I know that we’re both tired of being okay with things that aren’t okay.

Any COVID vaccine should be tested on politicians first. If they survive, the vaccine is safe. If not, the country is safe.

Only a straight, unsuspected punch to the gut could be any worse than walking into our house and looking at the local television news for the first time in weeks, and then realize they’re discussing the death of a friend. That’s exactly how I learned of my long-time friend Brent Boynton’s passing.
They say he battled COVID-19 for the last couple weeks of his life. My heart breaks for his wife, Patricia.

The first time Brent and I met, it was 1998, and he was working for television station KTVN in Reno while I was working for the American Red Cross. He and his co-anchor Jennifer Burton were kind enough to spend an entire afternoon with the Sierra Nevada Chapter, teaching us how to communicate with the media.

We had a great time and Brent and I clicked right away. Later on, I went to work for Lotus Radio and he moved to KOLO, also a Reno TV station.

Our first opportunity to really work together came in 2005. He was U.S. Congressman Jim Gibbon’s Congressional Communication Director and I was reporting for the Daily Sparks Tribune.

Sadly, we didn’t have an opportunity to work at the same station, either TV or radio, but we did stay in touch. Eventually, he branched out teaching journalism class at University of Nevada, Reno, where he also earned his master’s degree in Mass Communications.

While he had a commanding presence, he also had a minute for everyone and a way of making people feel comfortable. Over 15 years years ago, I was at one of the lowest points in my life, having been fired from my job at the Tribune and the subject of some serious online bashing.

The morning after it happened, he called me at home. He had heard all about it and his first question was, “How are you was doing?”

He reassured me that it wasn’t the end of life and that the best thing I could do for myself was to turn off the computer and find a good book and read. He could have dismissed me, gone about life, but he made a conscious effort to show me that I mattered.

Unfortunately, I was able to return the favor when the TV station he was working for yanked him from the air and fired him. He was embarrassed and felt ashamed, but I reminded him that it wasn’t the worse thing that could happen.

Then in 2013, I got the boot again from my broadcast job and once again he called simply to see how I was doing. It’s those moment that mean so damn much to me.

Born in Pampas, Texas, in 1956, Brent got into broadcasting and journalism at the age of 15.  After high school, he got his bachelor’s degree from University of Texas of the Permian Basin, having studied both Education and Telecommunications Business Management. He was also a member of the Nevada Broadcasters Association Hall of Fame and an Emmy-award winning journalist.

The local media learned of his death after the news was posted on social media from his former KOSA-TV co-anchor and current Arizona state Sen. Victoria Steele. The two had a son together.

He jus’ turned 64, too.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Nothing says ‘I care’ like wearing your mask to the store then buying up all the toilet paper.”

“Christ, Doc,” the young medical lieutenant said to me, as he looked a the ward of 20 patients, “I thought we had eradicated Cholera.”

I said nothing since he was the M.D. and I was simply a Hospital Corpsman.

the dog wants a walk
no energy to put on shoes
we are barefoot

laying on my bed
with thoughts of dying
no…
not suicide
simply dying
giving my spirit back to
God
i have company
my dog
he lays next to me
he does not move
perhaps he thinks
of dying as well
new restrictions
but nothing works
liberty failed
pandemic
abundance of caution
sheep
wolves
shepherds
which one am I
none
one cannot protect
if no one will not…
will not…what
want that protection
my protection or
the wolfs false protection
cannot fight the mask
she wants it more
more than liberty
death is preferred
to the agony of seeing
loved ones led to
a slaughter
quiet is the room
now
quiet is the broken
soul
as it fades
that
even my dog
faithful companion
has left my side
for
death is not his
thought and he
leads the way
for such is the
struggle
of living in the
now
and that now
is no longer
worth it or
worth the mask

Clawing at the air and the belief that I am suffocating, that’s how this particular night-terror ends. And that’s how it ended last night, too.

Neck wounds are a tricky thing, and it was obvious that he had a neck wound. He was sitting against a shattered tree stump when I heard the shout, “Doc, up!”

Since he was still able to talk to me, I helped him lay down where I could make a better assessment of his injuries and apply hemostats. Six or seven in place and the bleeding was under control.

The Skipper had already called for a medivac, so I settled in for the few minute wait that we would have. I checked and double-checked for any random bleeders, but found none.

“How bad is it, Doc?”

“Bad, but I think you’ll live.”

“Feels like half my neck is gone.”

“No, jus’ a flap, a big opening from one side to the other.”

“Gonna look ugly, isn’t it.”

“Hell no, man — the women are gonna be falling all over themselves to see you your sexy war wound.”

Laughter.

The thump of the helicopter rotor blades made their dull echoing appearance somewhere in the sky to the east of us. It would be on the ground in minute or less.

The Marine had his eyes closed and I felt for a pulse. None.

Immediately, I began CPR, asking for assistance from the Corporal kneeling by us. I push the injured man’s head back as far as I dared and gave him a solid breathe.

His eyes popped opened and he looked at me with surprise. Astonished myself, I automatically felt for his pulse again and still there wasn’t one.

“Damn, dude, I thought you had died.”

“Well, shit, Doc – I thought you’d gone queer for me.”

Laughter.

Two US Army medics arrived with a litter and cut the comedy scene with seriousness. They package him for a quick load and go as I gave them all the particulars, including the skinny on the guy’s faint heartbeat.

A couple of days later, I see one of the medics at the FOB.

“How’s that Marine with the neck wound?”

“Dead.”

There was nothing else he could say. There was nothing else I needed to hear.

The remainder of the day I wandered around doing my job in a sort of stunned autopilot, thinking and rethinking of what all could have gone wrong since leaving the L-Z. So deeply lost in thought, I honestly cannot recall eating or even going to the chow hall.

It wasn’t until that night, after lights out, that I had a frightening thought: they missed his faint heartbeat while triaging him. And then I asked myself, “What if he was still alive when they put him in a body bag?”

I awoke later, clawing at the air, in the bag, and thinking I was suffocating.

If 2020 were a song, it would be sung by Yoko Ono.

“Did you hear about the man who dreamed he was eating a big marshmallow?”
“No, what happened?”
“He woke up and his pillow was gone.”

That’s a joke I learned when I was nine-years-old. Funny then, corny now, but still enjoyable in its simplicity.

Fifty-one years later, I have a rather risque return on this same joke. And depending how blue your sense of humor is, you may find it funny, you may not – either way – consider yourself warned.

It was vivid dream, a sex dream, where I was committing cunnilingus on a woman. As I was doing this I recall, inside my dream, tasting what I thought was a dry tampon and that this taste was manifesting as bits of cotton in my mouth.

Waking up a few minutes before my alarm, and still more asleep than awake, I could actually feel small pieces of roughage in my mouth. So I got up and went into the bathroom where I proceeded to rinse my mouth.

The second that Scope mouthwash touched the tip of my tongue I winced in pain, but I continued rinsing anyway. At the end, I saw little flecks of dark fiber in the basin and upon inspection of my tongue, a large reddish raw spot on the tip.

I knew immediately what had happened.

By this time Mary was up and straightening her side of the bed. I quickly joined her, attempting to hide the large wet spot on my pillow.

But she saw it anyway and asked in a not-so delicate tone, “What the hell happened to your new pillow case, Tom?”

Trying not to seem too flustered, I quickly lied, “I was dreaming that I was eating a huge marshmallow.”