Category: random

“Go? I think not. My sons and daughters do not harm Hagrid on my command. But I cannot deny them fresh meat when it wanders so willingly into our midst. Good-bye, friend of Hagrid.” — Aragog from “Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets,” (2002)

Cara Linton made her final check-in with the base as the sun dipped below the jagged horizon, casting a fleeting golden glow across the forested valley. Her voice crackled through the radio with the steadiness of routine, promising silence until the dawn chorus stirred the world anew.

The line went quiet–and with it, the last tether to the bustling humanity below was severed for the night. As twilight surrendered to the encroaching dark, she turned the key in the lock of the sturdy door, sealing herself within its wood and steel embrace.

The air inside was cool–tinged with pine and solitude. Cara prepared a modest supper—rice and beans, steaming faintly in a dented pot, pairing it with a crisp salad plucked from her dwindling stores. And a mug of yesterday’s coffee–reheated on the stuttering flame of her camp stove, washed it all down with a bitter warmth.

The small lamps flickered out one by one under her steady hand, and she cast a lingering gaze across the valley, its three visible flanks swallowed by shadow. Then, with the creak of springs, she climbed into the narrow bed that hugged the wall, surrendering to the night.

In the hollow hour, an hour and a half before the sun’s first whisper, her bladder roused her from a fitful sleep. Groggy, she shuffled to the corner where her makeshift privy stood—a handyman’s bucket crowned with a frayed pool noodle, a contraption her grandmother would have dubbed a thunder mug with a cackle.

She tended to her need in the dimness, the chill of the floor biting at her bare feet. But as she finished, a sound pierced the stillness—a faint, tinny clatter rising from the metal steps beyond the door.

She froze, trousers halfway up her thighs, her breath catching as she strained to pierce the gloom. The tower’s single room offered no secrets; its sparse furnishings stood mute under the shroud of night. She saw nothing but the pressing dark.

With a hush of movement, she crept to the desk at the chamber’s heart and retrieved her radio, its weight a cold comfort in her palm. She knew the base would be unstaffed for another hour at least, but she slipped it into her pocket. Her fingers fumbled in her backpack, coaxing free her mobile phone, its screen a weak glow against the shadows.

The tinny echo came again–sharper now, followed by a dull thump shuddering through the flat roof above her. She stood rooted, fear bubbling up from her gut, sour and thick in her throat.

Then came a skittering—like a half-dozen feet scampering in a frantic dance across the rooftop. Cara’s pulse roared in her ears, drowning all but the brief pause in the cacophony.

Her wristwatch lay abandoned on the low table that doubled as a nightstand and dining table. She edged toward it, each step deliberate, her hand outstretched.

But as her fingers brushed the cool metal, a flicker of movement snagged her gaze. She looked up, and there, pressed against the glass beyond the catwalk, was a face—ghastly white, hollow-eyed, staring.

A scream tore from her, raw and unbidden, and the face vanished as if it had never been. The tower trembled with the sound of retreat—feet pounding atop, then racing round the catwalk in a frenzied circuit. Cara stood, chest heaving, as the first rays of dawn crept over the treetops behind her.

The radio crackled to life, a burst of static that jolted her anew.

“Tower 23, Red Mountain Lookout,” a man’s voice intoned, steady and familiar.

“Two-three, here,” she managed, her voice a thread.

“You alright, Cara?” he pressed.

“I am, but I can’t see outside,” she replied, her eyes darting to the windows.

“Say again?”

“I cannot see out of any of the windows,” she said, louder now. “There’s a white film covering everything.”

Her thoughts leaped to the door. She grasped the handle and pushed, but it held fast, the outward swing thwarted by the same clinging shroud.

“I can’t get out of the shack either,” she added. “Whatever this stuff is, it’s not letting me open the door.”

“Roger,” came a second voice, clipped and decisive. “We’ll have a unit already on the way up to you. Sit tight.”

She offered no reply. Her eyes flicked to the escape hatch overhead, a square of salvation in the ceiling.

It yawned open without a sound, and before she could scream again, something—something swift and unseen—seized her.

In an instant, Cara Linton was gone, snatched into the pale unknown, leaving the tower to stand silent under the rising sun.

Never did I believe a fish could have a worse time of it than one chased around a skillet in a Virginia City kitchen—but that was before coming upon the curious chronicle of the Devil’s Hole pupfish. These fellers–if ever there was a tribe of uncommonly unfortunate fish, might be the most put-upon creatures ever to sprout fins and a sorrowful look.

Nestled in a boiling stretch of Nevada’s sand-swept real estate known to the modern map as Death Valley, and to all good sense as a place no man nor beast ought to linger, there exists a limestone burrow—a cavern deep and dark and filled with water so still it resembles the conscience of a tax collector. In that watery oubliette resides the most misanthropic fish to curse the evolutionary ladder–the Devil’s Hole pupfish.

Until recently, the entire census of this fragile folk could fit into a single soup bowl with elbow room to spare. But in the spring of our Lord 2025, disaster struck them in the form of not one but two earthquakes, which rolled in like nature herself had stubbed her toe and hollered through the Earth’s crust in pain.

The tremors, occurring in December and then again in February, jostled the peaceable stillness of Devil’s Hole. It wasn’t just a mild shimmy—these were proper Earth-thumpings, shaking the underground pool until it sloshed like a washbasin on ironing day.

The aquatic upending scraped the vital algae off a shallow shelf where the fish do most of their courting and dining. Worse yet, the tremors swept away their eggs–as if Mother Nature had grown spiteful and flung their nursery to kingdom come.

Biologists from the National Park Service, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and some Nevadans who ought to know better than to fish in Hell’s basement descended on the scene with clipboards and concerned faces. In the spring survey, they counted a paltry 38 pupfish flitting about the cavern’s depths—down from a more respectable 191 the previous spring.

You’d think this might end the fish tale. But nope.

In a feat of bureaucratic bravery and interagency gumption, the good people of science reached into their bag of tricks and brought forth 19 captive pupfish—raised like little nobles in the controlled waters of the Ash Meadows Conservation Facility—and reintroduced them into their wild ancestral tub.

They even consulted data and dietary knowledge to feed the little scamps until the algae could grow back, which is neighborly, considering most folks wouldn’t cross the street to help a fish unless it came with chips.

“There’s hope,” said a feller named Brandon Senger, who supervises fish as if they were schoolchildren. “They’re spawning again, and the algae’s on the upswing.”

Translated from scientific argot–the fish are frisky, and the underwater salad bar is back in business.

Superintendent Mike Reynolds, who oversees Death Valley with the same cautious respect one gives to a rattlesnake in a hammock, hailed the operation as a triumph of teamwork, technology, and tenderness. He might’ve said more, but the heat likely evaporated the rest of his sentiment.

And so, these pint-sized piscine pilgrims, alone in their watery dungeon beneath the desert sun–cling to existence with a stubbornness that’d make a mule proud. And though battered, beset, and bewildered—they endure.

The next count will come in the Fall, and they’ll probably have something to say about it—though likely in bubbles.

Now, friends, if you’ve ever tried to keep a roof over your head and four walls around your supper table, you know the housing market is as unpredictable as a goose in a thunderstorm. The well-meaning folks over at the Sierra Nevada Realtors released their March 2025 ledger on the comings and goings of homes in Carson City and the counties of Churchill, Douglas, Lyon, and Washoe—though Incline Village, with all its lakefront pomposity, was left to fend for itself.

The report offers a glimpse into the real estate shenanigans of the Silver State. And what it shows is something between a boom and a bustle–the median price across all five counties for single-family homes, condominiums, and townhouses now sits pretty at $525,000. That’s a hop, skip, and a 0.8 percent jump from February. Meanwhile, the total number of homes sold is up a hearty 15.3 percent—enough to make a banker grin and a carpenter curse his luck for not charging more.

In Carson City, 61 brave souls traded property deeds in March—a tiny drop of 1.6 percent from February and a 3.2 percent tumble from last year. The median price was $517,000, just a shade lower than February but 4.4 percent higher than last year. The number of homes just sitting there, hoping for a buyer, was down to 107, 13 percent fewer than last month and a full 25.2 percent fewer than last spring, meaning supply is tighter than a miser’s purse.

Churchill County—where the sagebrush outnumbers the people ten to one—had 22 sales in March, which is quite the climb from February’s 29.4 percent but still down 12 percent from last year’s tally. Folks there fetched a median of $400,000 per sale–a respectable gain monthly and annually.

Douglas County, nestled between the mountains and the meadows, 50 homes changed hands—down two percent from February and 7.4 percent from last year. Still, the median price jumped to $730,000, which will buy you a fine view and maybe a marmot in the backyard. That’s up 6.1 percent from the month prior, though down 5.7 percent from the same month in 2024.

Over in Lyon County, including manufactured homes and stick-built dwellings, saw a whopping 111 sales in March—up 54.2 percent from February, though just a tick of 0.9 percent below last year. The median price was $409,000, marking steady climbs month-over-month and year-over-year. Folks there evidently still appreciate a bargain and a good patch of dirt.

Then there’s Washoe County, a sprawling domain that skips over Incline Village but includes Reno and all its ambition. Washoe saw 668 new listings and 465 homes sold in March. The median sale price was $544,900, up 1.9 percent from February and 1.7 percent over last year. The inventory of homes stood at 1,077, which is a touch better than February’s 1.6 percent and a lot better than last March, with 36.3 percent more to choose from.

All in all–prices are inching up, sales are moving briskly, and inventory is playing a curious game of hide and seek, depending on where you hang your hat.

By a Disbelieving Observer of Man’s Gall and His Corporate Appetite

We find ourselves in a fix as fine as molasses in mid-July. The mercury’s climbing in Nevada, and just as sure as the Devil sets his rocking chair out in the Great Basin this time of year, NV Energy is once again rattling the tin cup at our windows.

Only this time, it ain’t just about the heat—it’s about who’s getting burned.

See, while the people of Nevada, sunburned and broke, were busy wringing pennies from dishwater to keep the air conditioning whirring, the utility company was out there admitting—barely—that they overcharged some folk. Not a few, not once, not by accident, but systematically–and for years.

And for their trouble?

A partial refund, no interest, and not a whisper of apology. One poor soul, Miss Carlin Dinola, was stiffed more than a thousand dollars and got a $96 rebate for her trouble. That’s not a refund—that’s dumb money.

And what sayeth NV Energy?

Why, they dusted off some rule from 1980—back when folks still thought disco was the future—and claimed they only had to return six months’ worth of ill-gotten gains. Now, I ain’t no lawyer, but if I borrow your wheelbarrow and use it for six years, then tell you I owe you for just the last six weeks, you’d call me a cheat—and you’d be right.

Enter Assembly Bill 452, now wending its way through the hallowed halls of Carson City, a modest proposal that says, “Hey, if you overcharge somebody, you pay’em back—all of it—and with interest too.”

Revolutionary, I know.

Pastor Marlon Anderson, who spoke before the Assembly Committee, said it plain and simple, “Come on, man!”

And when a preacher pleads like that, you know the devil’s been in the accounting ledgers.

NV Energy, of course, sent their vice president to the hearing—Ms. Janet Wells—who danced around the numbers like they were hornets. She didn’t know how many people got overcharged, how much it added up to, or anything except that everything’s fine and the rules’re workin’ as they should.

Now, there’s a question worth asking–If the rules are working as designed, and folks are still getting fleeced, then who made the rules and whose pockets are gettin’ lined in the process?

But AB 452 wouldn’t just aim to fix refunds—it would stop NV Energy from tossing every spike in fuel costs onto the backs of the very customers trying to survive a desert summer. The way it stands–if war breaks out overseas or a snowstorm clogs the pipelines–customers pay the difference while NV Energy keeps the profits flowing like chilled sangria at a country club picnic.

Again, Ms. Wells testified all’s fair ’cause they “don’t mark up” fuel. And maybe that’s true—but passing 100 percent of the cost to customers while the company’s shareholders remain as safe and snug as a possum in a house don’t sound much like “sharing the burden.”

So here we are, watching the Assembly swing at justice with a bill that says–Pay what you owe, take your fair share of risk, and stop hiding behind century-old rulebooks while folks pawn their air conditioners to cover the light bill.

And I ask again, in the plainest language a still free man can muster–whose pockets are getting lined? ‘Cause it ain’t mine.

By a Citizen Who’s Seen a Mule Pull a Plow Quicker Than This Bunch Can Pass a Law

It appears that Congress—God bless it and save it from itself—is once again proving that when it comes to helping regular folks chase the American dream, it’s all hat and no cattle. A fresh report from the National Federation of Independent Business (NFIB) lays bare what every hardworking Nevadan already knows deep in their bones–if those stuffed shirts in Washington don’t make the 20 percent Small Business Tax Deduction permanent, it’ll be small businesses—and the communities they serve—that get left holding the bag.

Nevada ain’t asking for charity. They’re asking for fairness.

Over 333,000 small businesses across the Silver State will get clobbered if this deduction sunsets. Without it, small shops from Reno to Ely will be paying a top tax rate of 39.6 percent, while big corporations—who’ve got lobbyists slicker than a greased weasel—keep sailing along at 21 percent.

That ain’t a level playing field; that’s a rigged game where the deck’s stacked against the little guy.

And yet, what do we hear from Congress? Crickets.

Worse than crickets—we hear a chorus of excuses from RINOs and Democrats alike, who’d sooner hold hands across the aisle to pass a meaningless resolution than lift a finger for the folks who keep our towns humming and our main streets alive.

It ain’t just about taxes. It’s about jobs—12,000 a year, to be exact.

It’s about growing our economy by $659 million yearly for the next decade and a whopping $1.36 billion annually after 2035. It’s about letting small business owners keep hiring, paying decent wages, and the lights on.

Tray Abney, NFIB’s Nevada State Director, put it plain–“If Congress allows the 20 percent Small Business Deduction to expire, a massive tax hike on small businesses will take effect, stifling growth, putting the brakes on hiring, and endangering countless small businesses.”

That’s the rub–ain’t it?

Small businesses don’t have time to wait for the next election or the next partisan squabble. They’ve got payroll due Friday and rent due the first. They’re not asking for the moon—just the chance to work, grow, and pass something better to their kids.

But unless Congress pulls its boot out of its backside and acts now, that dream gets dimmer for bunches of Nevadans. And every RINO and Democrat who let the tax break die ought to be made to explain to every butcher, baker, and candlestick maker why they’re now paying more while Wall Street gets a pass.

So here’s a thought, dear Congressfolk–less talkin’, more doin’–and pass the dang deduction and let Nevada thrive.

300 Acres, No Comment, and a Whole Heap of Dirt to Move

Honest, I don’t pretend to know what sort of cipherin’ they do up there in Redmond, Wash., but it appears that Microsoft, a kingpin in computer contraptions, has quietly bought itself a nice, wide patch of Northern Nevada sagebrush—300.7 acres of it, to be precise—at a place called Victory Logistics District in the humble outpost of Fernley.

They paid a princely sum too–$70.5 million, no buildings, no bricks, not even a painted sign—just dust and promise—to look at it and say, “Ours.”

If you ask’em what they’re fixin’ to do with that great expanse of nothing, you’d best prepare for disappointment. Microsoft ain’t talking. They wagged a finger at their website and made a polite noise about “supporting local business growth” and “working with the community.”

That’s the kind of answer you give when your boots’re in wet cement, and you don’t want to say you’ve got no idea where the sidewalk’s going.

Still, those in the know—namely Evan Slavik, the head honcho of Mark IV Capital, which owns the land—said the purchase means Fernley might soon be home to more humming servers than prairie dogs. Slavik practically popped his suspenders in pride, calling it “a major step toward data center developments,” which, translated from Real Estate Speak, means: “Boys, we’re about to get rich.”

Victory Logistics District—which sounds like a place where Julius Caesar would’ve stored his chariots—already has one tech tenant—Redwood Materials, a battery recycler with more square footage than a small kingdom. But Microsoft’s entry, if they do go the data center route, would make them the first digital titan to break ground there, and that kind of thing tends to stir up a whole mess of attention.

You might recall the “Tesla Effect of 2015″—when Elon Musk rolled into town and triggered a silver rush of tech outfits stampeding toward Storey County like a herd of caffeinated buffalo.

Mark IV is spending $120 million to flatten 600 acres of dirt and lay down roads, pipes, power lines, and other subterranean spaghetti to get ahead of the presumed frenzy. Rick Nelson, Mark IV’s Northern Nevada boss man, says they’ll be laying fiber, building roads, and preparing the land like a hopeful farmer expecting rain. The only difference is that their rain is server racks and server farms, and the crops are billion-dollar tech companies hungry for cheap power and elbow room.

They won’t be touching Microsoft’s land–oh no, that parcel’s sacred now—but they will set up the neighborhood with a road network that connects everything like a spiderweb for high-speed dreams. They’re even planning a new residential community—because what good is a digital utopia without a few humans nearby to plug it in and argue over where to put the coffee machine?

So, what does it mean for Nevada? If history’s any guide, it means more jobs, noise, and folks who say “cloud computing” with a straight face. It also means that Fernley—once a place where the most exciting thing was the wind changing directions—is fixin’ to be a hub of the future, whatever that turns out to be.

As for Microsoft, they may not be talking now—but when you plunk down seventy million for a pile of dirt, you ain’t just buying silence. You’re buying the next chapter.

And I reckon it’s going to be a loud one.

Don’t go gettin’ me wrong, I ain’t one to cast stones at a feller’s faith, but there’s a mighty peculiar thing about some churchgoin’ folks, ‘cludin’ me.

They’ll traipse into the pews every Sunday, singin’ hymns loud enough to wake a hibernatin’ bear and quotin’ Scripture like they’re auditionin’ for St. Peter. They’ve got the prayer book dog-eared, the preacher’s hand shook, and the collection plate polished with their generosity. But deep down, where the soul whispers truths the heart done ignored, there’s a gnawin’ emptiness—a suspicion that all their pious doin’s might be no more’n a well-dressed sham.

In its plainspoken way, the Good Book tells of a day when folks’ll stand before the Almighty, hollerin’, “Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in Your name? Didn’t we cast out demons and work miracles?”

And the Master, with a look that’d pierce a man’s soul like a Pacific coast foghorn’ll say, “I never knew you, you actor.”

That’s the rub–ain’t it? The fear that all your churchly strut and sermonizin’ might’ve been a grand performance for a theater with no audience. It ain’t about religion, mind you, with its starched collars and polished customs.

It’s about repentance, the bone-deep, life-turnin’ repentance that costs a man somethin’. The kind that makes you leave your nets like Peter or climb down from your sycamore like Zacchaeus.

If a man’s soul is worth a plug nickel–he’d do well to ponder this dread before the curtain falls. For what’s worse than a life spent prayin’ to a God you ain’t never met?

Millions Vanish, and Powers That Be Are Scare’t

Now I reckon there ain’t a soul west of the Rockies who hasn’t heard tell of them new-fangled fiber wires–meant to zip words and pictures through the air like greased lightning, or so they say. But in the fine town of Lovelock–where tumbleweeds roll straighter than the books kept by some contractors–a highfalutin broadband project got sold to the public like a ticket to the future, and now folks are wonderin’ where the money went, along with their promised internet.

Interim U.S. Attorney Sigal Chattah, a woman who seems to believe laws ain’t just for the little folks, pulled back the curtain Friday and announced a federal probe into a fiber optic boondoggle that’s gone belly-up with a mighty splash. It seems Uncle Sam and the Nevada Department of Transportation gave out wheelbarrows full of dollars–$27 million from the feds and $9 million from the state–to string lines and light up the desert with sweet connectivity. Instead, they got lawsuits, broken promises, and the sort of bookkeeping that’d make a gambler blush.

“This month,” Miss Chattah declared, with all the calm of a gunslinger at a church social, “the United States Attorney’s Office was brought a case and has now opened an investigation into allegations that misappropriation may have occurred…”

I’ll stop her there–because anyone with a dictionary knows what that means–somebody ran off with the money.

Uprise Fiber was supposed to bring high-speed salvation to Lovelock. But not long after the first shovel hit the dirt–if it did at all–bank records showed its head honcho, one Stephen Kromer, emptied the coffers like a fox in a henhouse. His family, quick as a sneeze, distanced themselves faster than a Baptist from a gambling den. The USDA, not known for hasty decisions unless slaughtering chickens–hauled out the audit book in March of 2025 and discovered Uprise’s paperwork had more holes than a miner’s sock.

Matching funds? Nope. Construction costs? Inflated like a carnival balloon. Equipment? Let’s say the receipts looked more like wish lists to Santa than anything else.

But here’s the kicker–the Nevada state legislature, in its infinite wisdom–and apparent fear of mirrors–decided there’s no need to investigate themselves. Senator Melanie Scheible, chairwoman of not-rocking-the-boat, stated they’d let the feds handle it–thank you kindly.

Ain’t that just convenient?

Now, you might ask yourself–why would anyone have a bone to pick with Chattah for doing her job? I’ll tell you–because the last thing the powerful want is a woman who don’t scare easy, sniffin’ around their gold-plated follies. She’s rattlin’ the cages of comfortable people in high places, and that sort of thing don’t make you many friends in Carson City or D.C.

So next time you hear someone high up bad-mouthin’ Sigal Chattah, remember it might not be ‘cause she’s wrong–it might be ‘cause she’s right. And Lord, help the scoundrel who bets she’ll back down.

In the meantime, the good people of Lovelock are left with no broadband, no answers, and no sign of their missing millions–just the desert wind and a promise broken wide open.

I am young, sixty-something, who keeps count?—yet I have seen the horrors of the green frontier. We mow, not yet broken, because the grass grows relentlessly, like an enemy that knows no truce.

The backyard is my trench, my battlefield, and I am its weary soldier, armed with a push mower that rattles like a dying beast. The sun beats down as I survey the line—ankle-high grass, dandelions standing like sentries, a patch of clover buzzing with bees I dare not provoke.

My comrades are few–the mower, its blade dulled from last summer’s campaign; a rake, bent and sullen; and the neighbor’s dog, barking from beyond the fence, a constant reminder of the world beyond my war.

“Quiet, Fritz,” I mutter, though his name might be Buddy, like my dog.

It matters not. Fritz is the artillery of this quiet afternoon.

We learned to mow in youth, taught by fathers or necessity, gripping handles slick with sweat, pushing forward through the thickets of suburbia. Now I advance, step by step, the mower coughing as it chews through the enemy lines.

A stick jams the blade—a landmine of nature—and I kneel, cursing, prying it free with hands stained green. The grass falls, silent, in clumps, like soldiers cut down without a sound. I feel no triumph, only the ache in my shoulders, the weight of a Saturday lost to duty.

Once, we dreamed of glory—clean lines, a lawn to rival the golf courses of legend. We spoke over beers, my friend Dave and I–plotting strategies against crabgrass and molehills. But Dave is gone now—moved to an apartment with no yard—and I am alone, save for the memory of his laughter when I tripped over the hose. The hose lies coiled now, a serpent waiting to strike, and I eye it warily as I push on.

The middle of the yard is the worst, a no-man’s-land of uneven earth and hidden rocks. The mower bucks, I stumble, and a stone flies—ping!—against the shed. I pause, breathless, listening.

All is quiet in the backyard, save for Fritz’s distant yaps and the hum of a sprinkler two houses down. The silence is a lie. Beneath it, the grass plots its return, roots deep as despair. I know this, as all mowers do–we win today, but tomorrow, the war resumes.

At last, the final strip falls. I stand, victorious yet hollow, the mower silent beside me. The lawn is uneven and patchy—a scarred field—but it is mine.

I drag the clippings to the bin, my medals of honor, and collapse into a chair with a cold drink, the armistice of dusk settling in. Fritz whines once more, a farewell shot, and I nod to him across the fence.

“Until next time,” I whisper.

For in the backyard, as in all wars, peace is but a pause.

Without aiming to startle nobody, I recently found myself ensnared in a war of words with Mrs. Leggs, a woman-friend of stout East Coast conviction and a voice that could lullaby a White Shark to sleep. It all started innocently enough—she asked me who I reckoned might win the ongoing war, betwixt Ukraine and Russia.

Being a man of peace and not particularly fond of having frying pans flung at my head—whether metaphorical or cast iron—I replied, “Ma’am, I do not rightly know, other than if the U.S. sets up shop in Ukraine, it a certainty that China will fall in with Russia, and only because of their shared love of Communism.”

I figured that was a safe harbor in a storm of opinions. Alas, I was mistaken.

She cocked her head like a chicken hearing thunder and declared that we were fools if we didn’t understand the war was one head of a many-headed beast–and the real trouble was the nature of the governments behind the guns. Russia and China, she said with great thunder and finality, were operating under totalitarian hybrids, something like a bank run by prison wardens.

Now, I like to keep things simple—it makes the world easier to chew on—so I said, “Well, I call both of‘em Communist and be done with it.”

That was a mistake on par with asking a mule to dance the Lindy. She flared up like a prairie fire, arms flailing and facts flying.

“Communist?” she said as if I’d insulted her grandmother’s soup. “Neither one’s been Communist since Disco died.”

And she commenced lecturing me like I was a schoolboy caught cheating on a geography test, which I suppose I was, in a way. Well, I’m no stranger to being wrong–I’ve been married a long time, after all–so I figured I’d do some digging.

By the time I emerged from the digital mines of the internet, I had dirt under my nails and a head full of confusion. It turns out Mrs. Leggs was neither entirely right nor entirely wrong.

But me? I was gloriously, absolutely, and undeniably mistaken.

After rummaging through various reputable sources and a few that smelled of basement mildew and conspiracy, I discovered that China is a “Democratic Dictatorship,” which sounds like a jailhouse where the inmates get to vote on what flavor of porridge they eat. Russia, on the other hand, is an “Authoritarian Republic,” which means they hold elections in the same spirit a magician pulls rabbits out of hats—prearranged and for show.

And here at home, in these United States, we’re no longer a “Constitutional Republic,” but a “Democratic Republic,” which roughly translates to–we all get a vote, provided we don’t mind the fact that our choices have already been picked out for us by men and women in expensive suits and no sense of shame.

Don’t believe me? Look at what they keep doing to the Second Amendment.

After digesting all this, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the wall, which seemed just as puzzled. I thought about those sacred old words, “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” and I tell you true–happiness now feels more like a joke told by a tax collector with a straight face.

We’ve traded it in for something colder, meaner—something called helplessness. It’s the sensation of shouting into a canyon and only hearing someone else’s opinion echo back at you.

It’s voting for a person who promises change–and getting change back in the way of more taxes. It’s watching your country argue over which way the ship is sinking instead of plugging the hole.

Still, I reckon Mrs. Leggs meant well. And maybe I did, too.

But next time someone asks me about world affairs, I’ll tell them I’ve taken a vow of silence—or that I only speak in riddles and limericks as it might save me from learning too much truth all at once.