Category: random

Jagged up about how to write a news article about injustice without sounding like an advocate for the victim, I decided to stop by and consult another reporter. Hence, I went into the Fourth Ward School on the sound end of C Street to visit Taylor Hamby.

While the school’s front door was open, no one was in the building. I checked the basement to the attic and all floors in between and found nobody.

An eerily quiet filled the place until the sound of a bouncing basketball began echoing from someplace above me. While a basketball court is on the fourth floor, I had just been there and saw nobody and no basketballs.

Returning to my truck, I called Taylor to let her know the building was open and no one was there. She told me that her car was buried in snow still, that she couldn’t check on the place, and that she’d have to call someone to do it for her.

“Do you need help digging your car out?” I asked.

“Sure, if you’d like too,” she answered.

South to Gold Hill, I drove and pulled up alongside her car. I wasn’t so much buried in snow as her balding tires could not grip the snow and ice the vehicle sat on.

As I dug away the icy snow built up beneath her vehicle’s tires, she at on the hood, and we talked.

“Nice of you to do this,” Taylor said.

“Thanks,” I responded, “But I’m using it as a pretext to talk to you about an article I’m trying to write.”

“What’s it about?” she asked, and I explained.

Having cleared enough snow around the tires to find the ice below, I hacked away until there was nothing but the gravel surface of her parking spot. It was time to see if the beast would move.

It refused. So it was back at the shoveling and hacking until after four or maybe ten tries, the car moved forward and backward a foot or two.

“You should write it like you would your usual police blotter story,” she offered. “Let the story be the advocate.”

By then, I was in the car, rocking it gently back and forth by moving the shifter from reverse to drive. Satisfied that it would clear the mess it parked in, I gunned the engine.

The car, small, foreign, and old, had some juice. It sprung forward, careening unexpectedly into the Comstock Highway.

Not knowing this would happen, the Honda zipped across the road and in front of an old Dodge rumbling up from Silver City. Judging from the look on his face, the gentleman driving the truck was as scared as I was as we narrowly missed each other.

Quickly, I pulled into the turnout that also serves as the driveway to Comstock Inc. It took me a few seconds to gather my nerves, turn around and pull forward into her parking space.

She invited me in for a few minutes so I could warm up and have something to drink. She never once mentioned the fact that I nearly got her car broadsided.

Knowing she had to be to work, I drove by her house the next day only to find her car in the exact spot I had parked it. She did lift the wipers off the windshield in the event of another snowstorm.

For about two years, Hell Betty has been trying to get me to pose with her for a picture she can hang on her shop wall. She runs an old-time photoshop in Virginia City called “Penelope Pennyworth’s Photography.”

Finally, I consented, and now I wonder why I hesitated. No sooner had I said yes than Hell Betty had me dressed up in clothing that made me into a pocket-miner bootlegging moonshine on the side.

As she posed beside me, her assistant Sammy took several pictures of us as we acted out a scene where we were behind a barn imbibing on the hard stuff. After a dozen or maybe fewer clicks of the shutter, we finished.

While I removed my costuming and put the props away, Hell Betty uploaded the images so that we could look at them. From there, we selected four frames, and Sammy printed them up.

Finally, Hell Betty picked her favorite and placed it in a frame. It now resides on the wall among other pictures used to advertise the business and help customers imagine their own scenarios for an old-time photo.

Hopefully, Hell Betty will ask me to pose again with her. I want to do one with the both of us in the bathtub.

So, I visited Carol Pool at her Silver City home. She is a woman I met last year when she was tending bar at the Union Saloon. It was not simply for pleasure, though talking with her has always been a treat.

She was attacked the night of Fri., Feb. 17, by a man she did not know, who grabbed her about her throat and attempted to choke her to death. While this is not a pretty picture, it gets worse.

Because of the “good ol’ boy system” in Storey County, what should have been a charge of attempted murder got reduced by arresting deputies to simple assault. That’s why I went to talk to her, to get her side of the story for the newspaper.

Because I plan to write an article exposing the attack, the attacker, and what brought the attack on, I will not be sharing all the facts here. Instead, I want to talk about our visit.

After getting out of my truck, I went to the door and knocked. No answer.

So I double-checked my phone and found two messages from her. One was to let myself in, and the other was she was showering.

After pouring a hot cup of joe, I wandered about her front room, looking at all the artwork and books she has lining her walls. She is very eclectic, I discovered.

As I stood there, the shower shut off, and after a few seconds more, she came out wrapped only in an orange towel. The ease with which she presented herself for those few seconds caused me to stammer, “You want some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” she answered from behind her closed bedroom door, “My cup is on the counter in the bathroom.”

Stepping inside the small room she had just vacated, my glasses fogged up, but I found her cup despite a lack of vision. Cup in hand, I topped off her coffee and added half-and-half and a spoon of whole sugar.

No sooner had I set it down on what doubles as a dinner and study table than she came out fully dressed. She sat on the end of the couch, and I was in a chair across the room.

We talked about the trouble that led up to the attack and then the attack for nearly two hours. I could tell that Carol was exhausted from reliving what must be a nightmare for her, so I ended our interview and directed the conversation in a friendlier direction.

As we talked, she got a large baguette, hummus, spinach leaves, and cheese and made lunch. We spent the next 45 minutes chatting before she yawned, signaling it was time for me to leave.

While it was a pleasant day, en route home, my head filled with an ugly swirl of clouded thoughts as I struggled to put her story in a simple timeline to help me keep all the facts straight. By then, the sky had also moved from bright blue to dark gray, filled with clouds and bitter-blowing snow.

Illegal aliens cost U.S. taxpayers $151 billion a year, a 30 percent increase in five years, according to “The Fiscal Burden of Illegal Immigration on United States Taxpayers 2023” by the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR.)

It concluded that American taxpayers pay around $182 billion each year for services and benefits to illegal immigrants, even though the costs are offset by about $31 billion in taxes collected from what they estimate are 15.5 million illegal immigrants in the U.S.

The report comes as the southern border is being overrun. More than 1.7 million illegals in 2021 and another 2.3 million in 2022, with this year eclipsing those previous years, even though the Biden administration claims those numbers have dropped after changing how they account for illegals statistically.

Joe Biden’s Federal Trade Commission is demanding the identities of journalists in communication with Twitter. Demanding to know the reasons why Twitter terminated James Baker. And is demanding information about whether Twitter was selling its office furniture.

I have never seen a more out-of-control administration let alone a government agency.

But then again, the Biden administration has awarded a biological man an award for courage in honor of International Women’s Day during a ceremony at the White House.

Alba Rueda, a man who identifies as a woman, received the award alongside ten biological women from Secretary of State Antony Blinken and first lady Jill Biden. Rueda is Argentina’s Special Envoy for Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity and the country’s first trans-identifying politician to hold a senior governmental position.

Honestly, I’m confused about where I am nowadays.

 

I have yet to see a Chevy, Ford, or Dodge built better than a metal Tonka truck.

So let me get this straight, an 18-year-old can’t understand their student loans but a 7-year-old can change their gender?

Later doesn’t belong to us.

“Come on, Frank,” the larger turkey said to the thinner one, “He wouldn’t be feeding us so much if he were really going to kill us.”

“You believe what you wanna believe, Harold,” Frank retorted. “I’m out of here!”

Harold would never hear from Frank again. For his part, Harold was delicious.

So, there I was, in the middle of Walmart, fist-fighting with a guy when some shopping suddenly broke out.