UPDATE: Ricardo Gomez, 17, of Sun Valley, has been identified as the motorcyclist, who died.

A 17-year-old boy operating a motorcycle died on Eagle Canyon Drive at Richard Springs Blvd., in Spanish Springs this morning, Thu., Nov. 4, at around 7:30 a.m.

The Washoe County Sheriff’s Office hasn’t released his name.

The crash also involved a Washoe County School District School bus. Both were heading westbound when the teen slammed into the back of the bus.

While there were students on the bus at the time, none were injured. A second bus transported the children to school, where counselors are on hand if needed by students.

Eagle Canyon is closed at Richard Springs as the investigation continues.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’ve figured out what Facebook’s new corporate name ‘META’ stands for, ‘Mental Enslavement Through Algorithms.’”

There is very little that is more satisfying than working in your garden, be it flower or vegetable, hands in the loam, dirt between your fingers and under your nails. However, more satisfying is the act of sitting down after a good day’s work in the air and the earth and opening an old pen-knife, and with the sharpened point of the master blade, skin the dirt and clay from under one’s fingernails.

No, this isn’t about the 2006 movie by the same name, but it is damned close.

In November 2019, I read a story about a man being turned away from his polling place because of the shirt he wore. The poll worker believed it held a secret message for Trump supporters.

What did the shirt read? “Triumph,” as in the logo for the motorcycle manufacturer.

Now, voters in Virginia are being turned away from the polls for not wearing a mask. This is unacceptable.

As pundit Charlie Kick points out, “Voters CANNOT be denied their constitutional right based on an unconstitutional mandate.”

Some days I know exactly what to do, other days, not so much. Then there are days that I simply sit quietly and try not to think of any of it and allow God to do all the figuring.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Apparently, it’s considered rude to poke someone who is talking endlessly in the forehead while saying ‘skip intro.’”

From my email this late afternoon: “Why do you announce to the world that you have mental health issues? Don’t you know that can come back and bite you in the ass? Aren’t you afraid?”

Here are my answers: It is the right thing for me to do, yes, and no. 

Now to expound on that, because none suffice.

Firstly, I am a military veteran, and I have mental health issues that developed either during or shortly after my service. Secondly, there are veterans all across the U.S. who battle these same issues.

Finally, they are either ashamed to admit, like I was, that they have problems or fear getting turned out by friends, family, and acquaintances and have no idea that what they are living with and through is common and natural. By expressing myself and being forthcoming, I might help some other person, veteran or not, find a way to deal with their mental health issues and get the necessary assistance to move forward in this ‘dis-ease.’

Thank you for asking and worrying about me, but remember, what other people think of me is none of my business.

It has been a minute since my cheese last slipped off my cracker.

As I was on my way home from a potluck last Wednesday evening, I felt a slight change overcome my mood. The best I describe it is I suddenly, and not for any discernable reason, I describe as ‘sad,’ though that is not what depression in my case is.

With the 45-minute drive, I was feeling hostile, anger, upset, but at what, I had no idea. My wife noted that I seemed out of sorts, and if she could see it, I knew something had gone south in my mental stability.

She was already in bed, so I went into my office to lay down. I fell asleep at some point, and by morning, I did not want to get out of bed.

It was a struggle to get myself moving as I had stuff that needed doing. I mowed the yard, cleaned the front flower bed of dying plants, washed the sheets, and made the bed.

What a fight it was to do these simple tasks, but I got them done. As the evening closed, I went to bed early, praying for an easier time come the following morning.

While I slept, it was neither deep nor restful. When it was finally time to get up, I had to battle the urge to stay in bed again, forgetting my responsibilities, sleeping, or playing dead.

Either one would have been okay with me.

The depression had stuck to me like an ingrown hair on my butt. However, it finally broke and became a case of melancholia by early Saturday morning.

That is where I am at this morning. I am waiting for my manic self to reappear, so I can continue to complain that I have insomnia as the inability to sleep is easier to deal with than the ‘depression sleep.’ I’m betting by Wednesday that I’ll be back at the top of my game.

We had not been in our new home for three months yet when Halloween came around. My son was six-years-old at the time, and he was excited about going trick-or-treating in our new neighborhood.

One night, as he was getting ready for bed, he asked, “Can we go to a haunted house?”

As he climbed between the sheets, I smiled, “Sure, but what’s wrong with the one we live in?”

“What?!” he exclaimed, his eyes as large as saucer plates.

“That’s right,” I said as I turned off the lights and left the room.

That night he slept with us.

Darkness was beginning to settle as I hurriedly walked home. I had spent much longer at the local pub than I meant to, and now I was in trouble with my wife.

Along with the night came an unsettling fog that slowly wafted its way between the nearby trees and the narrow path I followed. As I approached the corner where I would be in sight of my house, I froze dead in my tracks.

Across the roadway and less than 50 feet from me stood a lone dark figure. We stood there, staring at each other for at least half a minute as I was too frightened to move.

“Batman,” I thought as I noted the pointed ears and the cape draped over his shoulders and hanging near his knees. Then I thought, “…or Satan.”

As I was preparing to run for my dear life, a pickup truck came bouncing down the road, and I breathed a sigh of relief when its headlight flashed over the figure: a horse with a blanket on its back.

Nervous laughter followed as I quick-stepped my way home and the ass-chewing I had coming for not being home when I said I would be.