least apologize to capitalism, whose noble mechanisms got ignored.
The evening climax was not the parade nor the memorial but rather an incident of festive calamity. A Christmas tree fell. Not a tree in the arborist sense, but a woman—a reveler bedecked as an evergreen, who performed a spirited “timber!” first upon a doorjamb and then the stone floor.
She twice struck her head, bouncing as if to test the theories of Issac’s apple himself. A finer demonstration of resilience I have yet to witness, for she sprang to consciousness moments later, proving that while Christmas might knock you down, it cannot keep you there.
Being well-trained in such emergencies, I moved to assist, only to be shooed away by the proprietor. I briefly considered calling for fire and rescue, but the scene already felt adequately dramatic. Besides, I had a 35-mile journey ahead, and wisdom dictated that I let the chips—and the tree—fall where they may.
Running a town, attending a memorial, or nursing a head injury—none of these tasks are for the faint of heart. And yet, one lesson emerges clear as life, like parades and parking, requires a grain of salt, a splash of lime, and occasionally, a firm handshake with absurdity if tequila is not available.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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