Category: random

Too many islands had sprung up at the edge of Marlette Lake, which had grown. The merfolk and the naiads feared this place, and he did not blame them.

As Brady paddled across the water, he saw creatures lurking in the depths. A few rose to see him, to peer at Brady with eyes of deep purple and mouths like nightmares.

They neither knew Brady nor feared him, which he took as a good sign. Had either been the case, Brady doubted his travels would have gone so smoothly.

As it was, Brady landed on a large island and took stock of what he had. His ruck held a week’s worth of hiking, a fair amount of ammunition for the Colts, his Bowie knife, and warclub.

The island had increased in size. Perhaps the largest to ever appear from the Comstock, and he had no doubt who was behind it.

Big Jack Davis, Alhazred’s man, might have prevented his mother from leaving the Comstock, but he was not stopping her from helping the Silver Fever to spread. Not that it needed much assistance.

He walked for about half an hour when he heard the steady thrum of troops marching in unison. A few moments later, Brady caught sight of the soldiers.

Like the other troopers Brady recently faced, these men wore uniforms he was unfamiliar with and carried rifles both new and strange. Their swords, though, Brady was all too familiar with edged weapons.

When the troops saw him, they halted, spread out, and charged Brady at the order given in antique Farsi. None of them shot at the lone man.

Brady could not say the same. He emptied the Colts, the revolvers thundering and tearing the air as the slugs tore through the charging troops.

When the men reached him, Brady was ready. Bowie knife in one hand, warclub in the other. It was blood and violence, pain and terror.

They beat Brady with the rifle stocks, and he gutted them with the knife. Some stabbed with bayonets and knives, while Brady crushed their skulls.

They held his arms, and Brady bit out their throats. They did not have to chase after him.

They died, and when Brady killed the last of them, he searched for more to kill. He knew where to look and how to ride the flume.

When I first entered the news business in 1976, The New York Times v. Sullivan 1964 supreme Court decision was one of the first things I learned. The court said the First Amendment gives the press the right to publish all statements. They also said to prove libel, a public official must show that what was printed or broadcast against them was made with actual malice, “that is, with [the] knowledge that it was false or [with] reckless disregard for the truth.”

But now, I’m not sure where the press stands. Further, as a newspaper reporter, I don’t know where I stand.

FOX News, though a liberal news outlet like ABC, CBS, CNN, MSNBC, and NBC, did nothing wrong in how they broadcast about the Dominion Voting Machines. The same outlets and others did the same by reporting on the Russian collusion hoax and the Trump dossier, both proven unfounded but continue to be proclaimed as factual.

So, is this where we are at? Litigation to shut down a news item that does not meet the approved narrative?

Worse yet is to watch and listen to the glee being shown by the press after FOX settled with Dominion. They are ecstatic that the First Amendment, to wit: “Congress shall make no law respecting … abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press,” is now in dire jeopardy of being ignored, that soon they will be the official “propaganda arm for the federal government,” more so than they already are.

From where I stand, FOX had no choice but to capitulate and settle the case, knowing that there was a chance they would lose. All one has to do is look at the Manhattan District Attorney and how he is riding rough-shod over the justice system by charging a former U.S. President with a crime never committed.

If this is the new standard, many of us still working in journalism will find ourselves in court instead of the press room. But then, this could be by design as we move toward becoming submissives to an Artificially Intelligent Overlord.

The Washoe County Commission has voted to employ the Election Group to help organize the Washoe County Registrar of Voters office.

Washoe County Manager Eric Brown, a registered Non-Partisan, brought the group before the Commission on Tue., Mar. 28. When the body voted on a contract offer, the motion ended in defeat, 2-2. However, Brown returned the group to the agenda on Tue., Apr. 11, and with the vote of newly appointed Commissioner Clara Andriola, the group won a $ 600 thousand contract.

Andriola was appointed by Gov. Joe Lombardo following former Washoe County Commissioner Vaugh Hartung’s appointment as the head of the Nevada Transportation Authority. Andriola was vice chairwoman of the Sparks Planning Commission and a Sparks Citizens Advisory Council member.

As for the Elections Group, Jennifer Morrell and Chris Piper appear to be the more active part of the group.

“Morrell is a former election official who currently works in a variety of left-leaning election policy roles, most notably she works as a consultant to the left-leaning Democracy Fund, where she leads the fund’s Election Validation Project,” according to Influence Watch. “Much of Morrell’s work and consulting focuses on combatting alleged interference in elections from foreign governments.”

The Democracy Fund, created by eBay founder and former chairman Pierre Omidyar, often receives grants from Soros’ Open Society Foundations and the Ford Foundation.

“This group is connected to George Soros and Jennifer Morrell,” Gateway Pundit reporter Joe Hoft wrote on Sun., Aug. 1, 2021. “The Elections Group was also present during the election steal in Georgia and Morrell was one of the observers selected by Katie Hobbs in Arizona to review the Senate’s election audit in Maricopa County.”

Meanwhile, Piper also appears to have a partisan background.

“Chris was appointed Commissioner of the Virginia Department of Elections in January 2018,” the Election Group website said. “While Commissioner, he served on many national boards including the National Association of State Election Directors (NASED) and the Electronic Registration and Information Center (ERIC) as well as Chair of the Election Assistance Commission’s Standards Board.”

So, Piper was on the board of ERIC.

“The Electronic Registration Information Center, or ERIC, was sold to states as a quick and easy way to update their voter rolls. Started in 2012 by far-left activist David Becker and the left-leaning Pew Charitable Trusts, the program is ostensibly run by the member states themselves,” writes Victoria Marshall in the Federalist. “But as public records show, Democratic operatives are working overtime, under the cover of ERIC to accomplish their partisan goals and drive Democratic voter turnout.”

Meanwhile, three of The Elections Group’s six nonprofit and academic partners include the Center for Tech and Civic Life, the Center for Civic Design, and the National Vote at Home Institute, each attached to Facebook founder Mark Zuckerburg. Unfortunately, the Election Group has removed this link from their webpage.

As for Brown, an appointed bureaucrat, in June 2022, he redefined workplace violence, saying “…by providing payment for legal and personal services by outside third-party organizations in situations where employees are unfairly publicly attacked, harassed, or disparaged by members of the public or by political organizations as determined on a case-by-case basis by the Washoe County Manager with input from the Washoe County Workplace Violence Committee.”

He was responding to former Washoe County Registrar of Voter Deanna Spikula, who resigned in July 2022 after she claimed she received death threats.

“Eric Brown is proposing to create a Washoe County agency wide Gestapo to be used at his discretion,” posits Nevada Liberty America First. “A similar proposal was drafted in 2021 with “no fiscal impact,” but now that the Biden Administration is pushing the “domestic terrorism narrative against anyone who doesn’t agree with their policies,” Washoe County Dictator Eric Brown has taken the cue and is attempting to codify himself as County Dictator Judge and Jury to crush local dissent.”

The threats appear vague to non-existent.

“A background report by county staff said, “aggressive comments, threats, conspiracy theories, and false accusations … can have the impact of deterring qualified individuals from continuing their careers in government service with the county or discouraging individuals who may be considering careers in government service,” the Associated Press (AP) wrote on Sat., Jun. 25, 2022.

The Washoe County Commission authorized the Washoe County Workplace Violence Committee to allow Brown to spend up to $150,000 per fiscal year for legal assistance on the same day the AP article was published.

Since 2006, when Home Depot #3303 opened in Spanish Springs, my federally-issued Veterans Administration military identification has always garnered me a ten percent discount on all products but wood at the chain box store. No longer.

The discount was the only reason I had for going to Home Depot instead of Ace or Big R Supply.

As I prepared to pay for a new garbage disposal and kitchen faucet set, I learned that showing my card no longer worked because the company had removed the ‘veterans discount key’ from the register. Instead, Home Depot wants military veterans to register a telephone number to access the discount.

Not only will I not do it, I can’t do it. Filling out forms, regardless of length, virtually or in hand, causes me anxiety. In turn, this feeds into my Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD,) and once my PTSD is triggered, for lack of a better descriptor, I am pretty much done until I can get it and myself back under control.

Also, being a ‘conspiracy theorist,’ who has been correct at least 90 percent of the time, meaning those theories, once poo-poo’d, have turned out to be fact, having to register my cell phone number to get a discount seems nefarious. After all, when the federal and state governments shut down the U.S. economy during the pandemic, Home Depot was deemed essential and was allowed to remain open.

That fact has always seemed suspicious, as churches, playgrounds, and golf courses were not. And suspicion being what it is, my mind immediately drew a line from registering my cell number to a possible list of collected veteran addresses that could be accessed at any time by God-only-knows-who and for whatever reason.

Unfortunately, I have taken the circuitous route to explain that Home Depot has lost my business. My freedom from lists the federal government may or may not have access to is more important than any discount the company could offer me. Call me paranoid, but I will take my business to the local mom-and-pop hardware store from here on out, which is better for the local economy.

So now, it is time to warm up my vocal cords before I begin installing the garbage disposal because I don’t want to hurt myself as I yell, scream, and cuss up a storm at how uneasy it is supposed to be putting in an easy-to-install appliance.

Hopefully, this will make sense, as I am still pretty tired after Saturday and Sunday’s escapade. Since I was ahead in all of my newspaper writing assignments, I thought I’d treat myself to a little “me time,” by heading over to California’s Gold Country and visiting the back roads of Calaveras County.

Calaveras County is home to Angel’s Camp, where Mark Twain first heard the tale he would turn into the best-selling book, “The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

Stopping on Highway 49 between Scottsville and Big Bar, I parked, put on my day pack, then hiked into the forest in a southwest direction. It was 7:30 in the morning, and I didn’t think I’d be gone longer than four or five hours, returning home long before sunset.

I was wrong.

Somehow, I became disoriented, lost my sense of direction, and since it was getting too dark to continue walking, I found a large tree and set up a cold camp between the roots. I sat between them and waited for darkness to overcome the entire forest.

With my bag, I also had some snack bars, two gallons of water, one of the containers mostly gone by the time I called it quits for the day, my U.S. Marine Corps wobbie, also known as a poncho liner, and my K-Bar knife. It wasn’t much, but I was sure it would get me through the night.

Checking my phone, it was about ten at night, and I knew Mary would be worried. I was right, as after I got home, I learned she had called to report me missing, as I had left her a note telling her where I was heading.

As the night became the early morning, I catnapped, dosing off-and-on, but never allowing myself to fall into a deep sleep. I held my K-Bar in my lap in case something came out of the night to surprise me.

It was about one or so when I sensed I was not alone. It began as an odor, that of a wet dog, grew into the smell of a skunk, then the stink of rotten eggs.

With the moon being a sliver, there was not enough light to see what accompanied me, but I could hear its breathing, so I knew I had company. Battling my instinct to yell at it, scare it off, or cause it to attack me, I stayed still, studying the darkness and hoping to catch a shadow that would let me know what I was dealing with.

Finally, I saw a touch of movement, and then I wish I hadn’t. It was massive and resting less than 15 feet from me.

I sat still and slowed my breathing, knowing that if I panicked, I could get killed. It was like a “Mexican stand-off,” which of us would be the first to blink?

Still, whatever was across from me breathed deeply and calmly, something I tried to emulate.

As sunshine began to poke between the trees, I heard, but never saw, my guest, get up with a soft grunt and walk away from where we sat. Still, I sat in place, my ass and legs numb, refusing to move until I could see everything around me.

Finally, feeling secure that I could navigate back to the highway since I knew where the sun was shining from, I headed in its direction. I kept my ears open to any noise behind me or the sudden silencing of the forest that would denote the presence of a predator or something.

It took me four hours to find the road, and my truck, after I started walking the wrong way, only to have a deputy stop and ask my name. He took me to my vehicle, where a search-and-rescue team was readying to look for me.

Still, without service, I thanked my would-be rescuers and headed back toward Scottsville. In town, my phone went wild with 22 messages from Mary and another dozen from law enforcement.

While getting something to eat, I called her to let her know I was okay and would tell her all when I got home. I could tell by the sound of her voice she was relieved to learn I was okay.

Home never looked so good as I pulled into the driveway and climbed from my truck. I can think of little better than being greeted by a happy wife and an excited dog to make a man feel welcome.

As for the thing in the forest, I am concluding that if it was not my overwrought imagination and not Bigfoot, it must have been St. Michael, Guardian Angel of Marines, keeping me company. It wouldn’t be the first time Big Mike has pulled my bacon out of the fire.

Once again, I am behind in my work, but you know, I’m okay with that.

Well, I saw the lights of Virginia City and the Union Saloon
All I need is this street lamp to keep me from a fanciful swoon
I drank my fill from the Carson River, where the mercury flows
In booze-baked moonlight, and lost my mind wherever it blows.

So, if you be a rockabilly gal, I’ll be your raging dragon
And we can walk together down in the Six Mile Canyon
And we can waltz along the Comstock Highway
Hear the coyotes yip and fuck with wild abandon.

Well, I tied myself into a knot, whiskey drinking so fine
Suddenly coming undone should have stuck with the wine
No recall of Saint Mary’s bell’s ring; the C Street shuffle
The boardwalk to Silver Dollar Club or the fist-a-cuff scuffle.

Those women, how do I smile at their glorious thought
Large and small-breasted, big ol’ butt, the camel-toed lot
Oh, how I could get myself stabbed, then damn near shot
So if you are a secret freak, I’ll fill you with my manly snot.

It’s been nearly three years since I lost my way
Not once have I heard a ten-penny tinkled play
I’d try to sing along, a burlap sack to carry the tune
Sniff at her grass, bark up her tree, howl at her moon.

On a bender one night in front of Red Dog
She was a princess while I was the frog
I leaned in for a kiss to become a new prince
A chorus of spirits loosed, drunk on Absinthe.

So, look to the old west, the Virginia City route
You don’t need a condom when out on the scout
Because there is more mud and less in romance
Where old fucks like me don’t have half a chance.

You can watch as I drive down Gieger Grade
The moon, the stars, and me failing to get laid
Forget about Six Mile as I wander back home
To dream of her lips, of trailer hitch and chrome.

“Alright, I’m heading to the center,” Brady said.

Okay,” Mary returned. “Don’t forget your hat.”

It was promising to be a sunny, hot July day, and she always worried about him burning his head and getting skin cancer. Tom lifted it from the nail next to the door, the only thing on the bare walls of their 225-square-foot Section 8 housing.

Tom pulled the door closed and locked it. He had a twenty-minute walk ahead of him, a thought he laughed at.

“Guess they forgot about us old folk when they planned these 15-minute towns,” he chuckled.

It was his 72nd birthday, and he had to get the only license he needed since the Treaty of Albuquerque, ending World War III, became effective over five years before. They had stripped his and Mary’s driving privileges when they confiscated their gas-operated vehicles, so having a First Amendment permit was all that Tom needed.

Mary had her First Amendment ‘R’ license for reading as she did not like writing. She had just renewed hers four months ago.

Only two people were ahead of Tom when he took his number, 2854, and sat down. It would be another half hour before being flashed on the overhead screen.

“Hello,” the brown-haired, blue-eyed dark-skinned woman sitting behind the counter said as he approached. “Please, have a seat.”

Brady did.

“What can I do for you today, Mr. Brady?” she asked.

Facial recognition was everywhere, so it didn’t surprise him that she should know his name before he even had a chance to speak. The idea still gulled him.

“I need to renew my First Amendment ‘W’ license,” he said.

“Very well,” the woman said. “Please plug in your handheld device.”

Tom pulled it from his pocket and hooked it to the chord that sprouted from the desk. The device once called a cell phone, beeped and flashed twice.

“Thank you, Mr. Brady,” the woman said.

He said nothing.

“Is everything current?” she asked as she turned her screen around.

Tom looked it over before answering, “Yes, it is.”

The woman was far too polite for his liking and had not engaged in small talk. That alerted Tom that the woman was an artificially intelligent humanoid, commonly called a Synth.

She tapped away on her keyboard before looking at him and saying, “Our records indicate that you have not published any work in the past five years. Is this correct?”

“Yes, it is,” Brady answered. “I journal just for myself and not for the public.”

The Synth typed more into her keyboard before stating, “I’m sorry, but we cannot reissue you a ‘W’ license because you have not published anything to SkyNet for over one-thousand-eight-hundred and twenty-five days.”

“But I’ve never had to publish anything before,” he said.

“The law was altered on Thursday, January one of this year,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Brady said.

“It was in the news,” the Synth stated.

His face turned red with anger, but he avoided saying what he was thinking, an obscenity-laced invective costing him a fine of 25 Ameros, the new cyber money created after the United States merged with Mexico and Canada.

“I don’t watch the news or listen to that silly radio you guys gave me, in fact, I don’t even have Internet or a screen,” Brady commented.

“I am very sorry,” the Synth said.

“Is there any way I can get a waiver, so I can get something published and get my license?” he asked.

“We do not issue waivers, Mr. Brady,” she said.

“God, I wish it would stop with the mister,” Brady thought.

“So how can I get my license?” he asked.

“You have to publish something to the SkyNet,” she said.

“But I have to have a license to do that,” he argued.

She looked at him blankly, then asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No,” Brady said, rising from his seat.

As he started for the door, the Synth said, “Happy birthday, Brady.”

He took his time walking home.

Halfway there, it occurred to him that the Synth had called him Brady and excluded the mister.

“Holy shit, now they can read minds,” Brady thought as he felt a cold wave race through his body.

When he unlocked the front door, he hung up his hat.

“So how’d it go?” Mary asked.

“It went great,” Brady lied, kissing her forehead before sitting in his chair and staring at the blank wall, in front of himself.

The California Gold Rush of the mid-19th century remains one of the most iconic events in American history as thousands set out on a perilous journey westward, driven by dreams of striking it rich in the goldfields. Among the resources they relied on was “The Emigrants’ Guide to California” by Joseph E. Ware, published in 1849.

It provided suggestions and estimates for supplies needed during the arduous trek along the California Trail. Ware’s guide, a valuable piece of history, outlined the essentials for four individuals traveling with mule teams. It itemized everything from wagons and mules to food provisions and cooking utensils, providing estimated costs for each item.

Wagon, harness, and six good mules:

• Wagon: $85.00
• Three sets of harness: $24.00
• Mules: $450 ($75 each)
• Wagon cover painted with two coats: $8.00

Total $567.00

Food Provisions:

• Flour – 821 lbs: $16.48
• Coffee – 160 lbs: $5.25
• Bacon – 725 lbs: $36.25
• Lard and suet – 200 lbs: $12.00
• Sugar – 160 lbs: $8.00
• Beans 120 lbs: $1.60
• Peaches and apples, 135 lbs: $3.20
• Salt and pepper at 25 lbs: $1.00

Total: $83.78

Cooking Utensils and Extras:

• Tin plates, spoons, coffee pot, camp kettle, knives, and extras:

Total: $20.00

Total: $670.78

According to the guide’s estimates, the cost to each individual for the journey, after deducting the value of the wagon, teams, and other equipment at the end of the trip, would be $55.19.

However, despite the meticulous planning and calculations, the reality on the trail proved far different from what the guide had envisioned. This stark contrast comes to light in the candid diary entry of Bennett C. Clark, who penned his thoughts on Fri., Jul. 20, 1849.

In his journal, Clark voiced growing disappointment in the journey, expressing reservations about the quality of the grass along the Humboldt River. It was contrary to the assurances provided by Ware’s guide.

Clark’s disillusionment led him to caution future travelers against placing blind trust in the guide and labeling it as “perfectly worthless.”

Reading Clark’s diary entry alongside Ware’s guide offers us a perspective on the experience during this remarkable chapter in history. Today, “The Emigrants’ Guide to California” remains a treasure, a window into the past, and a testament to the ambitions and struggles of those who embarked on the California Trail.

When asked to come to her Easter celebration party, I said no, because I had too much work left for the newspaper to do. When I next saw Valery Lyman, I had a change of heart and asked if the invite were still open.

“Oh, I’m so glad you changed your mind,” she said as I accepted.

Having been in a depressive mood for seven months, I told myself I would not stay long, making a polite appearance before leaving as early as possible. I ended up staying until nine in the evening.

The change started the moment I shadowed her door frame. Her first words caught me off guard and caused laughter.

“Happy Christmas!” Valery fairly shouted, despite it being Easter.

When someone pointed out what she had said, Valery blushed, “I said that?”

More laughter. And honestly, since I had not laughed like that in months, it felt good.

After noshing some cheese, bread, and olives, Valery informed her guests, Tom Gray, Alexia Sober, Rudi Stueger, Bill Finley, her boyfriend Tony, and myself, that we were embarking on an Easter egg hunt. At first, I hesitated, thinking I should have left earlier, but I soon discovered I would have missed out on a fun moment of life had I bailed.

For twenty minutes, we adults, behaving like young kids, searched high and low, every nook and cranny of our surroundings from under low-laying stones, under propane tanks, in cable television wires, and even along the walls of the Storey County Courthouse. I had not been on an Easter egg hunt since nine-years-old, since I had to help my sisters find eggs at the annual hunt held at Margaret Keating School in Klamath.

I found the second top-winning egg, a free-range one dipped in several layers of silver paint that won me some truffle oil and two packets of flower seed, while Tony located the Gold, the big prize, for what prize as Valery’s boyfriend I can only imagine he won.

After we finished, we returned for a portrait sitting conducted by Valery, using her Kodak Brownie, shooting 620 black and white. She blessed me by trusting me to take the final frame of the roll so she could be in a photograph too.

Unfortunately, Alexia, Tom, and Bill left a short time after.

It was approaching sunset, the bright orb of the day starting to touch the upper edge of Mt. Davidson, when Valery invited me to stay for dinner. She served duck, potatoes, and artichoke, for which I was allowed to offer the meal prayer.

After dinner, Eric, myself, Tony, and Valery sat and chatted. Upon the first yawn that escaped Valery, I excused myself from the dinner table, thanked my hostess for a grand day, and left for home.

Shaking hands with Tony and Rudi, I half-whispered, “Happy Christmas,” in Valery’s ear as I hugged her goodnight. She smiled a sleepy smile.

A warm feeling lingered within me all the way home with me, and when I remember back on the celebration, the same comes upon me again.

Nevada State Senate District 5’s Republican State Senator Carrie Buck voted in favor of Senate Bill 131, a bill that eliminates the ability of any healthcare licensing board to investigate or disqualify unsafe abortionists from practicing in Nevada.

Buck ran on the GOP ticket as a pro-life candidate. She has proven to be a Republican-In-Name-Only, a RINO, and worse, a liar.

Nevada Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, a Communist-Democrat, is the primary sponsor of the bill, along with four other Democratic senators. A list of 36 other Communist-Democrats cosponsored the bill.

It is also important to note that this bill was heard at 8 a.m. on Mon., Feb. 20, by the Senate Commerce and Labor Committee and not by the Senate Health and Human Services Committee. It is another example of how Communist-Democrats are destroying the Constitutional Republic system.