It was one of those mornings where the coffee maker sputtered like it needed last rites, the dogs decided my boot was breakfast, and I realized too late that I’d put on two different socks—again. I mumbled something unholy and shuffled out the door, figuring if this was the start, the rest of the day…

I reckon I should’ve known better than to open my mouth that day at the diner—the Roadrunner Cafe, right off U.S. 50, with the cracked vinyl booths and that crooked ceiling fan that spins like it’s got arthritis. But I’d just finished my eggs and toast, and something about how the morning light was hitting…

My dogs are in cahoots–and not just with each other–no, sir–they’re in league with the weather, gravity, and some ancient, cosmic trickster spirit that gets its kicks watching me try to maintain my rural dignity. We live in the scratchy outskirts of Reno/Sparks, where the wind comes free with every sunrise and leaves with most…

I was between jobs–a phrase that sounds fancier than it feels, like calling a mud puddle a seasonal pond. My days had the rhythm of a scratched-up record–wake up, brush teeth, tie on the good boots, and march out with my clipboard like some wandering census taker of disappointment. This clipboard, mind you, was not…

Yesterday, I wrote this letter, taking a podcast host to the ‘woodshed’ for spreading falsehoods and name-calling for no reason other than he does not understand the federal overreach of our government when it comes to so-called public lands. I decided to share this today after receiving the response, “lol. Good luck,” which shows that…

There was a man when I was a boy, named Curtis Lyle, who wore a necktie every day of his life, even when he was mucking out horse stalls. He said it made him “feel respectable.” He was a wiry fellow with long wrists, pale hands like uncooked biscuit dough, and hair so perfectly combed…

I reckon every man has a story that teaches him something about himself—usually at the hands of a woman, a child, or another man. But mine was a foul-feathered fowl named Clyde. He wasn’t an ordinary barnyard bird. He strutted around the place like he paid the mortgage. Big old Rhode Island Red with a…

Now, I don’t know what kind of fortune other folks haul around with them, but mine tends to be loud, inconvenient, and just smart-aleck enough to make a fool outta me when it counts. It was a Thursday, late April, which meant the county dump was taking tire drop-offs for free. I don’t know who…

I was still 13 that summer when you’re old enough to know your GI Joes aren’t real soldiers but still young enough to panic when one goes missing in action. We lived on Redwood Drive, where the blacktop surrendered to gravel, and the gravel gave up entirely somewhere around our mailbox. One afternoon, the sun…

“Why do you work for a non-rated radio station?” someone asked me not long ago, their eyebrows doing a little dance that implied I was either a saint or a fool–probably the latter. Halfway through my black coffee—no sugar, no cream, no regrets—I smiled the kind of smile that comes from knowing a thing other…