How I remember waking up at the Ormsby House after one of my first presentations of Mark Twain on the previous night. I recall looking out the window into that Nevada sunrise, gazing at the Capitol, and muttering to myself, “Someday, Son, you are going to regale Nevada’s legislators with some words from The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope. I was dreaming… 

That was 1988. Thirty-seven years and 4,000 programs later, that dream came to fruition with a call, “McAvoy, we know you’re comfortably retired, but we would ask that you address the Nevada legislature for fifteen minutes on March 20th.” 

“YES!” Kim Harris even called out her small but mighty army of Suffragists to welcome everybody as they arrived at the Capitol. It was enchanting. Our Nevada legislators were in a good humor that morning, and, well, a portion of that program I shall enter here…

“How ‘bout our Suffragists! Thanks to you ladies Nevada leads the nation! And we’re proud of you! Now you might be wonderin’ how Mark Twain got all the way from the Mississippi River to Carson City. I’m going to tell you, if I can remember…

As good fortune would have it, thanks to Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration, my brother was appointed Secretary to the silver territory…Nevada.  So, I fancied myself to be Secretary to the Secretary, and I purchased the $150 fare each on the Overland Stagecoach out of St. Joe, and out we came, at a spanking gate; with our six shooters, a deck of cards, and a six pound unabridged Webster’s dictionary. We should have left it behind. It wasn’t a good dictionary. It didn’t have any modern words in it, only obsolete words that Noah Webster used when he was a child.  For example, it defined a “carbuncle” as a kind of a rare jewel.  Humor has no place in a dictionary.”

Then, a little later along, came the litmus test…

“I covered the legislature for the Enterprise. Never have I seen a body of men with tongues so handy and information so uncertain. They could talk for a week without ever getting rid of an idea. If any one of them had been on hand when the Creator was at the point of sayin’, ‘Let there be light,’ we never would have got it. No, the Nevada legislature meets every two years for sixty days, when they ought rightly meet every sixty years for two days.”

The laughter and ovation that followed was a relief to me in light of the divisive political climate dominating our nation’s landscape. Our Nevada legislators were not taking themselves too seriously, but were good sports, and were not actually going to drown me as I had expected. In fact, I had asked that any offered honorarium go toward my funeral expenses.

Invited to dine at the Fox with the Suffragists, I was in paradise, and full to the brim with gratitude that civility is alive and well in the Great State of Nevada… 

For audio click and scroll: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

His name was Larry, but we called him, “Louie.” Don’t ask me why. I guess it just suited him, for he seemed to like it. Three years younger than me, he was always tagging along, while keeping me busy trying to ditch him. But he was a loveable little cuss, clumsy, innocent, and quick to laugh. If he stubbed his toe, he would laugh it off, whereas, if I were to stub my toe, I would cuss like a fishmonger’s wife until it stopped hurting.

Everybody loved Louie, even four-legged and feathered friends, probably because his sympathies were so wide, and his heart was so simple and knew no guile. He was Mom’s favorite, even I knew that, and I was fine with it. Our grandmother once asked Louie what he would like to be when he grew up. Without hesitation he said, “A snowplow driver, Grandma! And I’ll give you a ride on the bumper!”

As mentioned, animals loved Louie and he loved them back. We had a pet rabbit named Thumper, who lived in a backyard patio area that was protected and comfortable. 

When Thumper died of old age it was Louie who found his limp body, and he was devastated. He wanted to bury Thumper, but also wanted our father’s advice as to where, and as father would not be home for a few hours, Louie placed our deceased Thumper temporarily in the underwear drawer of his dresser.

Well, as fate would have it, that was wash day for our mother, and she brought a load of folded clothes into our bedroom and started to put them away. I was in the kitchen enjoying some Cheerios when she opened Louie’s top drawer to deposit some clean smelling underwear,

and let out a shriek that could be heard in Carson City. She didn’t pass out, but I had to calm her nerves as she sat on the bed in stone silence.

Events like that with Thumper were almost daily occurrences with Louie. With Louie the dull times were such a rare thing as to be almost impossible. It was an adventure to grow up with him. As an adult Louie married a delightful young lady from Ireland, Goretti, and he became one of the most popular and best loved barkeepers in San Francisco. When Louie got off work at two in the morning he jumped over the bar and joined the party on the other side. Wherever Louie went from there, well, the party swung along behind, and that’s what hastened the city’s dashing barkeep to the Great Beyond.

Many of us who knew Louie have tried to use the example of his too short a life as a moderator in our personal Bacchanalian pursuits, with varying degrees of success.

Louie’s birthday is in the spring, so it’s that time of year to take a scenic hike, and lay a wildflower on my little brother’s ashes…RIP.

For audio click and scroll: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

How can it be possible that we continue to forget that declaring war, waging war, and glorifying war is a foolhardy game. Warfare is the most monstrous of all deceptions ever devised by man. Waging war is counterproductive, and a stain upon our humanity. As one who has once been deceived by the notion that war is noble, I am ardent about its treachery.

Judging from my own experience, I have to believe that every Russian fighting in Ukraine has been told that his warring will benefit Mother Russia, and in the long run, benefit Ukraine. It follows that the values the Russian soldier places on warring supplants the values he might hold in his heart for another living human being.

We find ourselves today hooked on military steroids while sleepwalking toward war. Militarily, everybody is on full alert while the fine line between deterring war and provoking war is razor thin. Preemptive actions are sometimes perceived as interdiction, so oftentimes preemptive action begets escalation. Slipping on just one rung on the escalation ladder can deliver an accidental war, and before we know what we are about, the world’s expanding nuclear deterrents could bequeath an unconscionable World War.

So, what to do? Start drawing down weapons of mass destruction now. The United Nations can pilot a de-escalation and disarmament program, and do it now. Let us start a careful climb down the escalation ladder, bomb by bomb, day by day. Monday it’s our responsibility, Tuesday it’s Russia, Wednesday China. On Thursday the rest will follow. It’s a survival instinct, an instinct the lions in the jungles and the birds in the trees know more about than we do…

Oftentimes we hear the words, “blood and treasure.” Those two words should never be used in the same sentence, for all too often, “treasure” is on the minds of those who declare the war, and “blood’ is on the minds of those who fight that war.

While staring World War Two in the face back in October of 1939, Winston Churchill characterized the times thusly: “It’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” Thank you, Winston, still is…

I remember reading in third grade that one of the early gods of war was “Thor,” who was a real badass, which led me to folk literature of badassery and false heroes like Jesse James. By fourth grade I was ready to enlist in the Marine Corps and take our fight to Korea, a thing I would actually do later, in taking our fight to Vietnam.

The American generation born during and immediately after WWII might go down in history as that short-lived interval of peaceful civilization that existed between barbarism and political degeneration.

So where will it all end? Much abler pens than mine have addressed this question to no avail. I suppose warfare will become outmoded only when testosterone levels moderate in men, and the mothers of the world get their hands on the levers of civil discourse worldwide…that’s my dream anyways, and I’m sticking with it…thanks for being here.

For audio click and scroll: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

Back when I was in high school, I was sure Canada was one humongous hockey rink, our east coast was one humongous museum, and Old England was one humongous mausoleum… Had they awarded a diploma for certainty I would have graduated cum laude.

But now I’m older, and not as certain about things. In truth, the only thing I am sure about anymore is that we Americans are getting better at throwing bricks than laying them. We seem to have lost sight of the fact that the vestige of governing is kindness, and we should do ourselves a great service by placing kindness at the front of every political and diplomatic debate. In a country where we can be anything, let’s be kind, dammit! 

Eventually, we have to come to our senses. In the old sweet days of yore, legislation was an art of compromise. In Ripley’s Believe It or Not, we are still sentient beings with connected souls, and yet in these turbid times, no country, no individual, can afford to be complacent or idle.

Nevada is different from the other 49 states. We attract gamblers and geologists mainly, and jackass rabbits. We don’t take nearly as many anti-depressants as they do in last year’s happiest place, Finland. Here, divorce is an industry, and gambling an institution. We trust everyone, but cut the cards. Yes, in the Great State of Nevada we can still do pretty much whatever we want to do, ‘long as nobody gets hurt, and we don’t frighten the horses. Oh, and as the late great David Toll might like to remind us, “Las Vegas is Mother Earth’s erogenous zone.” A doll at a Vegas gift shop can bring a hundred dollars. Yes, a john will buy it for his date, and that date will return it the next morning for cash. We call it the Vegas bank…

Meanwhile, globalization, AI, Mother Nature and migration are cooking on all four burners with only sous-chefs in the kitchen. Theodore Roosevelt warned us of the dangers of having “a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men, whose chief object is to hold and increase their power.”

Personally, I’ve been a columnist for 45 years now, an impressionist of Mark Twain for 36, an ass for fifty, and am certain of only two things; one, the perfect union of gin and vermouth is a great and sudden glory, and two, we have no permanent enemies, except weapons of mass destruction.

Some say the sweet spot for a long life is 7,000 steps a day, and I would add with deep and abiding affection, that walking to our magnificent Lake of the Sky provides a daily sense of wonder that offers a foretaste of heaven. Reflection, nature, music, good conversation, and civility, are some of the world’s most reliable cures for heartburn at this tenuous moment in time. For the sake of us all, we are here for each other…

Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

The invitation I received from Russia to lecture as Mark Twain at Leningrad University was warm and welcome. This was back in the early nineties, when St. Petersburg was experimenting with glasnost and perestroika, and flirting with private enterprise.

Well, when those college kids were told I had come all the way from the Great State of Nevada to meet with them, their first question to me was, “Can we see your gun?” They were very well read, and we were able to discuss Life on the Mississippi at length. I loved those kids, now adults in their fifties, still do…

My host for that glorious occasion was a physics professor by the name of Sergey, who was walking with me off campus following our time with those gifted students, when we were struck by an aroma from an outdoor vodka bar, and Sergey asked, “Zadroozboo?” Which I guessed from his inviting smile, meant, “Shall we take a drink?”

Sergey explained to me that there is an old saw that attests, “Let a man take a tot of St. Petersburg Vodka, and he will fancy that he owns the Hermitage, the Winter Palace, and the Eternal Flame!” Well, how could a self-respecting Nevadan turn down an opportunity like that? And Sergey was right! For one short moment in St. Petersburg, I did own the Hermitage, the Winter Palace, and the Eternal Flame…

In the glowing week that followed I got to climb inside Sputnik Two, enter the Church of Blood, and pass under the Golden Dome of St. Isaac’s Cathedral, all while being treated like an elder statesman. It was heartwarming, really, and I only wish we could do it again today.

Were I in charge, I would invite former Ambassador Michael McFaul to come out of retirement to work with current Ambassador Lynne Marie Tracy in facilitating a working relationship between Secretary Marco Rubio, Secretary Sergey Lavrov, President Trump, President Putin, and of course President Zelensky, to put a final end to the war in Ukraine.

I would then initiate student exchanges, artist exchanges and musician exchanges to nurture our relationship.

One evening in my weeklong stay, Sergey excused himself from dinner to take a call, and returned pale as a ghost. I asked him, “Sergey, what’s the matter, is it anything I can help you with?”

“That was the new minister of interior. He told me because of new conservation measures I must cancel my Bear Hunt next week, and I have already rented the bear.” 

“You rent the bear?” I asked.

“Yes, I was to pick him up in Kyiv day after tomorrow. The Finns don’t kill the bear, just let the dogs nip him on the rump, then they call off the dogs, and I return the bear to the owner. The Finns come to my bear hunt only for Russian vodka, but now the hunt is off, and I have already been paid. Mark, this capitalism of yours is killing me.”

To be continued… 

Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

Paying college athletes under the table has always been a dirty little secret, until now. I distinctly remember smiling a wry smile as a kid, when I heard the news that my hero, the greatest running back I ever saw, Hugh McElhenny, took a cut in pay when he went from the Washington Huskies to the San Francisco Forty Niners.

More recently, I remember talking with the great Arkansas basketball coach, Nolan Richardson aboard the Tahoe Queen one day, when he laughed and told me, “Oh, we love your Nevada transfers, because they already have their cars.”

Finally, last year, the NCAA agreed to start sharing broadcast revenues with their players. Bravo! But stay tuned, for now we are going to shoot for the moon…a degree in sports! Picture our academically meritorious point guard. Yes, this hoopster gets a scholarship, gets paid cash money, and gets a college degree for dribbling a basketball.

Personally, I kinda like the idea of awarding an athletic degree for playing a sport. 

I remember my older brother Tom, RIP, telling me about a conversation he once had with all-star catcher Johnny Bench…

“Johnny, do you ever regret never having attended college?”

“Yes Tom, I sometimes think about buying me a little college.”

There we go, if you can make enough money playing professional sports to buy yourself a small college, you can then award yourself an honorary degree, and hang it proudly on your wall at home for all to see…

Now I ask you, should playing sports become a college major? Should practice and competition be part of the curriculum? Is sports as much a portal to the human condition as music and art and drama? Let’s ask Nike!

In full disclosure, I was once offered a position with Nike, a company I admire still, but I turned it down when informed I would have to move from the Island of Maui to Beaverton, Oregon, where it rains, then stays up nights and rains. 

But Nike seems to approve of the possibilities of choosing a sport as a major, and why shouldn’t they? Those athletes wear shoes don’t they? And once those athletes are being paid cash money to compete, well, they will then have the money to buy their own shoes, and Nike will no longer have to give them their shoes.

Hey, let’s try it! We’ve come a long, long way from the day Jim Thorpe was stripped of his Olympic medals after it was discovered he was paid to play minor league baseball prior to the 1912 Olympics. The Olympic Committee would reinstate Thorpe as the winner of the decathlon and pentathlon 110 years later, just a tad late for Jim to savor…

As a former diver at Oregon whose audience consisted entirely of his immediate family, I am hardly qualified to judge the merits of awarding degrees for playing college sports. But most humbly I say, “Let the meritorious games begin!”

Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

This past summer, Reno advertising guru Michael Lucido invited me to help him publicize a few of Virginia City’s family attractions with a TV commercial. So I hauled a white suit out of the closet, grabbed a cigar, and headed for my old stomping grounds, the Comstock Lode. It was like coming home again, for in the halcyon summer of ’88 I presented 200 shows in Piper’s Opera House to launch a 36-year career as an impressionist of Mark Twain, who, as you know, got his start in Virginia City. The Comstock Lode was one lucky stop for Twain, and one sunny stop for Layne…

We started the shoot at the V&T train station. The V&T was so slow in Twain’s day that 

they once transported a prisoner from Virginia City to Carson, and by the time they got him there he had aged so, they could no longer identify him; they had to let him go. It was so slow, they took the cowcatcher off the front and moved it around to the backside.  Well, they knew they weren’t going to catch any cows, but they were afraid one might try to climb on from behind and bite the passengers.”

Michael issued a casting call for extras to meet Mark Twain at the Bucket of Blood Saloon, where ‘Samuel’ would be sharing some tales. Well, you never saw such a heartwarming bunch of fun lovers in your life, and Mr. Twain got to hear more stories than he told. 

One gentleman in a stovepipe hat told Samuel that he was glad to get out of the house, because his wife was so mad at him that he had to take the batteries out of the cattle prodder. I wondered what it was he had done to make her so mad, but handed him a drink and let it slide. 

Interestingly, the extras never left. They joined us from the Ponderosa Mine to Fourth Ward School, skipping and singing and hollering to beat the band. You’d have thought it was Nevada Day!

As I walked out of Grandma’s Fudge with a humongous ice cream cone in my hand a beautiful lady asked me if she could have a taste. I handed her my coveted cone, she gave me a wink, and walked away with it. Some things never change up there on the Loveable Lode.

In the final scene we were back at the V&T, and I invited folks to revisit Virginia City, where, “Who knows, you might even see a ghost!” Whereupon I snap my fingers and magically disappear. 

I hope the Comstock gets as much custom from Michael’s TV commercial as I received from its viewing. One wag was quick to attest, “McAvoy, I haven’t seen you disappear like that since the waitress at the Café Del Rio brought us the check!” 

Thank you, Virginia City, and Michael Lucido, for reminding me of just how delightful an adventure the Comstock Lode can be in 2025… 

Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO

“A Groovy Kind of Love” is a brand-new song to me in this year of 2025, as I had never heard of “The Mindbenders,” at least not until I landed on a music station that featured music of the 60’s, and wondrously discovered a few of the hits I missed while I was in the Marine Corps. I don’t have to look to the wall in Washington to remember the real losses, but it gave me a lift to hear a few of the singles that were popular while I was gone. The Monkees’ Greatest Hits never made it to Cam Lo, nor did the Supremes, “You Can’t Hurry Love,” not to mention, “96 Tears” by the Mysterians…

No, the only song I remember hearing in thirteen months over there in the Nam was sung by an old Montagnard woman, whose teeth were stained brown from chewing so many betelnuts. I’ll never forget her heavy accent…

“Nine, ten, eleben o’cock, we gonna Cock-a-Doodle-Do!”

Then she smiled a smile that would scare a cat. Well, it was enough to bring a tear to my eye, for it was the first and last music I would hear in thirteen months over there. I wanted to hug her but was afraid she might shoot me.

The first thing I did when I rotated home in ’67 was to thank God, and the next thing I did was to turn on the radio, find some popular ’67 music, and turn it up. That’s when Aretha Franklin stole my heart and stomped it flat. I still listen to, “I Say a Little Prayer,” even today.

And when Aretha got together with Ray Charles, well, that was, and still is, heaven on earth to me.

Nowadays I count on live music to keep me in a good humor, and we have an abundance of it here at the north shore of Lake Tahoe, music from the talented likes of Donna Axton, James Rawie, Susan Horst, Patty Gegenheimer, Linda Pittman, and Mary Collins to mention a few…

As the news director that lies fallow inside of me, I would like to interview Vladimir Putin, and the first question I will ask him will be, “Mr. President, what music do you listen to?”

My guess is he might stare at me for thirty seconds before answering abruptly, “Next question!” And therein lies the problem. World leaders should be required to listen to a half-hour of music a day, their choice, though I would like to squeeze a little Aretha Franklin in there, given the chance. Were we all to listen to half an hour of music a day I have to believe we would be having more block parties and fewer acts of violence in this smoldering world of ours…

In closing, I will stand by my maxim, when it comes to judging the sixties in America, we can feel confident and satisfied in boasting, “We had the best music!” 

Audio: https://open.spotify.com/show/7Fhv4PrH1UuwlhbnTT23zO