The Old Blog in the Desert

Sometimes you need to cut people off and let them live with whatever lies they’re most comfortable with. Dan learned that one Tuesday morning while trying to fix a leaky hose, and his neighbor, Carl, leaned over the fence with a cigarette and too much advice.

“Thing is,” Carl said, blowing smoke toward the tomatoes, “some people just don’t understand truth. They get allergic to it.”

Dan didn’t look up from the hose clamp. “You talking about me or your ex-wife?”

“Both, probably.”

Dan chuckled. Carl’s ex-wife had become the neighborhood’s favorite cautionary tale.

She claimed she’d been abducted by aliens once, though the only evidence anyone ever saw was a circular burn mark on her back deck from when she’d fallen asleep with a cigarette. Still, she’d tell that story to anyone who’d listen, and Carl, who wasn’t always a picture of mental balance himself, used to try correcting her.

He’d argue, show photos, even call in her sister for backup. But the more he fought her story, the more convinced she became.

“She told me last week,” Carl said, “that the aliens took her up again, only this time they were polite about it. Offered her tea.”

Dan turned off the water and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Maybe she’s happier believing that than remembering she just fell asleep again.”

Carl leaned his elbows on the fence. “Yeah. But isn’t that kind of sad?”

Dan thought about that. He’d spent years trying to “fix” people’s versions of things, too.

Family, friends, coworkers, but it didn’t matter. If someone twisted the facts, he’d come marching in with his big Truth Flag like it was his civic duty to set the record straight, but lately, he’d begun to notice that all it ever got him was an argument, resentment, and a headache.

He’d learned this the hard way with his cousin Rick, who still told everyone that Dan once ran over his fishing pole with a truck “on purpose.” What really happened was that Rick had left it lying in the driveway behind the tire, and Dan, who was more focused on catching the sunrise at the lake, never saw it.

The truth got explained, diagrammed, and even reenacted, but Rick preferred the version where Dan was the villain. It gave him something to be righteously indignant about, and some folks love that feeling more than oxygen.

So, one day, Dan stopped defending himself. Rick told his story at a barbecue, and Dan just nodded and said, “Yep, that was a bad day.”

You could’ve heard the silence drop like a wrench on concrete. Rick looked confused, then triumphant, and after that, he moved on to other topics, like how the government was secretly training raccoons to spy on citizens.

That was when Dan realized that some lies are just emotional bubble wrap. They protect people from the harshness of the truth.

He looked over at Carl, who was squinting into the sun, probably thinking about his ex-wife and her polite aliens.

“You know,” Dan said, “maybe it’s not sad. Maybe she just found a version of life that fits her better.”

Carl flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt. “Guess so. Still wish she’d stop telling folks I was one of the aliens, though.”

Dan laughed. “Well, at least she thinks you’re out of this world.”

Carl rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Dan said, coiling up the hose. “But at least I’m a human impossible.”

As Carl wandered back to his porch, Dan looked up at the sky, which was clear and blue—a typical day. He thought that perhaps the key to living peacefully was allowing people to believe whatever they needed to, while quietly addressing his own issues and maintaining his own truth.

While the truth may set you free, a good lie can help everyone get through the day.

I’ve never set out to “help people biblically.” Honestly, that always felt too big for me, like something reserved for folks who had perfect lives and memorized wisdom ready to dispense at a moment’s notice.

I’m not that person. But somewhere along the way, I realized I could live out the spirit of what I believed without ever sounding religious or quoting anything. I could show up quietly, consistently, and imperfectly.

One of the first times it clicked for me was at a drive-through on an ordinary Tuesday. I noticed the woman behind me counting coins in her cup holder.

It wasn’t dramatic or heartbreaking, just a tiny moment of struggle I happened to see. On impulse, I paid for the woman’s order.

No note, no explanation, and I didn’t stay to watch her reaction. Something about the hiddenness of it felt right, like generosity that didn’t need a witness was the purest kind.

I started noticing that most people aren’t desperate for advice; they’re desperate to be heard. Take my friend Mark.

He called me one night, frustrated with his job, his kids, his everything. Old me would’ve had a five-point plan ready.

Instead, I let him talk. I didn’t fix anything, and I didn’t try.

When he finally sighed, he said, “Thanks, I just needed someone to listen.”

There was the time I showed up at Jenna’s house a week after her mom’s funeral. The casseroles had stopped, the texts had slowed, and everyone else had moved on.

I dropped off groceries and stayed long enough to help fold some clothes. We talked about the laundry, and somehow, that made things easier.

Forgiveness is hard for me. I’m not naturally good at it, but when a coworker threw me under the bus years ago for something she’d done, I forced myself to let it go publicly.

Not passive-aggressively, and not “I’ll forgive but never forget.” I genuinely tried to release it.

And when people asked if I was mad, I just said, “No, life’s too short.”

It surprised them, and honestly, it surprised me too.

One of my favorites is using my skills to help others. I’ve created résumés for neighbors who moved here with nothing but courage, assisted a single mom in getting to work, and babysat for friends who can’t afford childcare but desperately need a night off.

I’ve even helped write obituaries for those overwhelmed with grief. None of it is glamorous, but all of it feels like love with its sleeves rolled up.

I try to give actual compliments, not the generic kind. I told a cashier last week, “You’re incredibly good at making people feel welcome,” and her eyes filled like I’d handed her a thousand dollars.

People hear criticism all day. A sincere word lands like water on dry ground.

And then there are the parties. My table is usually full of “wrong” people, neighbors who don’t fit together, coworkers who don’t like each other, folks who don’t get invited anywhere. But, somehow, the mismatched nights end up being the most joyful ones.

I’m learning to ask for help, too, which still feels vulnerable. But every time someone shows up for me, it stitches my faith in humanity a little tighter.

What I’ve realized is that people rarely remember the things you say. But they remember how you treated them when they are tired, lonely, grieving, embarrassed, or broke.

If I can help someone feel seen, actually seen, then maybe that’s the most quietly biblical thing I’ll ever do.

Douglas Williams had ink in his veins, whiskey in his breath, and regret clinging to him like newsprint on a humid day. The Virginia City Chronicle was down to its last legs, and maybe one of them had termites.

The rival paper, The Nevada Territorial News, was running him out of business, printing in color and paying its reporters with something other than “IOUs” and free coffee. That evening, Doug sat alone in the print shop, staring at the silent linotype machine.

“Well, old girl,” he muttered, “it’s just you, me, and the end of the line.”

He poured another drink and took it to the bridge on the edge of town, the one that looked like it was waiting for a sad man to make a decision. He was halfway through his farewell to the moon when a voice said, “You always talk to yourself, or is tonight special?”

Doug jumped. A tall man in a fedora stood a few feet away, the glow of a crooked cigar lighting up a grin too wide for comfort.

“Name’s Lucy,” the stranger said, puffing. “Mr. Lucy, if we’re being formal. You look like a man who’s lost something.”

“Yeah,” Doug said, “a newspaper, a job, and my last ounce of pride. You seen any of those lying around?”

Lucy chuckled, low and gravelly. “Can’t say I have. But I might help you find one of ‘em, if you’ll give me a lift to town.”

Doug frowned but shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Car’s got room for two and I’m in no hurry to see tomorrow.”

At the Union Saloon, Lucy drank gin like it was holy water and talked faster than a telegraph line.

“You’re the editor of the Chronicle, right?” Lucy said, swirling his glass. “Fine paper. Shame about the competition. I might be just the man to turn things around.”

“You a reporter?” Doug asked.

Lucy grinned. “Reporter, writer, printer, typesetter, and an editor when I have to be. Let’s just say I know how to make words move.”

By morning, Lucy was at the linotype, sleeves rolled, eyes gleaming. The old machine hummed like it hadn’t in years. His fingers flew, letters clinking, metal hissing.

“Mercy,” Doug said, watching the copy roll out. “You some kind of magician?”

Lucy winked. “Trade secret. I like to say I work fast enough to make the devil jealous.”

By week’s end, The Chronicle was back on top. Lucy seemed to have a nose for news. If a mine caved in or a fire broke out, he was already on the scene, sometimes before it happened.

Bee, ever the sharp one, didn’t buy it.

“Doug,” she whispered one night, “that man gives me chills. The way he looks at people, like he’s taking notes in his head.”

Doug laughed. “You’ve been reading too many ghost stories, Bee. Lucy’s just efficient.”

A week later, over drinks, Lucy slid a contract across Doug’s desk. “Just a little inside joke between newspapermen,” he said. “Says I get your immortal soul in exchange for services rendered. A handshake deal, but written down for posterity.”

Doug snorted. “My soul, huh? You’ll have to fight the IRS for it.”

“Then sign,” Lucy said, that grin flickering like a bad lightbulb.

“Fine,” Doug said, scribbling his name. “There. Now you can haunt me legally.”

Things went downhill from there. Lucy made a pass at Bee, and she slapped him hard enough to send his cigar flying.

“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I’ll run you through the press.”

Lucy only laughed, brushing off his coat. “I admire a woman with spirit. You sure you’re married to the right man?”

When Bee told Doug, he stormed into the office. “You’re finished here, Lucy. Get out before I…”

“Before you what?” Lucy said, lighting another cigar. “Shoot me? You’d be surprised how often that one comes up.”

“You think I won’t?” Doug said, pulling open a drawer.

Lucy smiled thinly. “I think you should sit down, Editor. We’ve got business.”

He slid a fresh story proof across the desk. The headline read: Local Woman Killed in Tragic Car Accident.

Doug froze. “What is this?”

“Tomorrow’s news,” Lucy said. “Unless you’d rather change it. You see, her fate’s not written yet. But yours, it’s sealed.”

“Go to hell,” Doug growled.

“Already been,” Lucy said, puffing smoke. “Didn’t care for the editor.”

Doug grabbed the gun and fired twice. The bullets passed through him like smoke through sunlight.

Lucy smirked. “Told you it wouldn’t work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline.”

Doug tore out of the office, desperate to find Bee. But Bee had gone back to make peace, thinking she’d been too harsh.

“Mr. Lucy,” she said, trembling. “Maybe we started off wrong.”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Tell you what, give me a lift to the airport, and we’ll call it even.”

He slid into the driver’s seat.

Back at the office, Doug pounded the linotype keys, sweat dripping down his face. “You want news, Lucy?” he muttered. “Here’s your headline.”

He typed: Mr. Lucy resigned his position and departed Virginia City at 11:59 p.m. His contract is null and void.

At exactly 11:59, a crash echoed through the canyon. Lucy’s borrowed car was a smoking heap. Bee was shaken but unharmed. Lucy, naturally, was gone.

The next morning, Doug dragged the linotype out behind the shop. “No more deals, no more devils,” he told Bee.

She smiled faintly. “So what’ll we print now?”

Doug looked at the sunrise and said, “The truth, I reckon. Even if it doesn’t sell as well.”

Eddie Winston wasn’t the kind of man who went looking for signs from the universe. He was the kind who ignored them until they tripped him flat on his face.

So when he and his new bride, Marjorie, found themselves stranded in Virginia City, Nevada, with a busted radiator and a week’s worth of honeymoon enthusiasm wilting under the desert sun, he figured it was just bad luck. Marjorie, ever the optimist, called it “an unexpected adventure.”

They ducked into the Silver Spur Diner, a place that looked like it hadn’t changed since Eisenhower was in office. Red vinyl booths, a pie case that hummed louder than the jukebox, and a waitress named Lou who could balance three plates and a conversation at once.

And there, tucked into the end booth like a forgotten relic, sat the Penny Prophet, a fortune-telling machine with a carved wooden face and a look that suggested he’d seen a few things.

“Hey, it’s Zoltar, from the movie Big!” Eddie said, already fishing in his pocket for change.

Marjorie groaned. “Please don’t start talking to machines, Ed. I just want a sandwich.”

But Eddie was on a mission. He slid a penny in, leaned close, and asked, “Are we gonna make it to Vegas before our car gives up for good?”

The machine whirred, clanked, and spat out a yellowed slip of paper:
“YOUR FORTUNE: YOUR JOURNEY IS NOT YET OVER. PATIENCE WILL REWARD YOU.”

“Well, there you have it,” Eddie said, waving the slip like a winning lottery ticket. “Patience. We’re gonna be fine.”

Marjorie gave him that look, half amusement, half “what have I gotten myself into?”

But then something strange happened. Not ten minutes later, Lou walked over with the check and mentioned that the mechanic down the street had just received a shipment of parts, including radiators.

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up like a man who’d just found religion.

“See? The machine knew!”

By the time their sandwiches were gone, Eddie had asked three more questions. Each answer seemed vague enough to fit anything, but that didn’t stop him from connecting dots only he could see.

When a pickup truck backfired outside at three o’clock, the same time the Penny Prophet had warned to “beware the noise of travel, ”Marjorie nearly lost her patience along with her coffee.

“Eddie,” she said firmly, “you said three o’clock, not the machine. You’re making this all up.”

He frowned, studying the carved face as though it might blink. “What if it’s trying to tell us something?”

“What it’s telling you,” Marjorie said, “is that you can’t live your life one penny at a time.”

For a long moment, Eddie just stared at the machine. Then he took her hand, slow and sheepish.

“You’re right. I guess I’d rather bet on us than on a box of gears.”

They paid the bill, left a generous tip that made Lou smile, and stepped out into the warm Nevada afternoon. The mechanic was already rolling their car out front, radiator gleaming.

As they drove off, Eddie glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the diner window, another couple slid into the booth beside the Penny Prophet, their faces drawn and tired. The man reached for his pocket, and the woman sighed.

Eddie smiled. “Guess we got out just in time.”

Marjorie squeezed his hand. “Patience rewarded, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. And I didn’t even need a penny for that one.”

Trace Rawlins had a reputation that could outshoot any gunslinger west of Hollywood. He wasn’t just the star of “Rawlins’ Range,” he was the range.

The hat, the swagger, the drawl, or so he’d tell you. His cast and crew might’ve told a different tale, one with a few more four-letter words and fewer camera angles.

On this particular Tuesday, Trace rolled up to the set in his shiny black pickup, thirty-five minutes late, sunglasses on, chewing gum.

“They can’t start without me,” he liked to say, and the thing was, he was right.

The director, a mild-mannered man named Jerry, met him with a half-hearted smile and a fresh ulcer. “Morning, Trace. We’re ready whenever you are.”

“Course you are,” Trace said, tipping his hat and striding past everyone like a conquering hero.

The scene today was another shootout, Marshal Trace Rawlins against that no-good outlaw Sam Brown. The historic Sam Brown, if he could’ve seen the script, might’ve raised a fuss over how he was a buffoon who couldn’t hit a barn if it fell on him.

Trace took his mark, twirled his revolver, and flashed that practiced grin. The cameras rolled.

“Draw!”

But instead of the usual puff of smoke and cue from the sound guy, there came a sudden gust of hot wind. The air shimmered.

The clapboard buildings of the backlot wavered and blurred, and when Trace blinked, the parking lot, crew, and craft services table had vanished. He stood in what looked and smelled like a real old west town, dust, horses, and all.

From the far end of the street came a figure, a tall man in a weathered coat, spurs jangling.

“Trace Rawlins,” he said, voice steady and low. “Name’s Sam Brown. Thought I’d come have a word.”

Trace chuckled nervously. “Nice costume, pal. You with production?”

“Production?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been makin’ a fool of me and my friends from Virginia City long enough. Time we settled this like men.”

Trace’s stomach tightened. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t do live ammo.”

Sam didn’t answer. He just squared his shoulders, hand hovering over his revolver.

The tumbleweeds, or maybe they were just the day’s bad decisions, rolled by.

Trace tried reasoning, joking, bargaining. “Look, buddy, I’m just an actor. You know, pretend.”

“Then pretend you’re fast,” Sam said. “Draw.”

Trace did not draw. He dropped to his knees faster than any stunt double could’ve managed. “Please, don’t shoot! I’ll do anything! I’ll make you look good, I swear it!”

Sam’s eyes softened a little. “All right then,” he said with a half-smile. “We’ve struck ourselves a bargain.”

And just like that, the desert heat vanished. Trace blinked and found himself back on set, Jerry shouting directions, the sound guy swearing, and a brand-new agent waiting by the trailers.

Trace dusted himself off, muttering about dehydration, and went to meet his supposed savior. But when the man turned around, Trace froze.

The clothing was different, but the face was the same, Sam Brown’s. “Morning, Marshal,” the agent said smoothly. “I’m here to make sure your show stays…authentic.”

Trace swallowed hard.

That afternoon, the new script arrived, one where Sam Brown outsmarted Marshal Rawlins and tossed him through a saloon window. No stunt double needed, apparently.

Trace flew through that window like a man who’d found religion midair.

And as he landed in the dust, wincing, he heard Sam Brown’s voice, calm, amused, and echoing faintly, “More changes to come, Marshal. Don’t go gettin’ comfortable.”

From that day forward, Trace Rawlins was never late again. Not once.

Now, I didn’t go looking for the Strauss–Howe generational theory. It found me.

I stumbled on the idea of “Turnings,” these repeating cycles that supposedly shape the rise and fall of institutions, the mood of generations, even the character of national life. At first, it sounded a little too tidy for the messy world I wake up in every day, but the more I read, the more I recognized pieces of our lives scattered across those descriptions.

It was the Fourth Turning, the Crisis, that got me. According to the theory, we’ve been in it since 2008.

I remember that year vividly: the panic, the layoffs, the sense that something had cracked. But looking back, it feels like it opened a door into a whole new era, where nothing—government, technology, the economy, even our sense of community—felt stable anymore.

As I dug into the earlier phases, I started connecting them to stories I’d grown up hearing. My grandparents talked about the post–World War II years like they were the golden age of certainty, when people believed things were getting better, inch by inch.

That was the High.

My parents lived through the Awakening—with its protests, its music, its searching for identity. They used to talk about the 70s as if it were a fever dream of questioning everything.

And then there was my own coming of age in what Strauss and Howe call the Unraveling. You didn’t need a historian to tell you that trust in institutions was dropping; you could feel it in every dinner table debate and every news cycle.

But it’s the Fourth Turning that I keep circling back to, probably because we’re living inside it. The theory suggests this phase is when institutions weaken, conflicts are sharp, and society needs reconstruction.

Now, I don’t know if that’s prophecy or just good pattern recognition, but it certainly matches the feeling of the last decade and a half. Rising tensions, growing inequality, technologies leaping ahead faster than we can make rules for them, with some days feeling like we’re all walking across a burning bridge.

And yet, oddly enough, the idea hasn’t left me discouraged. If anything, it gave me a strange sense of orientation, like finding out the storm we’re stuck in is actually part of a larger weather system.

The theory doesn’t promise an easy ending. It doesn’t predict outcomes at all.

But it does suggest that crises aren’t permanent. They give way, eventually, to renewal, to a new version of the High where society pulls itself back together and redraws its social contract.

Maybe that’s why the idea stays with me. Not because I think history moves on an exact schedule, or because I believe everything is predetermined, but because it reminds me that upheaval isn’t the end of the story. Periods like this have come before, and each time, people find ways to build something better on the other side.

When I step back and look at the chaos of the 2020s, it still feels overwhelming. But through the lens of this theory, it also feels like a chapter rather than a collapse, intense, turbulent, and transformative, yes, but also filled with possibility.

And somehow, knowing that gives me just enough hope to keep moving through it.

If you ever meet Martin Cavanaugh, don’t let that mild-mannered smile fool you. Beneath it lies a man who can slice a person to ribbons with words that sound like compliments embroidered on a pillow. Diplomacy, as Martin practices it, is saying the nastiest things in the nicest way, and he’s a grandmaster of the sport.

Take last Tuesday, for instance. The city council was debating whether to repaint the town’s water tower.

One group wanted to freshen it up; the other wanted to save money and pretend it looked “vintage.” Martin, who’d been dragged there by his wife, took the floor after twenty minutes of bickering and said, “Well, I think it’s wonderful that we have so many opinions from people who clearly care about the community, especially those who didn’t care enough to attend the last three maintenance meetings.”

He said it with such warmth, you’d think he was offering to bake everyone cookies. The room even applauded, half because they agreed, and half because they weren’t entirely sure he’d just insulted them. That’s Martin for you: charming as a sunset, sharp as the mosquito that bites you while you’re admiring it.

Now, Martin wasn’t born diplomatic. Oh no, he earned his polish the hard way.

As a teenager, he had what his mother called “a mouth that worked faster than his brain.” Once, he told the high school principal that his new toupee looked like “a squirrel in mourning.”

The following week, Martin found himself cleaning cafeteria trays for what the school termed “community reflection.” He came home that night to find his father reading the paper.

Without lowering it, his dad said, “Son, truth is a fine thing, but it travels better with a little padding.”

That line stuck with him longer than most of his report cards. Years later, when Martin worked in real estate, that lesson paid off handsomely.

You can’t tell a homeowner their place smells like wet socks and bad decisions. No, you say, “It has a very lived-in charm.”

If the kitchen ceiling is sagging, it’s “full of character.” If the backyard’s all weeds, it’s “low-maintenance landscaping.”

Martin didn’t lie. He just found creative ways to rearrange the unpleasant parts of reality into something everyone could live with.

One time, when a difficult client insisted her house was worth twice the going rate, Martin smiled and said, “Well, Mrs. Harkness, your confidence in this property is truly inspiring. I only hope the market learns to see it through your eyes.”

She left the meeting convinced she’d won the argument. Martin, meanwhile, listed it at a sensible price and sold it in a week.

Even at home, his tongue stayed velvet-covered. When his wife, Linda, tried a new recipe that could’ve doubled as insulation foam, he told her, “It’s so filling, I might not need breakfast tomorrow.”

When his brother-in-law started a pyramid scheme, Martin said, “You’ve always had such a creative way of interpreting capitalism.”

See, Martin figured that diplomacy wasn’t about deception. It was about delivery.

Truth, when served cold, tends to bruise egos. But wrap it in a ribbon of kindness and hand it over with a smile, and people thank you for the bruise.

He once told me, “Tom, if you can keep people laughing while they realize you’re right, you’ve already won.”

And I reckon he’s right about that. The world could use more Martins, folks who know that honesty doesn’t have to roar; sometimes, it just needs good manners and a steady grin.

After all, as Martin likes to say, “A sharp tongue can cut, but a polite one can slice clean.”

Friends, my fellow countrymen, chronically online goblins: lend me your pitchforks for five minutes. I promise to return them duller than you left them.

Last week, the Internet devoured a 34-year-old substitute teacher because, in 2011, she tweeted: “I’m gonna kill my roommate if he leaves another Red Bull can on the coffee table.” Fourteen years later, someone named JusticeServedColdWithFries unearthed it, added the required crying-laughing emojis, and by lunchtime, the woman was unemployed and explaining to her mother what a “ratio” is.

We have built the most perfectly calibrated shame engine in human history. It runs on dopamine, self-righteousness, and the creeping terror that tomorrow it might be you.

It’s faster than the AP, crueler than the Spanish Inquisition, and significantly less forgiving than the Old Testament God, who at least allowed a cooling-off period of forty days and forty nights.

And the list of crimes now punishable by public execution grows ever more impressive. In 2019, something as innocent as owning the wrong chicken sandwich could get you metaphorically beheaded.

Liking a tweet that aged like milk left on hot asphalt is grounds for social obliteration. Using the word “crazy” at any point before Taylor Swift updated the lexicon is apparently a capital offense.

And being born before the invention of nuance? Don’t even bother pleading your case.

Meanwhile, actual billionaire ghouls who buy elections and poison rivers continue to post through it all, safely insulated by the simple wisdom of never having said “retarded” in 2008. Congratulations, humanity: we have optimized morality so efficiently that the only people who suffer are those foolish enough to have once been nineteen.

Now, a confession. I am cancelable on every axis.

I have said every slur you’re thinking of in the lawless hellscape of the Internet. I have laughed at jokes that would now require a 40-tweet passive-voice apology. By current standards, I am already dead.

Come and get me. I’ll wait.

Still here? Excellent.

Because the joke’s on all of us, because the machine doesn’t want justice; it wants content. It needs bodies to keep the outrage economy humming, and when it runs out of obvious villains, it turns inward.

Today, it’s the substitute teacher. Tomorrow, it’s the Queer activist who used the wrong acronym in 2016. After that, it’s you, for that one time you said “I’m so OCD” while arranging your spices.

We are all one unearthed screenshot away from the digital gulag. The only people safe are those who have never been wrong, never been young, never been alive, in other words, nobody.

So here’s a modest proposal: let’s raise the bar.

Before we ruin someone’s life, let the offense be worse than “was a slightly different flavor of idiot than we currently allow.” Let’s demand evidence of actual harm, preferably in 4K, with timestamps.

Until then, consider touching some grass. Hug your mom. Remember that the person you’re drag-quoting into oblivion also has a mom who still thinks they’re a good kid.

Or don’t. Keep feeding the machine. Just know that one day it’ll want a snack, and the only thing left on the menu will be you.

I’ll be over here, deleting nothing. My skeleton closet is a Spirit Halloween superstore, and every door is wide open.

Bring your torches. I’ve got marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers.

Now share this before someone digs up my old MySpace comments.

There’s a fellow I once knew named Jerry who swore he was born to lead. From the time he could tie his shoes, he was in charge of something.

Kickball teams, Cub Scout hikes, and even, on one bold occasion, the neighborhood’s unofficial “Safety Patrol,” which mostly involved telling other kids to stop running near the mailbox.

Jerry wasn’t bossy, exactly, just convinced the world ran smoother when he was giving directions. He was confident, organized, and, as his mother liked to say, “a little too sure for his own good.”

When Jerry joined the Navy, he figured leadership came with the uniform. The first week of basic training, his chief petty officer asked, “You think you’re in charge here, sailor?”

Jerry, never one to miss a cue, answered, “Not yet, Chief.”

That earned him the glamorous job of latrine duty for the week. Nothing like scrubbing toilets to help a man re-evaluate his career path.

But as he worked, something began to shift. The chief wasn’t just barking orders. He was watching. He noticed who was struggling, who was improving, and who needed an extra push.

The ones who led best weren’t the loudest; they were the ones paying attention. By the time Jerry hung up his mop, he’d started to understand that following wasn’t a punishment; it was practice.

Years later, Jerry became a father, and like most fathers, found that parenthood has a way of turning theory into comedy. One Saturday, he decided to teach his young son, Ben, how to change the oil in the family truck.

“Just watch and learn,” he said.

But Ben, determined to be a man of action, slid under the truck before his dad could stop him. A minute later came a metallic clank, followed by a small voice saying, “Dad, I think the oil’s coming out kind of fast.”

It came out all right, fast, furious, and everywhere. Jerry just handed his son a rag and said, “Lesson one, kiddo—sometimes leadership starts with following directions.”

Funny how that stuck with him. Years later, when Jerry moved into management, he recognized the same truth.

The people who made the best supervisors weren’t the ones trying to prove they were in charge. They were the ones who’d taken time to learn, to listen, and to make mistakes without blaming someone else.

He used to tell new hires, “If you want to lead, first learn how to follow without complaint. Pay attention. Watch how good leaders treat people. Then when your turn comes, you’ll already know what works—and what doesn’t.”

Jerry said it with a grin, but he meant every word. Leadership, he liked to say, isn’t about standing in front.

It’s about standing with. It’s also knowing when to speak up, when to stay quiet, when to guide, and when to step aside.

He also had a favorite saying, “If you think you’re leading and nobody’s following, you’re just out taking a walk.”

So when someone once asked Jerry what made him such a good leader, he shrugged and said, “I learned by following better people than me.”

When people hear I once worked as a reporter in Virginia City, they get a faraway look in their eyes, as if I must’ve been hand-fed Mark Twain’s ghost chili recipe or something. The truth is, all I really got was a sore backside from sitting on barstools too long, and a pocket full of quotes from old-timers convinced the government was hiding silver under the courthouse.

Still, folks like to draw the comparison, “Why, you write like Twain!” they’ll say, which is a mighty fine compliment, even if undeserved.

It’s a little like telling a fella who plays the spoons at the county fair that he sounds like Mozart. Makes you blush, but you sure hope nobody asks you to play a symphony.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’d love to lay claim to Twain’s style. The man had a way of making you laugh and wince in the same sentence.

He could take a simple observation, like a frog jumping, and turn it into a parable about human foolishness. I mostly write about frogs jumping and trying not to step on one.

But here’s the thing–I did walk some of the same dirt roads Sam Clemens did. Virginia City hasn’t changed much since he packed up his pen and left — the hills are still too steep, the whiskey’s still too strong, and the stories still come free of charge if you sit still long enough at a saloon’s bar.

You can’t soak that place in without it leaving a stain on your soul, and I guess some of that stain comes out in the writing.

Where I part ways with Twain is the meanness. Twain had a bite, a way of turning his pen into a wasp’s stinger.

He’d jab at politicians, preachers, or anybody with too much dignity to deserve it. My aim is usually lower — more at the little everyday foolishness, like the grocery store moving the cereal aisle or people who think “gluten-free” means “half-price.”

Besides, if Twain were alive today, I figure he’d have a field day on Twitter, and I don’t have the energy for that kind of fistfight. I’d rather sit on the porch, sip my coffee, and write about how my neighbor’s goat keeps breaking into my garden like it’s running for Congress.

So no, I’m not Twain, and that’s all right. Every generation needs its own storytellers, and Lord knows we’ve got enough nonsense to keep us busy.

Twain had riverboats and miners; I’ve got self-checkout machines and HOA meetings. Different scenery, same human comedy.

If there’s a moral to this ramble — and Twain always liked to sneak one in — it’s this — don’t get too tangled up trying to be someone else. Clemens didn’t sit around worrying if he sounded like Dickens.

He just told it straight, with a grin and a sharp elbow. The best I can do is tell it straight with a grin and maybe a soft nudge.

And if once in a while, somebody squints and says, “You sound a little like Twain,” well, I’ll tip my hat, thank ’em kindly, and go back to writing about life.

Because that’s where I live, and that’s what I know. And chances are, Twain himself would approve — so long as I keep the whiskey glass full and the stories honest.