My Cousin Elmo says, “Smile at your enemies as if you have a case of gas, and if possible, fart, then walk away.”

Tipsy the Clown stepped out of the bar and into the evening’s chilled air. Drunk, he proceeded to stagger to his clown car and climb in.

With his knees higher than the steering wheel, he turned on the car and stomped on the gas pedal. The tiny vehicle took off at a fast rate of speed, disappearing into the dark.

Suddenly there was a loud crash as Tipsy missed the sharp curve heading out of town and slammed into a huge tree.

When first responders arrived, they immediately radioed for 24 more ambulances. They had all seen this carnival show before.

“I found a new butcher’s shop today,” she said.

“What was wrong with the old one?”

“Nothing, it’s just that this one has better, leaner cuts of meat, and the prices are better.”

“How long have they been in town?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe two weeks or so.”

That night, at dinner, he agreed that the roast she had bought from the new butcher was tastier and more tender than what they had been eating.

She smiled.

---

Three counties away, the local sheriff was investigating yet another disappearance of a young child.

“That’s the third one this month,” he complained.

As any service member can tell you, there is a penalty for alcohol abuse. In this case, we are speaking of spillage.

When it happens, punishment — erm — we mean discipline — must be provided to the offender. Though it varies from one duty station to another, a set of push-ups are generally the prescribed correction.

As I sat in the Union Brewery Saloon in Virginia City, I was startled by the sudden affections of a woman. As she hugged me and kissed my cheek, I knocked a newly decapped bottle of Yellow Belly to the floor.

Because of “muscle memory,” meaning I didn’t think first, I dropped to the hardwood floor and started “giving 25.” It became a sad spectacle as, by the ninth one, I knew I did not have it in me to finish.

My arms collapsed, and my back spasmed to the point I lay on the floor, flopping like a fish out of water in spilled beer. The laughter that ensued was not my intent, but I rolled with it anyway.

Now I wonder which needs more work, my push-ups or my alcohol abuse.

it is not a smoke day for schools
pity the little school children
sitting in class and dreaming
staring out the smokefrosted panes
thoughts of making smokemen
creating winged smoke angels
tasting newly fallen smokeflakes
eyelashes catching smokeflakes
building not-so-secret smoke forts
having many smokeball-fights
and sledding down smokehill
on last years steel smoke-runner
gloves and knit smoke hat ready

Ink, 8 x 11 1/2 inches

My Cousin Elmo says, “Stop buying plastic skeletons for Halloween. They are bad for the environment. Locally sourced, all-natural skeletons are much more environmentally friendly.”

For the third time in the past six months, I played the song “The City of New Orleans,” by Arlo Gutherie, written by Steve Goodman. It’s a nostalgic tune about the passing of the railways throughout the U.S.

It leaves me both happy and sad.

The first thing I thought of when hearing it this time is the Virginia & Truckee Railroad and how hard Tom Gray, and his late father Robert, have worked to keep the engines moving. Then like a needle on a record that gets bumped, I skipped fancying if anybody would find a gas-powered engine nostalgic.

“Them was the days, boyos! The days!”

Lastly, I wondered if a song would ever find its way into American folk music.

“A salute to the ruling classes
U don’t know a gas-powered engine
Once was the proletariat workhorse
We would go four hundred miles on a tank again”

Nailed it!

Sometimes it is difficult writing and reporting for the newspapers of record in such small communities like Virginia City. All sorts of things can go wrong, like seeing a bad story about a friend.

That happened this week, and I had to bite the bullet and do my job, whether I wanted to or not. There was no way to soften the blow of stories subject — solicitation of a minor.

I consider everyone innocent until proven guilty, but many people prove themselves of the opposite thought.

Writing about death, whether natural or an accident, or unnatural, makes for a bad day. It is worse when the story fails to make the pages for whatever reason.

That happened about a month ago when a person’s obituary got deleted. I’m still sick to my stomach over that one.

Then there are the times I get caught by some opinionated loudmouth wanting to know why I didn’t report on this or that or to complain that I wasn’t harsh enough on a person in an article. The most recent happened while I was repairing the paper box in front of the post office.

I try to educate rather than argue.

“Think about the word ‘news,’” I often say. “It is an anagram for north, east, west, and south. It also contains the word ‘new.’ If it isn’t new information, it isn’t news. Further, the word ‘news’ doesn’t contain the word opinion, and therefore it doesn’t fit with reporting the ‘news.’”

They usually go away as angry as they were when first approaching me. I can be very stubborn about this, as I want my work judged on its fairness and not on whose side I stood when it came to small-town politics.

Lastly, there are times that I never hear about a story until after my weekly deadline of Tuesday at 5 p.m. In those cases, I have to wait for the following week.

Hey, I ain’t a mind reader, Mr. Barnum.

But before I can whip out a story, I need to judge if it is still relevant by following the ‘news’ as I laid out before. If it is, I move forward — if not, it is ‘redlined.’

To escape all this week-to-week drama, I read, draw, paint and write these dispatches to break the stress. Anyways…

My Cousin Elmo says, “By drinking green tea instead of coffee, you can lose 87 percent of what joy you still have in life.”