My dog and I walk lazily along the lake’s sandy shoreline.
Screaming her warning, the crow flies in circles below the tree branches.
Looking closely, her fledgling chick’s on the ground, a snake gliding towards it.
A couple walk to a park bench overlooking the water.
They sit so uncomfortably close.
Then the young man kneels purposefully before the girl.
Tale is that the spirit of a drown man’s spending eternity at waters-edge making gentle surface ripples.
And while I cannot feel his ghostly presence yet, I listen.
My dog stops, barks abruptly at him, before returning to my side.

A rat swallowed his wife’s diamond earring. Upset, the husband hired a man to find and recover the jewel.

When the man arrived, he found there were more than one-hundred rats trapped in the cellar. He also saw one rat sitting alone and not interacting with the rest of the mischief.

He quickly captured it and returned the diamond to the man. Amazed, the husband asked, “How’d you know it was that rat and not any of the others?”

“Easy,” he answered, “when an idiot gets rich, he looks down on others and doesn’t mix because he thinks he’s better.”

The morning air was brisk as he sat in the old rocker on his porch, rifle on his knees and a tin cup filled with warmed coffee. It wasn’t unlike the countless mornings Seamus Dolan had seen in the many years he lived in the cabin on the edge of the redwood forest overlooking the Klamath River.

This morning, the scenery had changed somewhat – a scarecrow now stood in the vacant field, half-a-mile or so away. He thought it strange only because all that ever grew on that piece of land were blackberries, skunk weed and rocks.

He also took notice of it because it was a good place to find a rabbit or two for the dinner pot. And if he were fortunate enough, he’d get a couple more to trade for salmon steaks with his Yurok neighbors.

In the distance was the ever-increasing rumble of cars, truck and motorcycles as they raced along U.S. 101 from one end of the county to the other. Seamus didn’t own a vehicle, relying on his feet and legs to get him from place-to-place.

Two months earlier, Sheriff Deputy Andrew McAllister discovered an expensive car crashed in one of the deeper ditches along the highway. The driver, a doctor from Stanford University was the owner, but had turned out missing.

Why he was in Del Norte County, no one seemed to know and even less could be learned about why he would have samples of water labeled ‘Klamath,’ in a case in the trunk of his car. And now, another person had gone missing, vanishing from her home sometime in the dark hours.

Questioned extensively by law enforcement to the point that he began to believe he was a suspect, Seamus decided he would get ahead of the investigation by offering his services as a tracker. With that thought in mind, he drained his tin and slung his rifle over his shoulder for the trek into the local township.

Two hours later, he entered the small office that held the local constabulary. Behind the desk was Dianne, she looked up and smiled, “Hey, Seamus, what brings you here today?”

Unaccustomed to conversation and slightly taken aback by Dianne’s friendly greeting, Seamus stuttered a bit as he said, “I..I…I’m here to offer my help findin’ that missin’ woman.”

The smile slipped from her face, “Sorry, but she already been found.”

“Oh. She okay?”

“’Fraid not. Overheard she’d been shot in the head and tossed in the river. Scared off the killer before they could catch’em.”

“Damned shame – wonder if we got us a…” He paused, searching for the word.

“Serial killer?”

“Yeah.”

“Could be. Crap happenin’ in Humboldt could be movin’ our direction.”

“True,” he paused, “Well, okay then, they know where I am if they wanna talk to me again.” He made quotation marks in the air.

Dianne chuckled, “Okay, I’ll let someone know you dropped by. Be careful, Seamus Connor Dolan.”

He smile broadly. It had been sometime since he’d heard his proper name used, especially by a woman,

By ten that morning, Seamus walked up the steps of his cabin and found he had company. It was Deputy Andrew McAlister, whom he’d gone to school with.

“What’s up, Drew?

“Come to check on you? Why don’t you walk along the highway, be’d quicker than skirtin’ around like you do.”

“And get my dumb ass run over? No thanks. Coffee?”

“Naw, but thanks anyway,” he answered. “I hear you offered to help us look for our murdered woman?”

“Yeah,” Seamus responded.

“Can I ask why?”

“’Cause I figgered helping like that is better than gettin’ grilled over and over like the last time you guys hauled me into Crescent City.”

“Okay. Jus’ seemed kinda weird is all.”

“You suddenly tryin’ to claim you and everyone else don’t think I’m weird, living alone, off-the-grid and all that?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” the deputy smiled. “Okay then, you hear anything let us know.”

“Will do – but remember, if I feel threatened, even if you’re the serial killer, I’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

“I know, I know,” the deputy said as he climbed in his cruiser and drove away.

That night Seamus couldn’t sleep. So he sat out on his porch in the darkness, watching the headlights on 101 passing, enjoying a roll-yer-own and a jar of home-made sour mash whiskey, a skill picked up from his grandpa years ago.

As he readied to turn in for the night and try to salvage some sort of sleep from the early morning, a noise captured his attention. It was a heavier noise, clumsy, unlike a bear or a mountain lion, and he quickly retrieved his rifle as it rested nearby.

He slipped from his rocker and kneeled on the wood of the porch, listening. There it was again, this time he was certain it was human.

Knowing that whoever was out beyond his field of vision, could see him as he remained on the porch, he swiftly ran towards the woods to the right of his cabin. He disappeared into the darkness and continued on until he had fully circled his place.

Seamus wanted to discover the person before they realized he was behind them. He squatted down and scanned the area towards the cabin, searching for the faintest of movement.

Living off the grid, with limited lighting or candles and a fire in the pot-belly stove gave him the advantage over most folks who lived on-the-grid. His keen eye-sight had found him a deer or two on a number of moonless evenings.

Again, the same noise came to his ear. And it was behind him.

Startled at the realization, Seamus began to drop and roll, certain that he was in the cross-hairs of somebody’s rifle sight. He was too late as a single shot rang out and Seamus fell to the ground, dead.

He never heard the shot of course, as Deputy Andrew McAlister stood up, the smoking rifle still trained on the now-cooling body, he flipped his night vision goggles up, “If only you hadn’t implied I might be the killer, Seamus. You were weird, but you were also too damned smart for your own good.”

The following morning, though no one was there to see it at sunrise, a second scarecrow appeared in the vacant field across from where the now cold and empty cabin stands. And like the Stanford doctor, Seamus Dolan remains missing.

Nine in the morning and the manager twists the knob on the door, officially opening the bank for that day’s business. James Atherton stands patiently waiting and is the first through the door once it’s unlocked.

“Hi,” the pregnant teller smiles as he approaches the counter, “How can I help you?”

“I need the services of a notary public,” he says.

“I can help you with that,” she replies.

Three minutes in and two more people, both women, enter the bank. They are immediately greeted and helped. Meanwhile the woman assisting James quietly and methodically looks through the papers he’s handed her.

“So when are you due?” he asks, breaking the quietude.

She looks up, “In about four-weeks.”

“Wonderful,” James replies, “And congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she responds. “There you are.”

James hands her a twenty-dollar bill for her services. She moves over to her window to put the cash away.

Six minutes in and three more people enter the building. These three have AK-47’s and one of them shouts, “This is a robbery!”

Across the parking lot, a large man is plodding heavily on the treadmill. He’s silently complaining to himself for having gain the excess weight as he watches the green four-door vehicle come to a stop and three men get out.

Seeing the weapons, he grabs his cellphone and dials 9-1-1. “Hey, this is Officer Larry Andrews, Badge Number 14-98 – and there’s a bank robbery in progress.”

He retreats to the locker room and pulls on his sweat pants before retrieving his service pistol, I.D. and badge. Without a word he exits the gym and casually walks across the parking lot towards the green car.

The driver never see’s him as he walks up beside the vehicle and places his pistol against the left side of the driver’s head, “Don’t try anything stupid. Turn off the car.”

The startled driver moves his head slightly towards the gun barrel and see’s gold-colored badge. Without argument, he reaches up and turns the keys in the ignition switch to the off position.

Officer Andrews, believing he has the situation under control, steps back and directs the driver to get out of the car. Without warning the driver lifts his right hand, in it is a handgun, which he points at the unsuspecting officer and fires.

Andrews also fires. Both are mortally wounded; the driver slumped sideways, part of his forehead gone and Andrews, a pointer-finger sized hole in his chest over his heart.

Eleven minutes in and several police and sheriff vehicles surround the bank. Other law enforcement personnel begin the task of clearing nearby businesses of by-standers and lookie-loos.

Inside the bank, the gun fire hasn’t gone unnoticed. “Shit, Black, there’s cops everywhere.”

The robber, known as Black is standing to the right of the bank door as one would enter. He’s directed the manager to lock the door as his two accomplices move both employees and customers into a back room.

James is sitting on the floor next to the teller that had jus’ finished notarizing his paperwork. He looks at her name tag which reads ‘Jennifer.’

A telephone rings. It’s the police and they want to talk to whomever is in charge.

Black takes the receiver from the manager, “Yeah?”

As soon as he hangs up the phone, Black calls out, “Mr. Red move to that room and keep an eye on the door from that direction. We don’t wanna have’em sneaking up on us.”

“But, what about the hostages?” he complains.

“Mr. White has’em – you jus’ do as I say goddamn it!” Black growls.

Mr. Red does as he’s told without another word. Meanwhile, Mr. White stands nervously over the seven people he’s got seated on the floor against the far wall.

James thinks to himself, “I’ve seen this movie before – “Reservoir Dogs” – everyone’s named after a color.”

He watches Mr. White as the young man paces back and forth, mumbling to himself. Twice, Mr. White stops and peeks around the door jamb toward the front door as if he’s wondering what Mr. Black plans to do.

As he sits, James quietly looks about the room. He realizes that Jennifer, out of habit, grabbed her purse and brought it with her and he smiles.

She frowns at James as he reaches into her bag when Mr. White’s back’s turned and looking towards the front door. When he removes his hand, he’s holding a small bottle of water.

Jennifer continues to frown at him as he twists it open. James winks and sets the bottle down when Mr. White turns back to look at them.

As Mr. White turns back to the door, James pours the content out of the bottle between Jennifer’s legs and under her floral skirt, then slips the bottle back into the puzzled woman’s purse.

“Hey, I think her water jus’ broke – she’s gonna have a baby,” James calmly states.

“Ah, christ, Mr. Black – there’s a chick here gettin’ ready to have a kid,” Mr. White screeches.

“Yeah,” Mr. Black answers, “That’s her problem…jus’ keep her quiet.”

Jennifer has begun to moan as if she were in pain.

“You know anything about babies bein’ born?” Mr. White asks.

James answers, “I do.”

“Then help her,” the half-frightened Mr. White directs.

“Are you comfortable in that position?” he asks the woman, whose now playing along, uncertain what James plan is, but willing to go along to get free of the robbers’ hold.

She half-mumbled, half-groaned, “Mmhhmmm. Ohhhh!”

Ninety-one minutes in and by then Mr. White is no longer paying close attention to the hostages. He is more interested in how the trio are going to escape the situation, and upset that ‘this isn’t how things were supposed to go down.’

Between caring for Jennifer and her faked birthing, James studies Mr. White’s behavior. He notices that the man rarely places his finger inside the trigger guard and using this information along with the knowledge that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that there isn’t a round in the chamber, he plots his next move.

With a quick wink to Jennifer, James withdraws a lock-blade knife from the right hand pocket of his jeans and quietly opens it. Without warning, he stand, steps behind Mr. White, and grabs him by the chin with his left hand and with the knife in his right, draws it aggressively across Mr. White’s throat.

As slight gagging noise comes from the wounded and soon to be dead man’s throat as a spray of blood washes over the door and wall. Deftly, James grabs the AK-47 and rips it from the dying man’s hands.

Quietly, he moved to the corner, away from the door and pulls the magazine from the receiver. Seeing that it does have bullets, he replaces it and by drawing back on charging handle, moves a bullet into the chamber.

Stepping over the cooling body of Mr. White, James waves Jennifer and the other hostages to lay on the floor. Next, he sneaks a peek out and towards what is soon to be his shooting gallery, and having calculated which robber is the greater threat as he stepped out, he empties his lungs of air and moves onto the bank’s open floor.

Mr. Red doesn’t have a chance as James squeezes off two rounds in rapid succession. Fatally wounded and spilling blood from both a wound to the left side of his chest and face, the would-be gunman drops straight to the floor, outside the door way from which he’s positioned himself.

In shock at the sound of gunfire, Mr. Black stands up and begins to swing his rifle into position. However, James has already fired into the man’s upper body and he keeps firing as long as the man remains standing and holding his weapon in a threatening manner.

Ninety-three minutes in and James lays the AK-47 on the floor along with his knife. The phone rings and without prompting, the manager swiftly answers.

She explains why the gunfire, hangs up the phone and races to the door, unlocking it. James stays with the bank manager, who is second to last to leave the building.

Despite her point-by-point explanation and praise, James’ is arrested and whisked off to the county jail where he faces charges of ‘open murder.’ During his initial interview he’s confronted by two detectives.

“What in the hell were you thinking? You could’ve gotten everybody killed!” the older one chides.

“But I didn’t, did I?” returns James.

The younger detective snorts, “Thinks he’s goddamned ‘Batman.’”

“No,” James responds, “Batman would have never killed anyone.”

“You mean murder…” the elder cop said.

“No — kill,” replies James. “I never murdered anyone.”

“What about the guy whose throat you cut?”

“That wasn’t murder, that was self-defense.”

“His back was to you!”

“That was his second mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“His first was pointing his weapon at me.”

“Think yer smart, huh?”

“Smart enough to end this by saying ‘I want my lawyer,’” James smiled.

He spends the next four days in lock-up before the District Attorney drop all charges against him ‘with prejudice.’ Five-thousand, seven-hundred and sixty minutes in and James Atherton exits the jail, a free man, where he’s met by his wife and Jennifer, who invites them to be on hand at her child’s birth, a girl she names Jamie.

The Great War, better known today as World War I, came to an end 100-years-ago today at the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the 11th month. The latest figures, which are still being debated show that 116,708 U.S. soldiers died with another 205,690 having been wounded.

My Grandpa Bill Shaw, having enlisted while still living in Ohio, was one of those wounded, having been gassed by the German’s near the end of the fighting. It left him with scars to his lungs, a difficulty breathing, a nasty greenish sputum, debilitating emphysema — and tales of memories he would very rarely talk about, even when asked.

As a kid he gave me the badge to his campaign hat and the wood buttons from his  woolen tunic, which he tossed away after finding it riddled with moth holes from years of being stored in an old suitcase in a shed. Unfortunately, I lost all the buttons over the years, but I still have his hat badge. He passed in 1973 at the age of 74.

My friend, Stella Bailey, who writes free verse poetry at ‘Simply Stella,’ wrote “Masterpiece of Emotion.” It really spoke to me and I envisioned this response:

When sleep comes not easily,
Scotch poured and at Baldwin,
My fingers lightly on the keys,
Playing a concert for none.

Perhaps…

Another one listens at this hour, too.
Her nakedness outshines a Texas moon,
As she writhes in her singular agony,
Grass-bound beyond neighborly fence.

Do I stroke her most tender keys
Till she’s a brilliant concert of one?

Perhaps.

Finished, I’ll politely bow, knowing
Her climax is my standing ovation.
She is the masterpiece I now play
When sleep comes not so easily.

Some how I became turned around; not lost, but extremely confused. I sat down in the shade of a rock overhang and sipped from my canteen, waiting for the feeling to leave, but it refused.

Above me, circled a murder of crows, crying and calling to each other, also in confusion. Suddenly, they went silent and I looked up to see they’d disappeared.

Seconds after, I heard their resumed cry — only this time they were half a mile north of where they had been. I pulled myself to my feet and began walking in that direction.

It were as if a siren-song called me to move towards the latest position in which the murder circled. I soon forgot about my confusion, instead focusing on the fact that the birds had simply vanished from one point in the sky and reappeared in another.

As I moved closer to the bird’s location, I stopped to look back, a habit I had formed over the years of hiking through the desert, and found myself astonished at the sight of paired Suns. “It’s gotta be an atmospheric phenomenon,” I tried to convince myself.

Turning back to the trail ahead, I realized the crows had again disappeared. This time as I searched the sky above me to the northern horizon, I actually saw them materialize.

At first, I was unable to process what I’d seen, thinking I may have fallen for a trick-of-the-eye due to the distance, but then I heard their terrified shrieking and therefore knew something strange had occurred. I had the overwhelming sense it was something I was not supposed to have seen, mixed with the same overwhelming sense that I needed to pursue the birds and their shifting as I’d come to call it.

With renewed vigor, I scrambled over and between rocks, creating a trail of my own. I needed, as if driven by an unseen force, to see what lay beyond the next set of outcroppings before me.

Fifteen minutes later, provided my pocket watch was still maintaining proper time, I arrived at the top of a craggy precipice overlooking a camping site. The birds, still flying overhead, screamed and shrieked, as every few seconds they seemingly disappeared and returned.

Watching the birds, I looked at my hands, wanting to know if I too were disappearing and returning as they were; I wasn’t. Then I took note of the camping site, the large off-white canvas tent that stood in the near-center, also appearing to flicker from sight and back again.

From it came the crying of a man, suffering greatly, not only in physical pain, but emotional pain. I slowly descended from my rock-bound perch, towards the tent and the excruciating sounds emanating from within the clothe confines.

Surrounding the site were various petroglyphs, Paiute in origin, many looking remarkably ageless and others looking as ancient as others I had seen among the rocks of the high desert. Quietly and carefully, I walked around the back of the tent, where I noticed how old the design appeared.

“Mid-to-late 1800’s?” I questioned my judgment.

Still the awful sound that echoed from the interior urged me to hasten my pace towards the opened flaps of the tent. Much to my surprise, I found a seated man, who repeatedly jumped to his feet and rushed towards the opening, only to snap back into his original position in the rear of the tent.

Over and over, I watched this scene play out – this bearded man, dressed in a dirty-white, shin-length night-shirt, – returning to sitting, to rising, to rushing, screaming all the while. The tent’s interior looked remarkably clean and comfortable, with a carpet covering the sandy ground, a wood framed cot, blankets and a small writing desk with chair.

After observing his agony for about a minute, I realized that he was not of my century, nor did he initially see me standing in front of his open tent. His pained screams caused me to want to reach out to him, to help him, so I drew closer.

That’s when he saw me. His terror-filled eyes blazed into me, as he jumped to his feet and raced towards me, only to disappear and then reappear within the flicker of my eyelid’s movement.

Two more times, this man moved through his personal Hell, before he changed from screaming in eternal agony to broken English. His eye’s darted back and forth as he spoke, “Getz avay…”

He flashed from sight, popping back into view at the back of the tent, “Before it…”

Again, gone, again returned, “…traps you…”

Repeating the same bodily movement, he screamed in German, “…lauf! Jetzt!”

This time, unlike his earlier movements, the man seemed to will himself towards the tent’s opening much more forcefully than he had before. The exaggerated motion caused me to jump backward and tumble-down the embankment.

“Lauf! Gottverdammt…” he shout as I came to rest on my back, spread out like a hawk in flight. I looked up, watching as the murder of crows vanished, still shrieking in terror.

Quickly, I rolled over, scrambled to my feet and up the embankment. The tent, the man, everything had disappeared – not even an imprint the tent remained in the sandy loam of the desert floor.

Heeding his warning, I ran into the crags, from which I first came. My head, though feeling light, refused to allow my legs to stop for even an instant as I raced over rocks, outcroppings and sandy patches of ground towards my truck.

Once at my truck, I climbed behind the steering wheel and fumbling with my keys, finally getting the vehicle started. I sped away and drove to the parking lot of a roadside restaurant, where I finally broke down and cried.

Not only did the stress of the weirdness overpower my emotional sensibilities, but I cried a violent stream of tears for a man, who, trapped in an endless loop of time, had the forethought amid his nightmare, to warn me off his path.

Can you say, “Jus’ like Jim Acosta?” I knew you could!

It’s a rather common occurrence for me — getting placed in ‘FB jail’ from time to time. That’s where I am after opining that CNN’s Jim Acosta physically battered the woman trying to take the White House Press Corps’ microphone away from him upon the direction of President Trump.

In what my wife calls a ‘heated exchange,’ someone demanded in so many words, that I ‘sit down and be quiet,’ that I was being ‘abusive’ towards the woman whose opinion I challenged. My retort was that this is the same thing Trump did to Acosta and yet what they are calling  ‘ a wrong,’ in this case, is like “the pot calling the kettle — and all that.”

Mind you, some of these same people are ones who believed, and possibly still do, that Judge Brett Kavanagh sexually assaulted a number of women even though there was never any corroborating evidence to these claims, and two, maybe three of his accusers have since withdrawn their accusations. The same people who ‘got up in my face’ on FB are also some of the same who are quick to defend Acosta, denying his ‘manhandling of a woman,’ though it can clearly be seen, and is fully documented on video.

Personally, I think these people defending the CNN reporter, see Acosta as being on ‘their side,’ because he too displays an open contempt — if not an outright hatred of President Trump. What an error in judgment on their part, because the only side Acosta is on, is ‘his own.’

Soon after, and I’m only guessing here, I discovered myself blocked from further use of FB because the same person claiming I was ‘abusive,’ reported me, and FB being the politically correct organization that they are, has temporarily banned me from enjoining any further discussions. And no, I’m not angry about this happening as all it comes with the territory.

Like him, hate him…this isn’t about Trump. This is about the overtly hostile media that has plagued him since before he became President and od which costa is a fine example.

Being a member of the WH Press Corps is a privilege and not a right. Acosta has no rights when it comes to being there and that’s all being ‘banned’ means. His right to free speech and free press has not been violated and neither has ours, as there are many more reporters in that pool who will file ‘slanted stories, filled with dark-color’ for the mainstream media to rewrite and take to their readers, listeners and viewers.

Acosta was the instigator, as is his habit. He doesn’t ask questions — he makes accusations and argues. Almost daily, he does it with the press secretary; Wednesday, he did it with the President.

“I want to challenge you,” Acosta began, which is not how you ask a question, after Trump called on him. Trump gave the man an opportunity to act with professional decorum, but instantly knew that wasn’t going to happen, murmuring, “Here we go.”

Of course, the ever combative Acosta didn’t disappoint. He refused to give up the Press Corps’ microphone and kept talking over Trump, who finally pointed at him and said, “That’s enough, that’s enough. Put down the mic.”

When the woman, tasked with taking the mic and handing it to the next reporter Trump called upon, Acosta, using his forearm pushed her forearm downward with enough force as to make her bend forward and let go of the mic she’d been trying to wrestle from his grip. That is not ‘reporting the story, that is becoming the story.’

Personally, I thought when Trump stepped away from the podium, he was going to step down and personally take the mic from Acosta. I think the erstwhile CNN reporter realized this, and flopped his ass right down in his chair, finally surrendering the mic to the intern.

As for his unlawfully touching the WH intern: battery is any unlawful offensive physical contact with another person. That is what Acosta did and I’ll stand by that claim as I watched it several times and from differing angles.

If I were a law enforcement officer, I’d have him in handcuff and sitting in the back of a cruiser already. But he’s part of the ‘Washingtonian elitist establishment,’ and is apparently ‘untouchable,’ (pun intended.)

As for me, I will return to FB soon enough. And soon enough, I’ll find myself booted off again when it comes to sharing my opinion — which I also believe is the truth.

Keep on keeping on — because the good-fight is never lost.

Here’s a compilation of all my thoughts as posted on Facebook throughout the night of the 2018 mid-term elections:

“We need less democracy and more Republic.”

“This nation has slipped so far from the Constitution that it shows on election night.”

“That supposed ‘Red Wave’ has left Nevada drowning in a sea of ‘Blue.’”

“Bread and circuses…so when in Nevada do as California does.”

“Not once has anyone said ‘most qualified’ or ‘Constitutional…’”

“Tomorrow is new day in political gridlock — the likes unseen.”

“The Wednesday after Election Tuesday adds new meaning to ‘Hump Day.’”

“Fifteen of 17 counties in NV, Red. Washoe and Clark, Blue. Rurals have no voice.”

“No cry-ins, no safe spaces, no naked protests, not screaming at the sky…”

“And then suddenly — no more news on the caravans moving north.”

“If you like your Socialism, you can keep your Socialism.”

“Identity politics: ‘youngest,’ ‘gay,’ ‘Black,’ ‘Native American,’ ‘woman,’ ‘first.’”

“Nevada voters elected a state’s Attorney General with a criminal record.”

“On the upside — ‘Judges.’”

“Entire West Coast swept away by a ‘Blue tsunami.’ No life vests available.’

“Nevada elects the dead – both body and soul. Dennis Hof and every Dem.”

“Geography Lesson #1: Nevada is now East Kalifornia.”

“Geography Lesson #2: Oregon is now North Kalifornia.”

“Geography Lesson #3: California is now North Mexico.”

“I can hardly wait for Nevada taxes to increase even more in the next four years.”

“So much for that tsunami.”

And finally, “Facebook wants me to ‘meet’ my newly elected ‘reps.’ Salt in wound.”

My wife is fond of saying, “When you get around to it” or “When I get around to it,” so I made her a ‘Round To-It’ stone. She placed it in her curio cabinet, which I find both cute and precious at the same time as it’s so out of place amid the cut crystal, fine china figurines, and wood music boxes.