The Old Blog in the Desert

When I was a boy, I asked the preacher if dogs went to Heaven. He gave me a long answer that included a few verses, some metaphors, and a lot of shrugging. I took that as a “probably not,” which didn’t sit right then and doesn’t sit any better now.

See, I’ve known dogs better than I’ve known most people. I’ve loved a few, buried a few, and cried over more of them than I ever let on. I’ve watched them grow old on the same porch I grew old on, with their gray whiskers catching the morning light and their bones popping like old floorboards when they stood up.

And when the day came—the day that always comes—I’d hold them while the vet did what needed doing, and I’d whisper some nonsense like, “It’s okay, buddy,” though it never felt okay, not even a little.

Now, I don’t pretend to know the secrets of the universe, or what’s waiting past that last breath. But I do know this, wherever the good dogs go, I want to be. That seems like the only place worth heading to.

Men chase all kinds of foolishness in their lives. I’ve done it myself—ran after ambition, burned up time trying to be impressive, fell headlong into love with the wrong woman once or twice, though she’d probably say it was the other way around. And when it’s all said and done, none of it sits as warm on your heart as a dog resting its chin on your knee, just happy you’re there.

You can holler at a dog, forget to feed him, leave him behind on a fishing trip—and he’ll still look at you like you hung the moon. Not because you deserve it, but because he decided a long time ago that you were his, and that was that.

I think that’s about as close to grace as we get on this side of the grave.
Some folk imagine Heaven as mansions, choirs, and halos, and maybe it is.

But for me, I’d rather it be an open field just after a summer rain. One of those places where the grass grows long and soft underfoot, and there’s a good dog just ahead of me, tail wagging, tongue out, turning back now and then to make sure I’m still following.

If there’s a God—and I believe there is—I figure He knew what He was doing when He made the dog. No ego, no lies, no agenda. Just love, and the quiet willingness to stick around even when things get hard.

So when my time comes, please don’t put too much fuss into it. Just find a shady spot under a tree somewhere, and let me lie down beside an old friend.

Let the dirt be warm, and the breeze soft, and the silence kind. And if someone asks what happened to me, say, “He went to the dogs.”

And that’s all I ever wanted.

There’s a fine line between eccentric and institutionalized, and I’ve spent most of my adult life doing cartwheels right on top of it. Some folks call it “marching to the beat of your own drum.” I say I’m just lucky nobody’s snatched the drumsticks out of my hands and handed me a padded roommate named Gary

See, I once walked into a post office wearing mismatched socks, a Hawaiian shirt, and a coonskin cap—middle of November, mind you—and the clerk looked at me like she wasn’t sure whether to sell me stamps or call for backup. I just smiled and asked if she had any that tasted like peppermint. That’s when I saw her quietly reach under the counter and probably press a little red button.

But I’m not crazy. At least not technically. I pay taxes, I water my plants, and I only talk to myself when I’m sure no one else is around—or when the conversation gets interesting.

Now and then, I’ll see someone muttering to a bush, flailing their arms at invisible enemies, or wearing tin foil as a fashion statement. The old me used to whisper, “There but for the grace of God…”

But the newer, more seasoned me realizes we’re all one bad week away from living in a bathrobe and yelling at traffic. The only difference between me and someone in a psych ward is that I’m outside—and sometimes not by much.

Case in point–last year, I decided to build a “thinking shed” in the backyard. A little place to sit, stare, and maybe write a poem or two if inspiration struck before the mosquitoes did. I painted it green because it made me happy, hanging up a disco ball, figuring my muse would appreciate the sparkle.

My neighbor, Bob, came over with a beer in one hand and confusion in the other.

“You startin’ a cult?” he asked, peering inside like he expected to find chanting or goats.

“Nope,” I said. “Just needed a place to sort through the voices in my head.”

Bob didn’t laugh. He backed away slowly and later left a pamphlet for a local church in my mailbox.

But truth be told, it’s a mighty thin membrane separating the everyday crazy from the completely unhinged. I once had a dog who would bark at its reflection. We never locked it up—we just said it was spirited. But when I talk to my reflection, suddenly it’s “concerning.”

You start to realize, after a certain age, that normal is a town most people pass through, not a place anybody lives. We’ve all got quirks. Some people collect garden gnomes. I gave names to mine and invited them to dinner. Sue me.

So if you see me wandering the neighborhood at sunset in pajama bottoms and cowboy boots, talking about how clouds are just sky lint, don’t worry, I’m fine.

I’ve always tried to be open-minded about food. I ate bugs on a dare in middle school, chewed raw garlic during a brief, misguided health kick in my thirties, and once even tried something called “nutritional yeast,” which tasted like an old library book. But nothing—nothing—has challenged my taste buds and moral convictions like cilantro.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Tom, cilantro is a superfood!

Yes, well, so is dirt, technically. I’m not here to argue science. I’m just here to explain why cilantro and I have gone our separate ways—and why it keeps trying to sneak back into my life like an ex who swears they’ve changed.

It all started when my wife came home from the store one day, arms loaded with leafy greens and enthusiasm.

“We’re going to get healthy,” she said, beaming, as if cilantro was a friendly guest we’d invited over for dinner instead of the soapy intruder I knew it to be.

She sautéed it. She massaged it. She put it in smoothies with names like “Green Warrior” and “Detox Sunrise.”

And every time, I tried to be polite. I’d nod and chew and make approving noises like a man eating a rolled-up welcome mat dipped in lemon juice.

“It’s so versatile,” she’d say, cheerfully tossing it into soups, salads, and even—this is not a joke—brownies. “You barely taste it!”

Now, I love my wife. But I’ve tasted cilantro in brownies. I’ve tasted it in things where cilantro has no moral or culinary business being. Cilantro doesn’t disappear. It lurks. It haunts. It’s like a grumpy cousin who never leaves the family reunion.

Eventually, the tide began to turn. I staged a rebellion, loudly and with visible gagging. Even the dogs wouldn’t eat the leftovers, and these are two creatures that eat a dead lizard with visible joy.

The final straw came during spring cleaning. I opened the fridge, and there it was—a large, unopened bag of cilantro, three weeks old and somehow crispier than when bought. It had survived like a cockroach in the coldest part of the produce drawer, glaring at me from behind the expired yogurt.

That’s when it hit me—cilantro is versatile. It fits into any meal and any size trash can. I discovered this by cramming it into the bin beside the counter and then into the garbage can in the garage. It conformed to every container as if it had been born for discard.

And don’t you know, it still shows up. At church potlucks, in neighborly casseroles, and even at restaurants, hiding like a health-conscious apology.

I’ve accepted my fate. Cilantro and I will always share the same planet, maybe even the same refrigerator from time to time.

But deep down, we both know where it stands–in the trash, right next to the nutritional yeast.

When the Trump administration took back the White House from Biden, a bunch of folks I know expected the Department of Justice to come roaring out like a pack of bloodhounds on the scent—law officers in suits, talking tough and playing hardball, just like that old Law & Order: SVU show. I even joked they ought to install a gong behind the Attorney General’s desk so we could hear that dun-dun every time someone walked in with a sealed indictment.

But instead of Jack McCoy and a team of grim-faced prosecutors, we got Pam Bondi—a woman who seems to think a highlighter pen and a push-up bra are tools of the trade.

Now, Pam’s no stranger to courtrooms—she was Florida’s top legal dog for a while. But let’s be honest: her real courtroom experience looked more like a press conference than a prosecution.

She didn’t exactly battle corruption so much as dress it up and walk it down the runway. She smiles as sweet as sorghum and talks like a Southern belle who just caught her husband cheating but decided to forgive him at a country club luncheon.

Cousin Elmo—who mostly watches the news to keep track of who to distrust next—looked up from his Corn Nuts the day she got the nod and muttered, “Ain’t she the one who went after Big Pharma in Florida?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and the one who spent more time during the impeachment trial coordinating her wardrobe than coordinating legal strategy.”

Pam took over the DOJ as if she were hosting a makeover segment on morning television—out with the old, in with the camera-ready. Suddenly, the Justice Department had better lighting, fewer leaks, and a glam squad feel. Instead of the steely-eyed AG we expected, we got the prom queen.

Some say she’s tough. I say she’s slick.

She didn’t clean house so much as rearrange the furniture and throw a few folks out who didn’t match the new color palette. There’s a difference between justice and a purge, and Pam’s version feels more like a sorority house power play than a constitutional reckoning.

Sure, she’ll tell you they’re reviewing the matter. But when Pam says that, it sounds less like prosecutorial discretion and more like she’s deciding who gets cut from next week’s episode.

I’m no legal expert. But I can smell perfume politics from a mile off, and Bondi’s DOJ has all the scent of image management with a side of vengeance.

Maybe we didn’t get Law & Order. Perhaps we got Legally Blonde: Executive Branch Edition—complete with stilettos, soundbites, and subpoenas that never quite land.

Still, Cousin Elmo hasn’t yelled at the clouds in weeks. Now he yells at the TV, usually something like, “Why’s she dressed like she’s going to brunch?!”

So I guess you could say Pam’s DOJ is bringing change. Not the kind we expected—but change all the same.

And if nothing else, it’s got people paying attention, even if they’re mostly watching for the outfit.

Now, I don’t want to say I’m a lazy playwright, but I once wrote a one-act play about Helen Keller. She just sat in a chair and said nothing because, well, she was blind, deaf, and mute. Some called it avant-garde. Others called it offensive. I called it finished.

It was during a short-lived period in my life when I fancied myself a man of the theater. I had seen a local production of Death of a Salesman and left the auditorium thinking, “I can do that. Probably faster.”

That’s how it started–with ambition, delusion, and a pad of yellow legal paper.

Now, I should explain that my knowledge of Helen Keller was limited to what I’d picked up from a seventh-grade film strip and a vague memory of someone spelling W-A-T-E-R into her hand. Still, inspiration struck like lightning—or maybe more like a flickering fluorescent bulb.

In my mind, this was going to be a profound piece of silent reflection. Deep. Poetic. A meditation on communication and isolation.

The audience would sit in still reverence while Helen sat motionless in a rocking chair, wrapped in a shawl, occasionally turning her head to face a light source that she couldn’t see. The play was fifteen minutes long and titled She Breathes.

My friend Larry—who once played a tree in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and thinks that qualifies him as a dramaturg—read the script and said, “This is either brilliant or the worst thing I’ve ever read.”

That’s the sort of confidence boost you need when you’re thinking about charging five dollars at the door of a community center. We staged it on a Tuesday evening because Tuesday seemed like the kind of day expectations are already low.

The audience consisted of eleven people, three of whom thought they were at a parent-teacher meeting. The rest were just there for the free cookies.

When the curtain–well, sheet–opened, Helen, already seated—portrayed by my friend Sheryl, who I forgot was allergic to wool. She spent the first three minutes of the play trying not to scratch and the last twelve doing it anyway.

The silence in the room was not reverent. It was confused. A baby cried. A man coughed loud enough to knock the dust off the fake ficus by the stage door.

Afterward, someone asked if it was supposed to be a comedy. I said no, but I was open to rebranding.

That night, as I carried the rocking chair back to my garage and helped Sheryl ice her hives, I realized I might not be Tennessee Williams after all. I might not even be Tennessee from accounting.

But here’s the thing–there’s a kind of beauty in doing something completely absurd and seeing it through anyway. Sure, it bombed. But for one glorious evening, I was a playwright, and the world, or at least eleven people in folding chairs, saw my vision.

Of course, I haven’t written another play since. Although, I did start one about a mime stuck in a soundproof box.

No one could hear him scream. But that’s a story for another day.

I once knew a man who ran for Lieutenant Governor of Nevada every election cycle, and by “ran,” I mean he slapped his photo on a glossy magazine, parked himself outside the Union Brewery, and campaigned to the tourists stepping off the trolley.

His name ain’t important, but if you believe half of what he said—he was not only the publisher, founder, and editor of a magazine but also the next great hope for the Silver State. The other half of what he said involved aliens, parades, and something about starting a university for business ambassadors.

I can’t say I knew him well, but I knew enough to recognize a fella who could out-talk a radio and outlast a campaign season. He had a way of inserting himself into every conversation, like cilantro in a potluck casserole. You don’t invite it, but there it is, making itself known.

One afternoon, I tried to interview a young woman who was a Miss Nevada contestant. She was poised, polished, and had a real story to tell—until he plopped himself in the nearest chair, smiled like a game show host, and declared, “She’s here because of my foundation.”

Now, I don’t know what kind of foundation he meant—it could’ve been charitable, structural, or cosmetic—but whatever it was, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Every time I asked a question, he’d cut in, answering for the young woman.

It got to the point where I wasn’t sure if I was interviewing her or ghostwriting his campaign speech. I finally gave up. The article never saw the light of day, and the poor girl looked like she was silently begging me for an escape rope.

Years later, I saw an actual campaign flyer for him—a cowboy hat, American flag, and all. It looked like something cooked up on a Xerox machine in the back of a souvenir shop, but by God, it had a website and a “paid for by” disclaimer. He even had a slogan, though I can’t recall if it was “Nevada First” or “I Was on the Cover of My Own Magazine, Twice.”

The truth is, he never won anything, but that never stopped him from running. He treated the campaign trail like a carousel—you keep going in circles, waving to everyone and hoping someone throws candy. Some folks campaign because they have a platform.

The man? He had a folding table and a stack of print copies with his face on them.

The last time I saw him was before the Union Brewery shut its doors. Dawn Grant, the heart of that old saloon, had passed on, and the taxes finally caught up with the liquor license.

It got locked up tight, and the sidewalk in front of it felt emptier without her, but he was nowhere in sight. Maybe he’d moved his operation to a new bench, or he’d finally found an audience that didn’t mind being interrupted every ten seconds.

I thought, for half a second, about writing for his magazine—to say I survived it—but I figured I’d rather keep my sanity and my sentence structure intact.

Still, Virginia City wouldn’t be the same without its perennial candidate. Every town needs a mascot, and every mascot needs a mission.

And the perennial candidate? Well, he’s been on his mission for years. He may not win an election, but he sure wins attention.

And in Virginia City, sometimes that’s enough.

When I married my wife, I did it for all the right reasons. She had wit sharp enough to slice through small talk, beauty that could hush a room, and a charm that made waiters remember our names long after we forgot theirs. But I also married her for her personality—singular, I thought at the time.

It turns out I got the variety pack.

She didn’t mention that in the vows. She stood there looking like a dream in lace, repeating after the minister with a steady voice and twinkling eyes. Not once did she say, “I do—except when I don’t, depending on which of my six alter egos is steering the ship that day.”

Now, don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining. I’ve grown to love the unpredictability. It keeps the days interesting, like a weather forecast that says, “Surprise!”

Mornings often start with “The Planner.” This version of her wakes up already three steps into the day.

She’s bright-eyed, efficient, and full of bullet points. Before I finished my first cup of coffee, she told me what we were doing next Saturday, what I should wear, and what the dog’s spiritual goals were for the week.

By lunch, “The Philosopher,” greets me. It likes to sit with a sandwich and ponder the mysteries of the universe: why socks vanish in the dryer or whether the squirrels in our yard are unionizing. I nod and chew, knowing better than to challenge her logic.

She’s read a lot of books.

Midafternoon can bring out “The Critic.” She’s not mean—just observant.

She’ll gently point out that my favorite T-shirt has holes, my truck needs washing, and maybe, just maybe, my storytelling has a tendency to wander. I thank her for the feedback and try to look busy until she turns into someone less editorial.

Then, come evening, I often meet “The Romantic.” She lights candles for no reason, plays old love songs, and tells me how lucky she is, just as I’m trying to unclog the sink with a coat hanger. She doesn’t care.

I could be ankle-deep in a plumbing disaster, and she’d still say, “You’re the most handsome man with a wrench I’ve ever seen.”

And I believe her.

There’s also “The Jokester,” who shows up after a glass of wine and a sitcom rerun. She does impressions, terrible ones, and laughs until she snorts.

She once pretended to be a French chef while making boxed macaroni and cheese. I clapped. What else can you do?

And then—on rare, quiet nights—there’s “The Real One.” The one who curls up beside me, sighing into my shoulder and saying nothing at all. She doesn’t need to. She’s all of them, and none of them, and somehow more than that.

Marriage, I’ve come to believe, is less about understanding and more about appreciating. Like those sampler boxes of chocolate—you don’t always know what you’re going to bite into, but you keep coming back for another, just in case it’s your favorite.

So yes, I married her for her personality. It’s just that I didn’t know it was a six-pack.

AHave you ever had one of those days when the world is just a little too ridiculous to ignore? The kind where your morning coffee hasn’t even cooled down, and already the internet is shouting, “Bondi says there never was an Epstein client list.”

But here is my solution. I’m a fan of National Treasure. The first one had everything I like in a movie–dusty libraries, forgotten maps, Revolutionary secrets, and Nicolas Cage talking like every sentence is the most consequential sentence ever uttered by man.

The second one? A little wilder, but still fun. He kidnaps the President—not in a hostile way, more like “let’s go explore a tunnel under Mount Rushmore, sir.” And the President’s just like, “Well, alright.”

But now, if this third movie rumor holds water, we’re trading in ancient scrolls and Liberty Bells for something far spicier–the Epstein client list.

I don’t know about you, but I can already picture it.

Scene opens with Nicolas Cage whispering dramatically in the National Archives, “The truth isn’t lost. It’s hidden… in the President’s panic room.”

Then he yanks down a painting of George Washington riding a velociraptor (because why not?) to reveal a retinal scanner that only responds to someone who’s both a Freemason and once owned a copy of the Declaration of Independence. And of course, our man qualifies.

It all sounds a little far-fetched—except that with Nicolas Cage, somehow, it isn’t.

Now, I imagine halfway through the movie, there’s a chase scene through the White House kitchen, where he slips on a pat of butter while dodging Secret Service agents. He slides past the Roosevelt Room, right into the Lincoln Bedroom, shouting, “Abe would want me to finish this!” before diving headfirst into a laundry chute that just so happens to lead directly into the vault.

Of course, there’ll be a sidekick—probably someone named Chip or Liberty—with a PhD in 18th-century encryption and a podcast about aliens. The comedic relief, naturally, is the National Security Advisor played by Steve Buscemi, who keeps mumbling, “I told ‘em not to store the list next to the Truman bowling alley.”

Now, I don’t claim to know what’s on that infamous list, and I’m not trying to start any conspiracies. But I do think if anyone could get to the bottom of it, it’d be Nicolas Cage with a flashlight, a half-torn clue from a cereal box, and a whole lot of whisper-yelling.

Would I watch it?

You bet your powdered wig I would. With a bucket of popcorn and a look of stunned admiration on my face. Because sometimes, you have to lean into the madness and enjoy the ride.

And if Nicolas Cage does steal the list? I hope he finds a second vault underneath it—one filled with Jimmy Hoffa’s wallet, Elvis’s gym membership card, and the original recipe for Crystal Pepsi.

Hey, it’s National Treasure III. Anything’s possible.

You give someone a taste of their own medicine, and suddenly, you’re the villain in their made-for-TV movie. They act like you laced their morning coffee with arsenic when all you did was let the mirror talk back.

I remember this fella I used to work with—let’s call him Larry because that was his name. Larry had the kind of personality you could sand paint with.

Real abrasive, barking at folks, calling them names that didn’t quite rise to the level of profanity but danced around the edges. Larry was the kind of guy who’d call you “brain-dead” for using the copier wrong, then jam it himself five minutes later and blame it on you.

For a long time, we all just let it slide. Small office, small town—rocking the boat meant everyone got wet.

But one Tuesday morning, after Larry called me a “dimwit in khakis” because I parked in his unofficial, unmarked parking spot next to the dumpster, mind you, I decided maybe it was time Larry had a sampling of the stew he’d been ladling out.

The next day, when he spilled coffee all over the report he was supposed to deliver to our supervisor, I looked at him and said, “Nice work, Einstein. Real brain trust move.”

You’d have thought I slapped his mama. He blinked at me like I’d spoken in tongues. “What’d you say?”

I leaned in, grinning. “Just saying you might want to take that Mensa application off your desk for now.”

That was it. The man sulked the rest of the day.

He didn’t call a soul stupid. Larry didn’t even insult Margie’s homemade potato salad at lunch. He sat there chewing and stewing, nursing his wounded ego like a baby bird fallen out of its nest.

Later, I overheard him in the break room, telling someone I’d “crossed a line.” Said I was mean-spirited.

That’s when it hit me–some folks are real generous with their cruelty, right up until they have to sit at the table and eat what they’ve been serving. They can dish it out, but Lord, help them if it comes back around on a lazy Susan.

That’s the funny thing about those kinds of people. They walk around with a spray bottle of vinegar, misting everyone else’s day, and then act shocked when a drop gets in their own eyes.

I’m not saying revenge is noble, but sometimes mirrored behavior is the only language some folks understand. You show them what it feels like, and they want to talk about boundaries and respect—two words they’ve never used unless they were spelling them wrong in an angry email.

In the end, Larry stopped calling people names for a while. He took up crossword puzzles instead.

He said they helped him “channel his wit more productively.” And I suppose that’s fine, as long as he doesn’t start calling others four-letter words again.

If he does, well—I’ve got some fresh medicine ready that tastes just like a Size 8.

I’ve been awake since about 2:30. Not by choice, mind you, but due to insomnia. Mary had to be out the door before dawn for work, and once she stirred, so did I.

It’s Sunday morning, so I shuffled into the kitchen, poured myself a strong cup of coffee, and invited Buddy and Honey out onto the porch with me. Buddy was all for it—did a little tippy-tap dance at the door like he was auditioning for a dance number.

Honey, on the other hand, gave me a look only a pit bull can give, somewhere between pity and disgust. “Are you friggin’ kidding?” her eyes said, before she flopped her head back down with the kind of dramatic sigh teenagers are known for.

So out Buddy and I went, into the quiet that isn’t quite quiet. Mike, who lives directly west of us, had his diesel truck running. He was loading it with gear, probably heading out for one of his weekend wilderness jaunts.

I’ve never asked where he goes. I figure if he wanted folks to know, he’d say something.

Across the street and one house over—kitty-corner, as Grandma used to say—Bob was already watering his garden. Now, we’re on an even-odd watering schedule in this neighborhood, and today wasn’t his day.

But Bob waters every day. He holds the hose at just the right angle to make it look like he’s relieving himself on his flowers. I don’t think he does it on purpose, but if he does, it’s an oddly specific rebellion.

Then there’s Kate, directly to my east. I couldn’t see her—her driveway’s full of cars—but I knew she was on her porch because I caught the scent of her cigarette drifting on the breeze. That first drag of the day, mingled with fresh coffee, seems to be her version of a hymn.

Buddy lay in the grass, eyes peeled for the woman with the little white dog. She comes by like clockwork, and when she does, Buddy trembles with excitement.

He doesn’t bark, but he whines and wags and tries to be charming. The woman never waves, never smiles, and certainly never lets her poodle princess come over to say hello.

Still, Buddy stays put, a good boy through and through. Then, like clockwork, he forgets she was even there—his memory as short as the goldfish swimming around in our neighbor’s little koi pond.

Once she passes, the street starts to quiet down. Mike drives off, Bob wraps up his rogue watering session, and I hear Kate’s screen door slap shut.

That’s our cue. Coffee cup empty, I kick off my slippers and we begin our strange little ritual—twenty minutes of prancing around the yard. He mirrors me step for step, not because he has to, but because I’m doing it, and he figures it must be fun.

The truth is, I do it to fight the neuropathy in my feet. Got a nasty case of frostbite back when I was twenty. Walking barefoot in the cool morning grass helps.

It’s counterintuitive, like a lot of things in my life. It doesn’t make a whole hill of sense, but it works.

Afterwards, I put the slippers back on and we head inside for my second cup of coffee. Buddy trots in behind me, already thinking about breakfast.

And I sit at the table, staring out the window, wondering if this is what retirement will feel like—coffee, good dogs, and just enough nonsense to keep it interesting.