Ever since moving to Nevada and learning who Alfred Doten is, I have been an admirer of his. Known for his diary, Doten chronicles life in Nevada in general and the Comstock in particular from when he arrived around 1849 till his death in 1903.

With all that said, I have kept a journal since 1969. I say “journal,” because a friend of mine teased me severely once — “Diaries are for girls and sissies, which are you?”

It is only today, being this many days and years, and decades-old, that it dawned on me that journal is the root word for journalist. Duh!

Since beginning my so-called radio career in 1976, I’ve never been “good enough” to do a morning show. Sadly, my ego has always been at odds with that.

Finally, after 46-years, I am doing a morning show and doing it solo, meaning I have no one else in the studio with me. All I am doing is fulfilling the technical aspects of a radio jock.

Technical aspects? Yes, call letters or imager in and out of all spots-sets, where commercials play. I back-announce the song jus’ played, maybe say my name, tease two or three artists and then provide the weather or traffic.

It is a simple, music-oriented show and not personality-driven. It suits me fine as I don’t have a rapid-fire speech pattern, and I do not enjoy providing small talk unless I am face to face with another person.

Having come home, I found the chip bag and the dip container on the kitchen counter and the missus with her arms folded beside them in the most menacing style.

Thankfully, she does not own a rolling pin.

Our next-door neighbor saw me put trash in her garbage can sitting at the curb in the street when I walked by it. She removed it from the can, presenting it to my wife unceremoniously, and told her that “he better not do it again, or I’ll call the cops.”

Not only is my wife unhappy that I gaslighted her, but it also left her embarrassed that I involved our shitty neighbor. I have whatever she’s got in store coming to me.

In practical jokes terms, this is called a bomb. And it has dropped on me.

BOOM!

Decided that I needed a new electric razor. You know your razor has turned to the dark side when it begins nicking you to the point you bleed.

“I am your razor, Tom!”

“Nooooo!”

Okay, enough with the Star Wars-like dialogue.

Spent twenty bucks on one that I believed would last me at least a couple of years. Once home, I plugged it in and let it charge.

Twenty-four hours later, I unplugged it, flipped the tab to the on position, and nothing. Plugging it back in didn’t help it either.

Again nothing.

So I put everything back in the bag, including the hardened plastic that took me fifteen minutes to cut through, and took it back to the store. Finally, I get to the return counter and explain how it does not work.

The woman looked at the hardened plastic, back at me, then back to the plastic casing it was packaged in, and said, “We can’t take this back the container is too damaged.”

“Say what?” I shouted.

The assistant manager heard and asked, “What’s the trouble?”

The returns woman explained, I explained, and the assistant manager explained, “I’m sorry, but she’s new here. Come down here, and I’ll get you your money back.”

I felt suddenly killed with kindness.

To say that I overate today would be the most honest statement I’ve made all this week. The worst thing I did was polishing off an entire bag of potato chips and a whole container of onion dip.

Burp

Because of this, and knowing the wrath I would incur once my wife found out, I set out to hide the evidence of my ‘misdeed.’ It took her a day and a half to realize neither the dip nor the chips were where she put them.

Her focus turned to me.

“What chips?” I innocently asked. “What dip?”

She didn’t buy the doe-eyes I made at her but instead went to the kitchen garbage to look for the bag and the plastic container. Not finding either, she pulled all the trash from our large bin in the garage.

“I thought we had a bag of chips and some dip in the fridge,” she said. “I sorry I got mad at you.”

“It’s not a problem,” I smiled, knowing the evidence hides in our neighbor’s garbage bin.

It’s a story you cannot share with my wife. She already worries about me when I’m out after dark and in Virginia City.

Because we had a massive number of ‘legal publishings’ inside our newspapers, I was at the shop until about 11 p.m. Once finished, I began loading the boxes full of print into the vehicle as I had to deliver them the following day.

As I opened the door, it became abundantly clear that there wasn’t a single light along F Street, save for the heavenly stars above. However, the single bulb from the office cast itself into the street right before me.

The first thing I saw in the light was my shadow, followed by a movement. That same movement stopped and looked at me as surprised to see me as I was it.

Without blinking, it darted off into the inky darkness. It happened so quickly that I had no time to react, and had it wanted to attack me, I would have been dead in my tracks.

A mountain lion.

My Cousin Elmo says, “My old age is gonna be rough. I spent ten minutes chasing a house fly with the swatter only to realize it was an eye floater.”

My son and I were sitting outside on my front porch, enjoying the warming weather and a beer. We like to do this because, well — we like to.

We watched a semi-truck as it drove by, dragging a flatbed of rolled-up sod.

“That’s the first one I’ve seen this season,” I announced.

My comment met only silence, which is not unusual as my grown child has never been much of a talker. Instead, he took another draw from his beer bottle.

As I took a swig, he turned to me and said, “When I get rich, I want to do the same thing.”

Puzzled, I asked, “What same thing?”

“Have my grass taken out, mowed then brought back,” he said in his best dead-pan voice.

I snotted beer all over the two of us.

“I swear,” my wife said. “He’s the busiest man in media.”

She was talking to her sister or perhaps a friend. My heart swelled with pride that she found my work ethic worthy of a brag.

I was in bed, half-asleep, knowing 3 a.m. would come too soon.

“Oh, he’s not only a newspaper reporter, he also prints and delivers the papers,” she explained. “On top of that, he’s doing the morning show for a radio station in town. Not only that, but he writes a post to his blog nearly every day, takes pictures, draws, and paints.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” my wife said, interrupting the person she was talking with, “He also writes and produces a podcast.”

Smiling, I snuggled deeper into my blankets, secure knowing that — the thought was cut-off as I realized I had forgotten to do my podcast for the week. Crap!

So much for a worthy brag.

Running two days late because of more printer issues, I finally delivered the week’s news throughout the two counties of Lyon and Storey.

On this occasion, I took the Missus, who is not used to being in the passenger seat. She is also not a fan of my driving, which depending upon her mood, can run from either “you’re such a grandpa” to “slowdown before you get us both killed.”

During our half-hour jaunt through Virginia City, my wife learned how crowded C Street can get in the early afternoon and how hard parking is when making a delivery. To wit: I double park when unable to find a yellow-painted delivery zone available because non-delivery vehicles are lawfully allowed to park in them on the weekends and at night.

Safety was not her prime concern in this case. It was the people ‘staring’ at her when I turned the flashers on and exited the car.

She later admitted, “I slunk down in my seat the second time, so no one could see me.”