The Old Blog in the Desert

Northern Nevada’s once red-hot housing market is showing signs of serious cooling, and in some places, outright distress. Towns that staked their futures on Tesla’s Gigafactory and the promise of high-tech growth are now confronting a sobering reality: fewer jobs, too many houses, and a wave of automation that is hollowing out entire communities.

The slowdown is particularly affecting Sparks and Fernley. Both communities rode the wave of tech-fueled optimism, adding thousands of homes and apartments in anticipation of explosive growth. But with job cuts, automation, and declining demand, the region’s housing bubble appears to be deflating—and fast.

Sparks: Growth Without People

Sparks, often described as Reno’s scrappy younger sibling, spent the last decade rebranding itself as a growth engine for Northern Nevada. Developers rushed to build, putting up 8,500 new housing units in just four years. City leaders justified the expansion with projections tied to Tesla’s Gigafactory, Panasonic’s battery plant, and the Switch data center.

On paper, it was a compelling story: the Gigafactory was supposed to employ 10,000 people. In reality, current employment has plateaued around 5,500, and recent rounds of cuts suggest that number is shrinking. Panasonic has automated most of its operations, reducing the need for workers. And Switch’s data center—an imposing presence just east of Reno—requires surprisingly few employees to keep its servers humming.

“Everyone assumed these were job magnets,” said one Sparks-based realtor. “But you don’t need a thousand people to watch robots build batteries or to keep a server farm running.”

That mismatch between expectations and reality is showing up in the housing market. The glut is especially acute in the luxury apartment sector, where developers bet heavily on an influx of high-paid workers. Instead, many buildings struggle to keep tenants.

The Fountains at Victorian Square reports a vacancy rate of nearly 30 percent. Marina Vista, another high-end complex, is offering three months of free rent to lure renters. Meanwhile, The Metropolitan, a downtown Sparks development once marketed as a crown jewel, just sold for 40 percent less than it cost to build.

“When apartment complexes start selling at a loss, it’s not just a red flag,” said an industry analyst. “It’s a warning siren for the single-family market.”

The financial implications extend beyond private investors. Sparks borrowed heavily against future property tax revenue to fund roads, schools, and utilities sized for a city twice its current capacity. If property values tumble, the town faces a brutal choice: raise tax rates or cut services. Either path risks further depressing values.

“It’s a death spiral with casino lights,” said one longtime resident.

Fernley: The Bedroom Community That Never Woke Up

If Sparks is wobbling, Fernley is teetering.

Fernley, located about 30 miles east of Reno, is positioned as an affordable suburb for Gigafactory employees. Here, workers can purchase larger homes at lower prices while commuting to the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center.

For a while, the story held. Builders broke ground on sprawling subdivisions like Desert Springs, Copper Mountain, and Victorian Ranch. Fernley’s population surged, and so did optimism. Local leaders spoke confidently about new schools, bustling retail districts, and a thriving community life.

But as Tesla trims staff and Amazon automates its Fernley warehouse, the foundation is cracking. The city of 23,000 currently has more than 2,100 homes for sale, an astonishing figure for its size.

“Drive through Fernley today and it’s like a monument to optimism gone wrong,” said a broker who specializes in Lyon County. “Brand new houses with nobody in them. Community centers with no community. Parks where the only things playing are tumbleweeds.”

The developer of Victorian Ranch has already filed for bankruptcy protection, leaving parts of the subdivision unfinished. Other projects are seeing 40% of their phases unsold, a stark contrast to just a few years ago, when houses were being snapped up before construction even finished.

The retail that was supposed to follow never really materialized. Instead, Fernley has a cluster of marijuana dispensaries, a scattering of fast-food outlets, and a proliferation of storage facilities—seven and counting.

The housing numbers paint a bleak picture. The average time on market has ballooned to 127 days, compared with just 34 days last year. Price reductions are piling up.

One seller who listed a home at $485,000 has cut the price five times, now down to $399,000. Despite an 18% drop, there are still no offers.

“It feels like Black Friday out here,” said another agent. “Except nobody’s buying.”

A Region Built on Assumptions

The slowdown highlights a vulnerability in Northern Nevada’s economic model. City planners, developers, and investors alike banked on sustained tech-driven growth. They assumed workers would flood in, fill new homes, and fuel a self-reinforcing cycle of prosperity.

Instead, automation is undercutting demand. The very companies that drew national attention to Reno and Sparks—Tesla, Panasonic, Amazon—are now proving that the facilities don’t necessarily translate into large workforces.

“Everyone forgot that technology is designed to replace people,” said a housing economist. “The Gigafactory was never going to need 10,000 employees for long.”

The consequences ripple outward. Empty apartments in Sparks put pressure on landlords to slash rents, which in turn drags down property values. In Fernley, unfinished subdivisions and unsold homes signal distress that could reverberate through the broader market.

If current trends continue, the wave may not stop at Fernley or Sparks. Communities like Spanish Springs, Dayton, and Silver Springs may face similar challenges as builders pursue demand that has diminished.

What Comes Next?

Local officials face unenviable decisions. Sparks must either raise taxes to service debt or cut spending to balance its books, each option carrying political and economic risks. Fernley, with fewer resources, may find itself leaning heavily on Lyon County for support.

For homeowners, the outlook is equally grim. Those who bought at peak prices in 2021 and 2022 are now staring at the prospect of negative equity. Industry insiders warn that foreclosures may increase if job losses persist and refinancing options remain unavailable.

“This isn’t just a market correction,” warned one housing analyst. “This is the unraveling of an entire growth story that was built on shaky assumptions.”

Not everyone is ready to dismiss Northern Nevada just yet. Some believe that lower prices could attract retirees, remote workers, or Californians looking for more affordable housing. However, this transition may take years, and in the meantime, both residents and investors are preparing for the potential challenge.

As one Fernley homeowner put it while standing outside a for-sale sign in front of his neighbor’s empty house: “We were promised Silicon Valley with mountains. What we got is a ghost town with mortgages.”

I’ve been saying this for years—if you wouldn’t speak it to your mama at the dinner table, your boss in a Monday morning meeting, or even the government man with his clipboard, then don’t post it online, because nothing is private, not even that “anonymous” comment you typed while hiding behind a cartoon profile picture.

Every word is a seed, and sooner or later, what you plant will grow, and most folks get this–even the people with twisted thoughts usually know enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

We call it a filter, the little pause button God installed between our brain and our mouth, or our typing fingers.

You stop, you think, and you ask, “Is this kind, wise, or am I about to unleash evil into the world?”

But some folks today?

The filter between the mouth and the brain is busted.

It’s like trying to make coffee with a spaghetti strainer.

Everything pours straight through, and each person fails to recognize evil even when it is staring them in the face, especially when it’s dressed in the colors of their own tribe.

That’s why we’ve got people out there celebrating the death of a man, laughing and cheering as if it’s a football game. That’s a soul with its compass pointing straight into the abyss.

See, words don’t just float around harmlessly. Words justify actions but cover for violence.

James wrote in Scripture that the tongue is like a spark that can set a whole forest on fire. And he didn’t have X or Facebook.

The problem isn’t just politics. It’s deeper than that.

It’s a moral sickness. People who can’t tell right from wrong, call evil “justice” and cruelty “truth.”

They honestly believe hatred makes them righteous. And when you can’t see evil for what it is—especially when it’s coming from your own side—you’re not just lost, you’re blindfolded and walking toward a cliff.

The Bible said it would happen.

Now, I’ll admit, it’s tempting to fight fire with fire. To swing back twice as hard, spit out the same kind of venom, but that’s not the answer.

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your neighbor, unless he posts something nasty about you.” He said, “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”

That doesn’t mean we roll over and pretend evil is good—it means we confront evil without letting it poison our own hearts. So, filters matter, not because we’re trying to be fake or polite for the sake of appearances, but because they’re part of accountability.

A working filter says, “I know my words can wound, so I’ll choose them carefully.”

A broken filter says, “I’ll say whatever I feel, no matter who it destroys.”

Guess which one builds up society and which one burns it down?

Our words at the end of the day reveal our moral compass: Are we pointing toward light, or stumbling toward darkness, sowing peace, or scattering sparks that’ll burn someone else’s house down?

So here’s my simple advice, which I’ll repeat until I’m blue in the face–Before you hit “post,” imagine Jesus, your grandma, and your boss all reading over your shoulder: if you wouldn’t say it in front of them, don’t say it at all.

Because one day, we’ll all give an account—not to Facebook, not to the government, not even to the family dinner table—but to God Himself, and I’d rather hear Him say, “Well done, good and faithful servant,” than, “Why did you spend your days lighting fires with your tongue?”

I was walking down the street the other day, minding my own business, when a fellow in a pickup leaned out his window and hollered something at me that wasn’t exactly a blessing from the Beatitudes. I couldn’t make out all of it, but I caught enough syllables to know I wasn’t getting invited to Sunday supper.

Now, my first reaction was the same as yours would be—cheeks flushed, fists clenched, and a dozen witty comebacks marching through my brain like an army with fresh boots. It’s funny how our tongues can outpace our common sense by about three football fields when we feel slighted.

But then, like an old hymn sneaking into my head, I remembered Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

That’s Matthew 5:44. I don’t know about you, but I usually prefer the verses about God being my shepherd or my refuge. “Love your enemies” feels like it was slipped in by mistake, maybe as a test to see if we’re paying attention.

The truth is, Jesus meant it. He wasn’t just correcting the Pharisees for their stiff-necked reading of the law.

He was calling us all to something higher, and holier—God’s kind of love. A love that doesn’t just stop at “Don’t cuss back at the guy in the pickup,” but pushes us to pray for him, wish him well, maybe even wave without using all five fingers if you catch my drift.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable, because the world doesn’t applaud this kind of love. We learn to defend ourselves, clap back, cancel, or strike first.

But Jesus says, “No, take the better way. Don’t just avoid evil—overcome it with good.” (Romans 12:21)

I thought about that as I kept walking home. Somewhere between the corner store and my mailbox, I realized that if God shines His sun on the evil and the good alike (Matthew 5:45), maybe I could at least manage a prayer for a stranger with a loud mouth and a rusty muffler.

After all, who knows what kind of day that poor soul was having? Maybe he just got bad news at work, or his dog ran away, or he’s just the kind of person who thinks shouting insults is a sport.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t cost me much to whisper, “Lord, bless him anyway.”

Christians sometimes get painted with a broad brush as angry, hateful, or judgmental. And sure, some loud voices fit that caricature, but I’ve also known countless believers who live quiet lives of love—delivering meals, forgiving debts, showing up at hospital bedsides, loving people who don’t love them back. Those folks rarely make headlines, but they make heaven smile.

That’s the better way. It isn’t pie-in-the-sky. It’s shoe-leather faith. It’s making the choice—sometimes daily, sometimes minute by minute—to let Christ’s love outpace our temper.

Does it mean we become doormats? No.

Jesus never told us to ignore justice or stay silent in the face of real harm. But He did instruct us to forgive, to refuse revenge, and to pray for those who cut us deep, which isn’t a weakness, but strength measured in mercy.

So here’s my challenge, to myself first and then to you–the next time someone hollers, mocks, or mistreats, try the better way. Pray for them.

Bless them in your heart. Forgive before being asked.

If nothing else, you’ll walk home lighter, freer, and maybe with a story worth telling. Because love—real love—always leaves you stronger than hate ever could.

And who knows? Maybe that fellow in the pickup will get home, sit down in his recliner, and wonder why the guy he insulted just waved back and smiled.

Stranger things have happened on the road to heaven.

I’ve been officially retired according to the federal government for only ten days, and I’m already tired of this life. And I cannot see it getting any better.

It’s not that retirement snuck up on me. I had decades of advance notice.

A steady job, long hours, a payroll department dutifully withholding from every paycheck—every month a reminder that someday Uncle Sam would pat me on the head, hand me a monthly stipend, and say, “Go on now, enjoy your golden years.”

I pictured fishing, naps, reading books without falling asleep on the first page, and long drives with no destination in mind. I imagined I’d finally catch up with myself.

What they don’t tell you is that catching up with yourself is a surprisingly exhausting race. You’ve spent your life building a schedule, getting up at the same time, walking the same path, measuring your days by other people’s clocks.

When that’s all stripped away, the day yawns at you like a wide, empty parking lot. I used to complain about meetings, but now I’d give anything for one to have someone tell me where to be and what to do.

On Day One of retirement, I woke up at 4:00 a.m., like always, because the body doesn’t know what the government knows. It was a cool, dark morning, and the neighborhood was silent.

I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and no reason to hurry. The first hour was lovely. The second was nice. By hour three, I had cleaned out the junk drawer, reorganized the spice rack, and begun alphabetizing my old receipts. When my wife came into the kitchen at nine, I was leaning on the counter, staring at the toaster. “You’re up early,” she said. “Not really,” I told her. “I’m still on Day One.”

By Day Four, I had created a routine: I would wake up, drink coffee, stare at the ceiling, walk around the block, open the fridge, close it, and then open it again to see if anything had changed.. Retirement, I decided, is just working without pay, working at finding ways to fill time.

Everyone tells you retirement is a reward. What no one says is that it’s also a test. A test of patience. A test of imagination. A test of how long you can stand your own company without starting an argument.

The one thing saving me is my morning radio show, Monday through Friday. Without those hours on air, I think I’d lose track of what day it is—or worse, start talking back to the refrigerator. That show keeps me from unraveling completely.

On Day Five, my neighbor Larry—retired two years before me—invited me to join him for morning pickleball at the community center.

“It’ll keep you young,” he said. “Keeps the reflexes sharp.”

Pickleball, it turns out, is just tennis for people who’ve accepted they’re not as fast as they once were. The court is smaller, the ball is slower, the rules are looser.

You’d think it would be easy, but it isn’t. My reflexes weren’t just dull—they were practically on life support.

We played for forty minutes before I collapsed on a bench, gasping like a goldfish on a dock.

Larry looked as fresh as a daisy. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “After a few weeks, you’ll feel like a new man.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel like a new man. I wanted to feel like my old self, the one who could do a day’s work and still have the energy to mow the lawn.

On Day Six, I decided I needed a project. Retired people always talk about “projects.”

Build a birdhouse. Paint a fence. Write a memoir.

Something to make the hours stack up in a way that feels like a life. I went to the hardware store and bought lumber, nails, and a new hammer.

I built a birdhouse so lopsided that no self-respecting bird would move in. It looked like a condemned property.

I tried again, but the second one was worse. My wife suggested maybe the birds wouldn’t mind.

“They’re not paying rent,” she said. “They’re not picky.”

On Day Seven, I began writing a list of things to do, thinking a list would make me feel productive. “Make list” went at the top.

By the time I got to “Refill coffee” and “Check mail,” the list had already lost its luster. Retirement, I realized, is a little like being a teenager again–no money, no schedule, and an alarming amount of time to wonder what you’re supposed to do with your life.

I tried reading. I used to fantasize about days spent in a chair, a good book in one hand, a cool drink in the other.

But when you’re working, reading feels like a treat. When you’re retired, it feels like homework.

I tried napping, but naps are sweeter when stolen from a busy day. When the whole day is yours, lying down at two in the afternoon feels like giving up.

By Day Eight, I was muttering to myself. “You’re too young for this,” I said. “Find something to do.”

The houseplants were starting to look nervous. Even Buddy avoided eye contact.

On Day Nine, I returned to the hardware store to return the hammer. The clerk asked why.

“Too much responsibility,” I said.

He nodded like he’d heard it before.

That afternoon, I ran into Larry again. He was leaning on his fence, sipping lemonade. “How’s retirement treating you?” he asked.

I told him the truth. He laughed so hard he spilled lemonade on his shirt.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “You’re just in detox. You’ve been running on other people’s schedules for decades. Takes a while to come down. You’ll find your rhythm.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because right now my rhythm feels like a funeral march.”

“You’re looking at it wrong,” he said. “Retirement isn’t the end of work. It’s the beginning of doing your own work. No bosses, no deadlines. Just you and the clock.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “Me and the clock aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Start small,” he said. “One thing a day. Write a letter. Call an old friend. Take a different route on your walk. Don’t try to fill the day. Let the day fill you.”

I thought about that for the rest of the evening. It sounded suspiciously like common sense, which I’d avoid on principle.

On Day Ten—today—I tried Larry’s advice. I woke up at 7:30 instead of 4:00.

I didn’t make a list. I didn’t build anything.

I sat on the porch with my coffee and just watched. The sun came up over the trees. A squirrel attempted a daring leap from one branch to another and missed, hanging upside down by its back feet before scrambling up again, unhurt but embarrassed.

Around noon, I called my son. We talked for an hour about nothing and everything.

By the end of the call, I felt better, not because I’d accomplished anything, but because I’d remembered something: retirement isn’t about stopping. It’s about shifting gears.

I still don’t know if I’m ready for this life. But maybe the point isn’t to know.

It could be that the point is to keep trying things until something fits—like a new pair of shoes you break in over time. Maybe retirement isn’t a prize or a punishment. Perhaps it’s just another stage, like adolescence, like parenthood, like all the other stages we bumble through until we figure them out.

I don’t have a plan yet. But tomorrow I’m going to try baking that pie. And the day after that, maybe I’ll go back to pickleball, or take a drive to nowhere in particular. The days aren’t going anywhere. I don’t have to fill them. They’ll fill me if I let them.

And who knows? Maybe one of these mornings I’ll wake up and realize I’m not tired of retirement anymore.

Eighteen days out now, and I’ll be honest—my words feel about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. I’ve tried jotting things down on scraps of paper, muttering to myself in the truck, even pacing around the kitchen with a half-empty cup of cold coffee.

Still, nothing comes close to easing the hurt folks are carrying. And truth be told, I can’t seem to patch up my own heart either.

Grief has this way of sticking to you, like burrs after walking through a dry field. You brush some of them off, but a few manage to cling in places you can’t quite reach. It doesn’t matter if you’re strong, faithful, or the kind who jokes through funerals—you still find yourself tugging at that ache in the middle of the night.

I’ve noticed that everyone seems to handle it differently. Some folks are angry, stomping around, and blaming anybody within shouting distance.

Others go quiet, like they’ve misplaced their voice. And then there are the ones who keep baking casseroles, because when words fail, food doesn’t.

I call that love in a Pyrex dish.

Me? I write.

I keep thinking maybe I’ll stumble across a sentence that acts like a salve. Something folks can rub on their sore hearts and feel just a little better. But most of what I scribble looks like the notes of a distracted sixth-grader—half-finished thoughts, arrows pointing in every direction, and doodles of stick men fishing.

It hit me yesterday that maybe the reason I can’t find “the right words” is because there aren’t any, at least not from me. Words alone can’t fix the kind of hole left behind when someone’s life gets taken so suddenly.

But presence can. Prayer can. A simple phone call can.

Sometimes just sitting beside somebody and saying, “Yeah, I’m hurting too” is the closest thing we get to holy ground.

I learned this lesson the hard way one morning. I stopped by a little diner, ordered my usual, and the waitress, who’s as cheerful as a bird at sunrise, looked worn-out.

I asked if she was okay. She shook her head, and tears started pooling before she could stop them.

I froze, because I sure didn’t know what to say. Then, right on cue, I spilled my coffee—half a cup right into my lap.

Ouch!

She laughed. I laughed.

And for a moment, her shoulders eased. I didn’t solve her problem.

I didn’t preach a sermon. I just managed to be human at the right time, and maybe that was enough.

That’s the thing about grief. It makes us think we have to come up with grand answers, some thunderbolt of wisdom that’ll straighten everybody’s spine. But sometimes what’s needed is just to be clumsy enough, silly enough, or so tender that someone else remembers life isn’t all sorrow.

Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

He didn’t say how or when that comfort comes. Sometimes it arrives like a hymn that stirs your memory.

Sometimes it’s in the silence of prayer. And now and then, it comes in the form of spilled coffee and a shared laugh.

So here we are—four days out. Still hurting.

Many of us are struggling to find footing on a floor that won’t stop shifting. I don’t have a tidy bow to tie around this pain.

I don’t even have enough words to patch up my own. But I do know this–God has a way of showing up in the cracks, in the awkward pauses, in the small kindnesses we clumsily give each other.

Maybe that’s the best we can do right now. Let ourselves hurt, let others hurt, and keep showing up anyway—with prayers, casseroles, laughter, and the occasional coffee stain.

Because healing doesn’t happen in a rush, it’s slow, like dawn sneaking up over the mountains, bit by bit, until one morning you realize the dark has lifted enough to see the road again.

And when that day comes—and it will—we’ll walk it together.

I saw a man get shot. Not in some faraway warzone, but right here in the land of amber waves of grain and free refills at the diner. He was speaking his mind—exercising that precious First Amendment, the one we like to brag about when we talk about how free we are.

Then, in a crack louder than any firecracker on the Fourth of July, the man’s voice went silent.

Now, I don’t pretend to be a philosopher. I’m more like the kind of guy who thinks too long about whether ketchup belongs in the refrigerator or the pantry.

But in that moment, if a man can lose his life for speaking his mind, what business do I have surrendering my right to defend myself? The First Amendment and the Second Amendment—they’re not siblings that live in separate rooms.

They’re roommates, sharing the same roof of freedom. One guards the other.

I’ve heard all the polite debates, the clever soundbites, the lectures on “needs” versus “rights.” Folks will say, “You don’t need a gun.”

Well, I don’t need a pickup truck either, but try hauling a load of firewood home on a bicycle.

“Need” isn’t the question. Freedom is.

That man I saw—he didn’t need to say what he said, either. He could’ve stayed home, eaten a sandwich, watched a ball game, and kept his opinions to himself.

But freedom isn’t about what you need. It’s about what you choose, and when someone pays the price for using his voice, I know I’ll never give up the means to protect mine.

Now, I ain’t some wild-eyed Rambo type. I don’t sleep with an AR under my pillow or fantasize about running through the woods in face paint.

I did that. It wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be.

I’m the kind of fella who double-checks the sink to make sure it ain’t dripping. I lock my doors, say my prayers, and hope tomorrow’s weather won’t mess with my joints, but I also know evil doesn’t make an appointment before it shows up.

My granddad used to say, “An armed society is a polite society.”

It was his way of saying that good folks don’t go looking for trouble, but it doesn’t hurt to be ready when trouble comes looking for you.

And here’s where it gets tender–I don’t want my wife to feel scared walking from the car to the grocery store at night, my son or daughter-in-law wondering if the world is so dangerous that words can kill. I want them both to know that there’s still a backbone in this old Republic, and that backbone is the God-given right to stand tall, speak freely, and, if pushed, defend life itself.

I also want them to know I’ll defend them and their rights to my death, if needed.

We get told nowadays that holding onto these rights is somehow unkind, that it makes us dangerous. But I don’t buy it.

I’ve seen enough to know the dangerous people are those who believe rights are negotiable, like a coupon allowed to expire. That’s not freedom, that’s management, and I don’t need a manager for my liberty. So, I refuse to give up my Second Amendment, because I refuse to give up my First.

The day I watched a man die for speaking, I remembered something bone-deep–rights ain’t protected by wishful thinking, but secured through responsibility, courage, and sometimes, sadly, steel. So, I’ll keep my voice, and I’ll keep my arms.

And I’ll keep the faith that this messy, noisy, sometimes violent, but always beautiful experiment called America is still worth defending. And for the record, ketchup belongs in the refrigerator.

Some things are just common sense.

It hit me like a 99-mile-an-hour fastball from Rollie Fingers, right square between the eyes, while tucked in warm and cozy under the covers. We are all gnawing at our fingernails, worried sick about who blocked us, who canceled us, who whispered our names in some digital dark alley where reputations go to die.

All because we dared say we abhor violence against one man. But here’s the kicker—that very man was permanently canceled by an assassin’s bullet.

And yet, here we sit, fretting like middle-schoolers who just found out someone unfollowed them on Instagram. Do we really think the unfriending, the muting, the digital thumbs turned downward, are blows against our existence? Meanwhile, history rolls on, collecting bodies and names, whether we “liked” them or not.

As Alfred E. Neuman used to grin from the cover of Mad Magazine: “What, me worry?”

There’s a kind of wisdom in that buck-toothed fool, a wisdom we’ve misplaced. Somewhere between writing our posts and checking three times a day who’s still reading them, we’ve forgotten the plain truth–nobody gets out of this world alive, and the exit door doesn’t ask if you went viral on your way through.

That man who caught the assassin’s bullet? He had opinions, sure.

Some loved him. Some loathed him.

But the bullet didn’t care. The man was canceled without appeal, without arbitration, without even the chance for a rebuttal post.

One moment: here. Next moment: gone.

Now, I’m not saying words don’t matter—they do. I’m not saying voices don’t matter—they do.

What I’m saying is maybe we’ve confused noise with meaning. Just because you can hear yourself echo in a digital canyon doesn’t mean you’re shaking the mountains. Most times, it means you’re yelling at your own reflection.

Here’s where the humor sneaks in—because you have to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Picture it–you, me, all of us, anxiously refreshing our screens like gamblers pulling levers on slot machines, waiting for the jackpot of validation.

Meanwhile, outside, the dog is wagging its tail, the coffee pot is sputtering, and the sun is climbing over the horizon as it has every day since long before Zuckerberg grew his first pubic hair.

Life is still happening, and we’re missing it while counting who didn’t clap for our performance. I wonder—what would Alfred Neuman say to a culture that panics if a stranger doesn’t hit the “like” button?

Probably something like, “Grow up, kid. Get a sandwich. Pet a dog. Don’t sweat the block button.”

I’m not a cynic. I’m not shrugging at violence or injustice. I’m saying we need to put both things in their proper place.

A bullet that ends a life is tragic beyond words. A block button that silences a voice is annoying, maybe even unfair, but it’s not the end of the world.

The real tragedy is when we confuse the two. Because once we do, we give away our joy, our humor, our tenderness to the tyrants of technology.

And they don’t need bullets—they only need us to care too much about being canceled. So tonight, after jotting this down, I think I’ll crawl back under those covers and let Alfred Neuman whisper in my ear one more time, “Who, me? Worry?”

And maybe tomorrow I’ll do something wild, like live my life without checking whether anyone approves of it. Because the best answer to a world obsessed with cancellation is to be cancelable.

And if someone doesn’t like that? Well, they can go ahead and hit the block button.

I’ll still be here, sipping coffee, petting the dog, and waiting for Rollie Fingers to throw me another fastball of thought.

More than once, I’ve been told that now is the time to “turn the other cheek.” That advice usually comes my way after some ruckus–whether a family squabble, a political shouting match, or someone honking at me because I took a half-second too long when the light turned green. But the most recent reminder came after the assassination of Charlie Kirk.

And no, I’m not here to debate politics, conspiracy theories, or who was right and wrong. My take is much simpler–I’ve already turned my cheek, and it’s been that way for so long that if I swivel any further, I’ll look like an owl trying to reverse into traffic.

But before we get too tangled, let me explain where this whole “turning the other cheek” thing comes from. Back in the days when Jesus walked the dusty roads of Galilee, Rome had the power and Rome made the rules.

Romans were legally allowed to slap Jews in the face, usually with the back of the hand. The point wasn’t to hurt so much as to humiliate, to remind the Jews of their “place.”

Now, here’s the clever bit–if a Jew turned his head after the first slap, he forced the Roman into a choice. A second strike would have to come with the open palm.

And that was a problem, because in Roman culture, an open-handed slap wasn’t for subordinates. It was the kind of blow you gave to an equal in a heated argument.

In other words, the Jew, without lifting a fist or raising a weapon, had quietly forced the Roman to admit equality. That’s not just passive resistance–it’s passive rebellion.

A way of saying, “You can strike me, but you will not diminish me.”

And let me tell you, there’s a certain beauty in that kind of defiance. So yes, I’ve turned my cheek, not because I’m too weak to fight back, but because turning it is its own kind of fight.

Now, I’m no saint. I’ve raised my voice, muttered a few sharp words under my breath, and even once slammed the door so hard Buddy hid under the dinner table.

I’ve got a temper that pops up like toast if you leave me too long with people who chew ice or insist on explaining “how things really are.” But when it comes to the deeper stuff–when it comes to keeping my dignity intact in the face of insult or injury–I’ve learned that turning the other cheek is sometimes the only move left on the board.

It’s also, oddly enough, the move that leaves me smiling.

Let me give you a small example. The other day, I was in the hardware store trying to navigate the aisle without running over anyone with my cart, which wobbled like a baby giraffe on roller skates.

I was hunting for a box of screws when a fellow customer shoved past me, gave me a look like I’d stolen the last crust of bread in wartime, and muttered something about “people these days.”

Now, old me might have muttered right back. Maybe even followed a few steps so they knew I wasn’t going to take it lying down.

But instead, I thought of “turn the other cheek.” So I smiled, tipped my head, and said, “Have a good morning.”

The poor guy nearly tripped over his own shoelaces trying to figure out what to do with that. And I walked away with my screws and my peace intact.

That’s the thing about cheek-turning–it unsettles the other person far more than lobbing an insult ever would. Because when you don’t respond the way they expect, you’ve already won.

Now, don’t mistake turning the cheek for rolling over. I’m not suggesting you let yourself get treated like a doormat.

You can turn your cheek with steel in your spine and a glint in your eye. It’s rebellion wrapped in kindness, defiance packaged as dignity, and sometimes it’s just common sense.

After all, if I got into a fistfight every time someone insulted me, I’d never have time for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

And half the things that get us riled up aren’t worth the blood pressure anyway. The neighbor who lets his dog bark at 2 a.m., a coworker who steals your stapler and pretends it’s his, or the person online who insists on typing in ALL CAPS LIKE THEY RE YELLING AT THE ENTIRE WORLD.

Are these worth throwing punches over? No.

But turning the cheek doesn’t mean you stay silent forever. Words are powerful–sometimes more so than fists–and used well, they’re sharper than any slap. A calm, pointed remark, spoken with humor, can make the other person realize they’ve lost without you ever breaking a sweat.

That’s what I mean when I say I’ve already turned. When the world strikes me with its backhanded slaps—through loss, through insult, through tragedy–I turn.

I don’t turn because I’m afraid, but because I know that I’m standing taller. Some people call that weakness. I call it strategy.

Have you turned your cheek yet? Maybe you’ve been holding back, thinking that to do so would be to let “them” win.

But the truth is, when you turn your cheek, you’ve already shifted the game. You’ve refused to let someone else dictate your response, and in that small, stubborn act, you’ve claimed your dignity back.

Sure, it feels strange at first. You’ll feel the sting of the first slap, literal or figurative, and your gut reaction will be to lash out. But when you resist that urge and instead turn, calmly, deliberately–you’ll be amazed at the power that wells up inside you.

Turning the other cheek is like saying, “I see your contempt, and I raise you my dignity.”

And there’s humor in it, too, if you let yourself see it. Watch the expression on someone’s face who’s expecting fireworks but gets a smile instead.

It’s priceless. It’s like giving someone a wrapped gift box. The person feels confused, agitated, and suddenly angry without an outlet.

So I keep my cheeks ready, not because I enjoy getting slapped around by life, but because each turn is a reminder–I am not less, and will not be diminished. And if you want to try again, well–good luck with my other side.

Because at the end of the day, I’d rather walk away smiling with my box of wood screws than storm off angry and empty-handed. So yes, I’ve turned the other cheek, and more than once.

Sometimes clumsily, sometimes with style, but always with the knowledge that the act itself is its own quiet rebellion.

How about you? Have you turned yours yet–or are you still standing there, red-faced and ready to swing?

Did you see or participate in the mass protests and riots staged by “right wing extremists” after the assassination of Charlie Kirk?

No? Me neither.

That’s because they didn’t happen. Not even a single trash can fire or a looted Dollar General. Not a single shoe store cleaned out, unless you count that one guy in Tulsa who bought his own boots on sale and went home happy.

It’s funny, in the sad kind of way, that whenever tragedy strikes one side of the fence, the media bristles for fireworks—whole newsrooms leaning forward in their chairs, like dogs waiting for the dinner bell. They’re poised to show you smashed glass, stolen flat-screens, and folks running around in masks carrying things they didn’t buy.

But when the bell doesn’t ring—when all you get is prayer vigils, casseroles, and a bunch of folks hugging each other in church basements—the cameras somehow get very shy. Instead of riots, we got quiet.

We got folks meeting in living rooms and bowing their heads in prayer. We got grandparents telling their grandchildren why faith doesn’t falter just because the world takes away a man.

You’d think, in a sane world, that would be news. That peace would be headline-worthy.

But peace doesn’t sell ads, and it doesn’t whip up fear, and it doesn’t keep people glued to the television waiting for the next firebomb. Peace, by its very nature, is boring to people who don’t live in it.

I can hear the critics now: “Well, they just didn’t care enough to riot.”

Hogwash. It’s because the critics cared more about the message than the man.

Charlie didn’t tell people to fight in the streets. Said to stand, to speak, to reason, and to pray. That doesn’t translate to bricks through windows, no matter how much a headline-writer might wish it did.

You know what happened? Moms hugged their sons a little longer before sending them off to work. Dads sharpened their old tools and reminded themselves that raising a family is the real resistance. Neighbors waved at each other across fences, not because they agreed on everything, but because they knew life is too short to stew in hatred.

Meanwhile, on social media, there was plenty of gnashing of teeth. Folks posted memes, wrote long rants, and some unfriended each other—because apparently nothing says “I love free speech” quite like hitting the block button.

But that was about as violent as it got. If you count words as bullets, then maybe, yes, there was a firefight. But if you count peace as strength, then we stood unshaken.

The truth is, restraint is harder than rage. Anybody can light a match; it takes a grown-up to put the lighter down.

Anybody can scream; it takes discipline to whisper a prayer. And when you’re hurting, restraint looks like weakness—but only from the outside, because on the inside, it’s a furnace, roaring to keep you from freezing solid.

So no, I didn’t see a riot. I saw folks take their grief and aim it heavenward.

I saw people choosing to live out the values Charlie debated rather than stain them with the same violence they’d condemned in others. And if that’s boring, then give me boring all day long.

Someday, someone will write the history of this moment, scratching their head, wondering why the “angry extremists” stayed home. And if they’re honest, they’ll see the answer was simple–because love doesn’t need to burn down a city to prove itself.

And if they’re dishonest, well, they’ll probably still say there were riots, but you and I will know better.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we live in a country where a bartender can land in jail for serving one too many beers, while a judge can turn a violent criminal loose on the public and go home to a steak dinner.

Think about that for a second. A bartender, in the middle of a Friday-night rush, has maybe ten seconds to size up whether a fellow is buzzed or bombed. One bad call, and if that customer crashes a car later, the bartender can be charged right alongside him.

Now let’s move up the ladder. A judge, sitting in a quiet courtroom, has an entire file on the person.

Pages of priors, details of violence, reports from probation officers — the whole sordid history. Sixteen convictions.

No problem. Back on the street you go, son.

And when that criminal kills an innocent woman riding the light rail, what happens to the judge? Nothing.

Not a fine, not a charge, not even a stern talking-to. Just another day at the office.

If the bartender has to carry the weight of the drunk’s bad choices, shouldn’t the judge shoulder the weight of the criminal’s next one? Common sense says yes.

Fairness says yes. But the law, as it stands, says absolutely not.

And that’s the part that gnaws at me.

The bartender doesn’t have access to background checks. He can’t look up DUIs or pull an FBI file before pouring a pint.

He’s working off watery eyes and slurred words. The judge, on the other hand, has the entire rap sheet.

It’s like a neon sign flashing: Warning! This one is dangerous! Yet when that danger explodes, the judge shrugs and says, “Well, we can’t predict the future.”

That’s hogwash.

If we expect accountability from those serving drinks, then we should demand it from the folks serving justice. Imagine if we did.

“Judge Miller, you released a violent repeat offender who went on to kill. Step down from the bench — and step into the defendant’s chair.”

That might finally bring balance to a system tilted so far it’s falling over.

Now, I’m not saying every judge is careless or cruel. Most want to do right, just like most bartenders desire that their customers get home safely. But when a judge knowingly rolls the dice with public safety, and the worst happens, why should they be shielded while the bartender is shackled?

The truth is, judges don’t just release individuals — they release consequences. And sometimes those consequences have names, faces, and grieving families left behind.

So here’s my proposal, plain and simple–if the bartender is liable, the judge ought to be too. That’s equal standards and accountability.

A drunk on the road and a criminal on the street are both preventable tragedies. And the people who helped put them there should share the blame.

Otherwise, we’re saying that pouring a beer is more dangerous than emptying a jail cell. And if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you — and I won’t even card you before I hand you the keys.