The Old Blog in the Desert

I found my excuse, and I intend to hang onto it like a tick on a hound.

You see, I’ve spent the better part of my adult life listening to people offer judgmental little remarks about my fondness for a sip or two of the good stuff.

“Whiskey again, Tom?” they’d say, as if I’d accidentally tripped and fallen into the bottle.

But now, thanks to a handful of very official-sounding studies, I’ve learned something that changes the whole conversation: smarter folks drink more. That’s right.

Good, reputable, lab-coated, peer-reviewed science has come to my defense at long last. Several large-scale studies, including one with more than 6,000 people, show that individuals with higher IQs in high school are more likely to enjoy moderate or even heavy drinking in their grown-up years. They found that for every point increase in IQ, there’s a 1.6 percent rise in the odds of becoming a regular drinker.

Now, I don’t want to brag, but I did read the entire study summary without once needing to Google a word. So I figure that puts me somewhere in the upper reaches of scholarly whiskey consumption.

I’ve always suspected my evening pour was less about vice and more about advanced cognitive function. Turns out I wasn’t just relaxing—I was exercising my neurons.

According to the same research, smarter folks also binge less. That makes sense to me, as I’ve always thought drinking should be a conversation, not a demolition derby.

There’s a rhythm to it: the gentle clink of ice, the smell of charred oak from the barrel, and the occasional deep thought like, “I wonder if squirrels judge us for using leaf blowers.”

Still, I must admit, this newfound knowledge is a bit of a double-edged sword, because now when I pour myself a glass of Cowboy Coolaid, beer for you city types, I can’t help but feel a little smug. And that’s a dangerous thing. A smug drinker is only one sip away from trying to explain string theory with a bottle of Coors Light and a cocktail napkin.

I shared my discovery with my reflection the other night—we have had some fine conversations over the years—and I raised my glass and said, “To intelligence!”

He raised his, too, as he always does, and we toasted in perfect synchrony. Then he frowned at me, which I thought was rude, until I realized I’d run out and he still had some left.

That’s when I knew I needed to call it a night.

So now, when someone catches me nursing a drink and they raise an eyebrow, I’ve got my reply ready, “I’m not drinking—I’m testing a hypothesis.”

And if that doesn’t win them over, I’ll remind them I’m supporting science. It’s practically a public service.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, I do still remember to drink water and take my vitamins. Intelligence is one thing, but hydration is where the real geniuses shine.

Cheers, my friends. Keep your minds sharp and your spirits moderate, or was it the other way around? Either way, the science is settled—I’m not a bad influence, I’m gifted.

Now, if you’ve never seen a dog get the zoomies, you’re missing out on one of life’s finest entertainments. My dog Buddy, bless his wiry little heart, gets the zoomies about once every three days like clockwork.

It usually starts with a sparkle in his eye and a twitch in his hindquarters, followed by an Olympic-level sprint around the coffee table, into the kitchen, up the hallway, then back again, all while I yell, “Settle down before you knock over something.”

He never does settle. And he always knocks something over.

Now imagine that sort of chaos, not on the outside, but packed neatly into your chest cavity like an overstuffed suitcase. That’s what anxiety feels like to me. Every part of me is calm—or at least pretending to be—but inside, I’m running full speed in a circle for no reason, barking at nothing and skidding on the tile floor of my mind.

I remember once sitting perfectly still at a coffee shop, trying to write a column on deadline. I had my favorite pen in hand, a legal pad at the ready, and nothing but black coffee in my cup.

I looked like a man in charge of his destiny. But inside, it felt like my internal organs were holding a loud meeting without me.

My brain was racing: What if you miss the deadline? What if you misspell a word? What if everyone figures out you don’t know what you’re doing, and you get kicked out of the coffee shop for impersonating a functioning adult?

Meanwhile, all I did was slowly sip my coffee and nod at a passing barista like everything was fine. That’s the trick of it.

Anxiety doesn’t always look like someone hyperventilating into a paper bag. Sometimes it’s a guy in a tee shirt with a mild caffeine tremor and a notebook full of half-started sentences.

I’ve tried a few methods to manage it. Deep breathing just made me feel like I was inflating a balloon full of worry.

Meditation’s lovely until my brain starts loudly narrating every single thing I’m trying not to think about.

“Clear your mind,” it says.

Easier said than done when your mind has a spotlight and a fog machine and insists on putting on a nightly production of Worst-Case Scenarios: The Musical.

So mostly, I live with it. I make a little space in the corner of my mind and let it zoom around when it needs to.

I’ve come to realize anxiety isn’t always trying to ruin me—it’s just trying to keep me alert, just a little too aggressively. Like an overprotective aunt who thinks you’ll die if you wear sandals in October.

Some days it wins, and I pace the floor with a belly full of bees. Other days, I manage to corral the zoomies long enough to get something done.

And on rare and wonderful days, I surprise myself by sitting still—not just outside, but inside too—and it feels like the world exhaled with me. Until Buddy gets that look in his eye and the coffee table starts shaking again.

And just like that, we’re off.

I saw her car pull up to the mailboxes this morning—an older model with a front grill like a steam locomotive’s cattle catcher. Not the kind of thing you forget.

She’s a neighbor, though I don’t know her name. Seen her around the neighborhood a few times, always alone. She keeps to herself mostly.

Today, though, was different.

I’d just stepped out onto the porch with my second cup of morning coffee, the sun barely warming the August air, when I heard her voice carry across the street like a wounded animal. Not words at first, just that raw sound grief makes when it forgets its manners.

Then clear enough for me to make out: “I don’t have any family and no friends!”

She was shouting it—sobbing and shouting all at once. Sitting there in the driver’s seat, window rolled down, slapping the steering wheel like it had done her wrong.

Maybe it had. Some days feel that way.

I recognized the tattoos on her arm when I walked to her car window—Sailor Jerry-style ink, a golden anchor laid over an unfurled American flag on her left bicep. That’s Navy.

Either she or someone close to her, and military folks don’t usually advertise it unless it means something. There’s always a story behind a tattoo like that, or two or three.

Buddy, my dog, perked up his ears and looked across the road, sensing something wasn’t right. Animals always know before people do.

I set my mug down, scratched Buddy’s head, and walked across the road. Not fast.

Just steady, like the way you approach a spooked horse. She glanced up, eyes red, jaw clenched.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” I asked gently.

“No,” she said, raw and honest, and I respected her for that.

“Would you like to come over and sit a spell on the porch?” I offered. “Got some good coffee and a dog that loves a scratch behind the ears. I’m a decent listener, too. You don’t have to talk, but you wouldn’t have to be alone, either.”

She shook her head. “No thank you, sir,” she said politely, with a kind of finality that told me not to press.

I nodded and stepped back. “Alright,” I said. “But the offer stands.”

She put the car in gear and drove the half block to her house. Slowly. Like someone who didn’t quite trust the road, or maybe didn’t trust herself on it.

Back on the porch, Buddy rested his chin on my boot, eyes following the street. I sipped my coffee and thought about all the people carrying things too heavy for one set of shoulders.

We live close to each other, but most of us don’t know a damn thing about the stories two doors down. That car with the cattle catcher grill will stick in my mind now—not because it’s peculiar, but because of who drives it.

Next time I see her, I might wave, might offer a cup again. That’s all a man can do sometimes—keep the porch open, a warm mug of coffee at the ready, and hope they know they’re not as alone as they feel.

Buddy gave a quiet huff and closed his eyes, and we waited.

It was one of those rare Nevada mornings when the air felt gentle, like it hadn’t already gotten roughed up by politics or wind or wildfire smoke. Buddy was at my feet, watching the world.

He’s a dog of simple convictions: bacon good, vacuum cleaner evil, and naps in sunbeams non-negotiable. I envy that clarity some days.

I was sipping coffee and trying to make sense of a news clip a friend had sent me—an interview with an AI version of a kid who died in the Parkland shooting. Not a dramatization. Not a tribute. A puppet. His face, his voice, his image—reanimated to talk politics.

Now, I’ve seen some weird things in my time. I’ve sat in radio studios during Y2K when we all thought the world might shut off at midnight. I’ve seen politicians cry on cue, only to forget the name of the town they’re “mourning” a few minutes later.

But this was different. Buddy must’ve sensed my unease.

He thumped his tail once, as if to say, “Go on, say it out loud.”

So I did.

“Buddy, we’ve crossed into something bad. This ain’t technology anymore. This is desecration with a Wi-Fi signal.”

The idea that someone took a dead teenager—someone’s son—and strung together a few algorithms to make him say, “we need stronger gun control laws,” while blinking and smiling like it’s Saturday morning cartoons, I’m telling you, it hit me harder than I expected.

Because what does it mean to be alive if your death becomes more useful than your life? When your soul can be summoned—not by prayer—but by code?

I remember my Grandma wouldn’t let folks take her picture. She said the flash always made her feel like something was getting taken from her.

At the time, I thought it was just old-world superstition. But maybe my Grandma knew something we forgot—that our likeness is sacred. That our face and voice aren’t just pixels—they’re personal.

I tried explaining it to my son once, when he was young and asking questions no father is ever quite ready for.

“Dad,” he asked, “what’s a soul?”

I told him the soul is that part of you that doesn’t show up in X-rays or blood tests. It’s the part that knows when you’ve done wrong, even if nobody else does.

It’s what makes you cry at sad songs and laugh at your reflection. It’s what dogs like Buddy see when they look past your tired face and wag anyway.

That AI kid—he didn’t have that. He had mimicry. He had intonation. But he didn’t have a soul.

And that’s the thing no one’s saying on cable news or in the tech magazines. They’re too busy marveling at the realism, calling it “groundbreaking.”

But I’ve buried friends. I’ve spoken at their funerals.

And I’ve never once thought, “You know what would help right now? A digital ventriloquist act.”

So here’s my humble plea: let the dead rest. Let memory be memory—not marketing.

You want to honor someone? Tell their story.

Tell it in your words, from your own broken heart. Not through some glowing screen that forgot what it means to mourn.

Buddy just huffed and lay his head on my boot. Yeah, pal. Me too.

Let’s not forget what it means to be human. And let’s never, ever outsource it.

I was out by Vista Boulevard yesterday morning, just putting miles on the truck and thoughts in my head, when I noticed the billboard. You can’t miss it—it sits right off I-80 hanging in the air like a tombstone.

“They went to a music festival and didn’t come home.”

I’d passed it before, maybe a week ago. It stopped me cold then.

No politics, no finger-pointing—just a quiet statement of grief. Something about the wording reminded me of a headstone.

There’s a heaviness in words like that. They don’t need to shout to say everything.

But that day, the sign was defaced. Spray paint, rushed and angry: “Free Palestine.”

I pulled off and parked a little way up, just sat there a minute. No radio. Just the creak of the truck cooling in the sun. I didn’t take a picture. Didn’t call anyone. I just watched it sit there, caught between grief and graffiti, and I felt, well, older than I did when I woke up.

I’ve been around long enough to know the world doesn’t come with clear-cut good guys and bad guys. I’ve seen suffering on both sides of every border you can name, and probably a few you can’t.

But there’s a difference between protest and desecration. The billboard didn’t declare war; it remembered the dead. And there ought to be some places, even now, where silence still has the final word.

I started thinking about my dad. He’d always say, “If you can’t leave a place better than you found it, at least don’t leave it worse.”

He meant it about campsites, mostly, but I think he was onto something larger. I think about him a lot these days.

Maybe because there’s not as much quiet left in the world. Or maybe because grief, once it lands in your life, doesn’t ever leave—it just changes shape.

The co-founder of the group who put up that sign said the defacement shows how rampant antisemitism is. I don’t doubt it.

People forget, or maybe they never knew, that October 7 was the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust. That billboard wasn’t trying to win an argument; it was bearing witness.

Driving away, I couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly people forget the human part of all this. Behind every slogan, every spray-painted slogan, are people. Sons. Daughters. Lovers. Friends.

There’s a whole world that never came home from that music festival. And someone saw fit to drown that out with a message that, whether meant to or not, spat on a memorial.

It’s easy to shout. Harder to sit still and listen. And even harder still to mourn someone you never met.

Anyway, the sign’ll get replaced. The vinyl scrubbed clean.

But I’ll remember what it looked like when kindness and cruelty shared a few feet of highway. And I’ll remember how quiet the world was in my truck when I saw it.

Some things deserve silence, and this was one of them.

Buddy and I were enjoying a quiet summer evening on the front porch yesterday, the kind where the heat finally backs off and the sky turns that dusty pink color that makes you think maybe the world isn’t so bad after all. He was sprawled out like a rug, twitching every so often in a dream I imagine involved rabbits or snacks—or both.

Me? I had my boots kicked off and a cold beer sweating in my hand, just a man, his dog, and the blessed silence of a Monday evening.

That’s when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet coming up the sidewalk. A young mother and her toddler were walking by.

The kid had that wide-eyed curiosity that’s either going to get you an interesting question or a rock in the mouth if you’re not careful. He was dragging a stuffed animal by one leg—looked like a koala who’d seen better days—and then he stopped right in front of my yard.

He looked at his mom, pointed at me with all the grace of a courtroom accusation, and asked, loud enough for the angels to hear, “Why is Santa getting drunk?”

Now, let’s pause here. I’ve got a decent white beard, especially since I’ve let it grow out a bit, and I was wearing a red T-shirt, which—okay, fair.

But I was also sitting there, minding my own business, enjoying a single beer. One. Uno. Not exactly nine reindeer deep.

The mom turned a shade of red that matched my shirt and looked at me, mortified. She started to say something—probably an apology or an excuse—but I waved her off and went full Foster Brooks, “Thhhe… the kid… he don’t m-m-missh mush, does he?”

There was a half-second pause, then she snorted, I laughed, and for a moment, the world was what it should be. Two strangers, laughing at the absurdity of it all, while my dog, unimpressed, rolled over and farted.

We chatted a little after that. It turns out mom’s name is Jenna, and her son’s name is Max.

They were just out walking off the late-afternoon wiggles before dinner. Jenna said it had been a long day of sticky fingers, tantrums, and stepping on Legos. I nodded understandingly—Buddy’s not a toddler, but he’s got his brand of chaos involving muddy paws and stolen sandwiches.

Before they walked on, Max waved at me and said, “Bye, Santa,” like it was the most normal thing in the world. I told him I’d see him in December and to keep being good, which earned me a little giggle.

After they disappeared around the corner, I sat back, took another sip, and thought about how funny life can be. You wake up thinking you’re just going to mow the lawn and maybe grill a brat, and then suddenly, you’re the neighborhood’s off-duty Santa Claus.

There’s a kind of grace in being mistaken for something good, even if it’s accidental. I wasn’t handing out toys or flying a sleigh—but I was being present.

Kindness can be simple like that. A laugh. A friendly voice. A moment shared on a porch between sips and stories.

So, here’s to being mistaken for Santa—and to making the most of the quiet moments when they come. And if you ever feel the world’s gotten too complicated, find yourself a porch, a cold drink, and a good dog.

You’d be amazed at what a little stillness—and a toddler’s honesty—can do for the soul.

Driving home this morning, with the windows down, I found myself sulking. There was nothing in particular wrong. The sky was blue, and the breeze warm.

But somewhere between the stoplight and the curve past the second roundabout, I felt that familiar end-of-summer melancholy tugging at me. And it hit me—I am not looking forward to school starting again.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been in school since the Carter administration, and I haven’t had to raise a school-aged kid since Obama. But here I am, sixty-five years old and still carrying that same knot-in-the-gut feeling I used to get around the third week of August.

Back then, it was about homework, alarm clocks, and wearing shoes every day. Now, it’s about school speed zones because there is no sadness like the sadness of suddenly remembering that 15 miles per hour applies again.

It never fails. I’ll be humming along at a respectable 35 or so, sun in my eyes, when I see that blinking yellow light up ahead and instantly feel like I’ve committed a felony. My foot slams the brake, then I’ll check the mirror for police cruisers as if I’ve just pulled off a heist.

What’s worse is that the children don’t even look impressed by the courtesy. Half of them have earbuds in, not a one of them waves.

Back in my day, if someone slowed down for you, you gave a nod. Maybe a two-finger wave off the top of your lunchbox. These days, I’m just an obstacle between them and TikTok.

I used to love school zones when I was a kid. They meant I was there, the adventure was about to begin, and I might see that girl from homeroom. Now they’re just a timed trap, sneaking up on you with stern signage and moral obligation.

The funny thing is, despite all my grumbling, I still get a little nostalgic. I see the kids bouncing and the moms trying to comb hair in the rearview mirror. And I remember that odd, hopeful feeling of the first day, with the new pencils, a clean shirt, and a lunchbox packed with a PB&J and an apple.

So, yes, I suppose I do still complain like a ten-year-old. The difference is, at ten, I had to go to school. At sixty-five, I have to drive past it slowly and try not to spill coffee on my lap. Progress, I guess.

Anyway, summer’s not over yet—not officially. I’ll soak up what I can before those flashing yellow lights become a daily part of my morning routine again.

Until then, I’ll keep driving a little too fast and pretending it’s still July.

It ain’t always sunshine and green pastures out here, though I wish it were. Sometimes, it’s just the wind rustling through an empty stall, and a quiet that settles heavily on your shoulders.

Yesterday was one of those days.

I’d been keeping a watchful eye on the two pregnant momma cows. We’d all been waiting—me, the dogs, the wind that came down off the ridge at night—for signs they were close.

And they were. Bellies low, bagged up, tails swishing more from nerves than flies.

It’s a hopeful kind of watching. You start thinking ahead.

Two calves, both heifers, maybe. That would mean growth. Not just more mouths to feed, but a promise. Especially for Jim.

Now, Jim’s not here in this story, but he’s a part of it all the same. He’s got pancreatic cancer. Keeps to his chores when he can, but lately it’s been more watching than doing.

Still, these cows—these babies—they were his hope. You know how some folks plant trees for a future they’ll never see? Jerry’s been breeding cattle. He was hoping these two heifers would one day help carry on his little herd long after he’s finished walkin’ the fields.

Yesterday, that hope got knocked clean out of the barn.

One of the calves was just too big. I had to pull it. I don’t know how long it’d been stuck, but it was long enough. Long enough to take a breath before ever drawing one. The baby was a beauty, too, with long legs and soft eyes. Would’ve made a fine cow.

I sat there a long while after, just brushing the hay off her and thinking too many thoughts all at once. That cow mama stood close by, nuzzling her baby like she was trying to wake her up. You never get used to that.

The second was stranger. No signs of struggle, no distress. Looked perfect. She’d been born sometime the day before, and I hadn’t noticed the cow missing from feed until last night. When I went looking, I found her standing alone, quiet, the calf at her feet.

Just gone. Dead and done before I ever had a chance to hope.

So now Jim’s back to square one. The mommas will need time to recover, and the rhythm of the farm stumbles just a bit. Folk forget that hope takes time to grow, and when it dies, it doesn’t vanish; it lies there in the straw and waits for you to acknowledge it.

Still, we carry on. That’s what you do out here. You let the dogs run ahead, you check the fences, you spread out hay like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll see a new bud on a fencepost vine or catch the mommas sunbathing and chewing cud like nothing ever went wrong.

Farm life’s like that. It breaks your heart soft and slow, but it also hands it back to you stitched up with sunshine, coffee, and barn dust.

Anyway, that’s how yesterday went. Quiet. Heavy. Real.

I married my best friend. That’s not just a poetic turn of phrase or something I’d slap on a wooden sign in the living room next to a candle that smells like “Farmhouse Memories.” It’s the plain truth.

She’s the calm when the world’s storming outside. The safe place I run to when the day’s gone sideways. The one who knows how I take my coffee and what my silences mean. She’s not just my wife; she’s my compass, my anchor, and the only person alive who can make me feel like a twelve-year-old boy and an old fart at the same time.

Now, that said, I can’t find my handgun.

You’d think that would cause a man a fair amount of distress—and it does—but not for the usual reasons. It’s not like I’m worried it’s fallen into enemy hands or anything. It’s our house, not an action movie set. No, the problem is, I know I put it somewhere safe. That’s what I told myself. I distinctly remember thinking, “This is a smart place to put this.” Which is a phrase that should always set off alarm bells, because it usually means I’ll never see that object again unless I stumble upon it during spring cleaning five years from now.

Now I’m pacing the house like a dog who buried a bone and forgot which tree he picked.

Drawers. Closet shelves. That weird little nook behind the laundry soap.

The bottom of the sock drawer, where old Christmas cards and mystery keys live. I’ve even looked inside the pressure cooker for reasons I can’t fully explain.

Meanwhile, my wife’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping her soda like a serene Buddha with good hair. She watches me without saying a word at first, letting me conduct my search with all the grace of a raccoon in a garage.

“You lose something?” she asks, finally.

“I’m just looking for…” I trail off. I can’t admit it. Not yet. “A thing.”

She raises an eyebrow. That’s all it takes. One perfectly arched eyebrow and I confess everything.

“My handgun,” I mumble.

Her eyes go wide for a second, and then the corners of her mouth do that dangerous little twitch. I know that one. That’s the beginning of the end.

She bites her lip, but it’s no use. She starts to laugh. The kind of laugh that starts small and then shakes her whole frame like a summer wind through the cottonwoods.

“In your ‘smart place,’ was it next to the peanut butter again?” she asks between giggles.

That’s not fair. That was one time.

Ten minutes later, she finds it. In the gun safe. Right where it should be.

“You locked it up, genius,” she says with a kiss on my cheek.

And just like that, I’m reminded of all the reasons I love her. She’s not just my heart—she’s my memory, my logic, and the person who knows me better than I know myself.

So yeah—happiness is being married to someone who is your best friend, your peace, your person, even if she does laugh at you when you can’t find your gun.

The water near the vile hole was thick and stale, with sulfurous salts. You didn’t drink it so much as you endured it, and if it touched raw skin too long, you’d find yourself blistered and burning by evening.

A man could die slower from that water than from a bullet, but just as sure. You learned not to wash in it, not to clean your gear, and Lord help the fool who tried to bathe.

They called it Bitter Hollow, though the name was kinder than the place deserved. The old station house squatted low and crooked against the edge of a wind-cut bluff, black with soot and sagging in on itself.

It had no roof worth mentioning, only beams charred by some half-hearted fire long forgotten. There were no chairs inside, and no one took notice. The floor was dust layered upon filth, and the smell clung to your boots long after you’d ridden a mile out.

Still, the Overland Trail passed through, and mail had to move, so the place remained, half-dead but stubborn as a mule with a broken leg.
Inside, smoke curled from a pit dug into the corner, the fire doing more to sting the eyes than warm the bones.

The walls, such as they were, stood open to the wind. A fella might think he’d find some relief in a breeze out here, but not these. These winds came daggered and wild, whistling down from the north like they were mad at the ground and determined to peel it clean.

The men stationed there were a sorry lot, God help ’em.

Most of them lounged like cattle in the shade, chewing nothing and staring nowhere. They weren’t drunk, but they looked it—slack-eyed, vacant, as if the land had burned out every thought they ever had.

In all my wandering, I’d seen miners ruined by quicksilver, mountain men lost in reverie from too long alone, but these boys were just blank. The desert had eaten ’em from the inside out.

All but one.

He lay near the broken door, stretched out on a bedroll that had gone too long without a shake. He was younger than the others, his face drawn tight with pain.

A horse had fallen on him weeks before, caved in his chest with the force of a rolling boulder. I could tell by the way he breathed—shallow, wheezing, like each pull of air was a debt he didn’t think he could repay.

The others ignored him. Not out of cruelty, I think, but because they’d already buried him in their minds.

When a man’s marked by death out here, folks quit looking at him. It’s easier that way.

I stepped in, said my how-do’s, but no one answered, but the wind and the wheeze of that boy dying, slow on the ground.

Sometimes the frontier broke a man with a bullet. Sometimes it broke him with loneliness.

But here at Bitter Hollow, it didn’t have to break you at all—you just had to stay awhile. And that was enough.