So brief is life, I feel compelled to take this moment to save the world. Necessarily I will need to call upon everything I have learned from our generation to address this daunting task, but here goes…   

How can we avoid a Third World War? We can avoid the scourge of World War Three with two little words, “Howdy, Pard.” We translate these two words into seven thousand languages and promulgate their use worldwide when greeting citizens and diplomats from other countries. Soon enough we will come to accept the truth that we are all partners, and that there is more good than bad in the sum of us…

Like sunshine on the forest floor, interdependence is our twenty first century condition. “Howdy, Pard” can serve to unite us in that affiliation, in our shared humanity, and in a respect for the Universal Brotherhood that fashions our World Family. A recent “Moon Joy View” of us from Artemis Two shows us as we are…

Sophistication in world weaponry dictates that we can no longer exist with a cavalier attitude of us versus them. From here on out it’s, “How can we help?” 

Words can be heartening when backed by action, just as they can work to the opposite effect, as in calling our Defense Department the War Department. Can we see a show of hands for renaming it our Peace Department?

Call me a Pollyanna for whistling past the graveyard, but the day has come for recognizing our kindred spirits and acknowledging our common humanity with a simple, “Howdy, Pard.” For example, in Cuban it’s, “¡Hola, Socio!”AndIn Russian, “Zdorovo, Priyatel.”

Yes, there is sunshine on the forest floor, and we are here to spread the warmth. Let us keep the sunlight glowing by sending this declaration off to a dozen different countries, and petitioning them to do the same…

Before long, and hopefully before too late, I shall be reporting back to you in this fine family journal with encouraging early results…

Your Independent Goodwill Ambassador at Large,

McAvoy 

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

Away back in 1673, two noted Canadian etymologists, professors Marquette & Jolliet, elected to explore a river that the Native Canadians called, “Mesippi.” So they built themselves a short, though very tall two-story boat, the “Nancy,” tall enough to accommodate a bunkbed, and off they sailed. A large crowd gathered to watch them go, for the Nancy did not appear to be very seaworthy, and this might be a fond farewell… 

On the very first night out on the river Marquette & Jolliet got into an argument over who was going to get the top bunk. Both wanted it of course, so they agreed to a game of Mumblety-Peg Around the Horn to determine the matter…

If you’ve never played Mumblety-Peg Around the Horn, it’s played with a knife, but first you have to drive a peg into the ground, which Marquette & Jolliet were hesitant to do, for fear of sinking the Nancy, so they tossed the peg overboard and took to hurling the knife in various artistic ways, so as to stick the knife into the deck.  

Marquette went first and tossed the knife from between his thumb and forefinger, burying the knife firmly into the deck of the Nancy. Jolliet went next, flipping the knife with great dexterity from behind his left ear. Marquette answered by sticking the knife with a contorted thrust from behind his back. Jolliet, knowing in his heart of hearts, that he could not duplicate such a feat, removed the knife from the deck of the Nancy with his teeth, according to ancient rules of the game, and conceded the top bunk to Marquette.

There was one thing the self-satisfied Marquette had not taken into account. When he woke up in the middle of the night to find the loo, he forgot he was on the top bunk, a serious miscalculation…

Jolliet heard Marquette hit the floor with a thud and asked, “What in tarnation are you doing?!

Marquette, in a daze, responded, “Where am I?”

“You’re on the Mesippi, you ass!”

“How do you spell that?”

“Well, give me a second…M-i-s-s.”

“Yes, go on…”

“Mississ…oh, hell, you try it.”

“Mississippi?”

“Yes, that will do, write that down. By the way, Marquette, how in blazes are we going to get back home?”

Well, Jolliet, now that you mention it, I hadn’t given it much thought, wait for an earthquake I suppose, and hope the Miss…the dang river flows the other way.  What’s your take on it?”

“I say we sell the Nancy first thing in the morning to the first natives we come across.  We can likely get ten beaver skins for her, then we hike home all the richer for exploring the Miss…oh, hell!”

And this is where we bring our short history of the Miss…of that big muddy river that keeps on rolling along, to a close…

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

Henry Hudson…has anybody seen Henry? Has anybody seen the Northwest Passage?  These two pieces of profane history have gone missing, and anyone who finds them will win a free trip to Disneyland, or at least Knott’s Berry Farm.

Let’s start our search with Henry. Henry was a dreamer, and as Henry’s mother-in-law told her daughter after she married Henry, “Honey, I told you, never marry a dreamer!”  Woops…too late.

Henry dreamed of discovering a Northwest Passage to the riches of Asia, a watery highway that could take him and his crew from what we now know as the Hudson River, straight across Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, Wyoming, Idaho and Oregon to the Pacific Ocean. Henry was only off by three thousand miles of dirt and rocks, not to mention getting his boat stuck in the ice of the bay that we call Hudson Bay today.

This English Puritan, with the possible exception of Wrong Way Corrigan, was as far off course as anybody has ever been in topographical history, so we have to feel for Henry. As a boy he never got to join the Boy Scouts, his high school did not have a geography class, and he couldn’t afford college. So Henry was somewhat green around the gills when he signed on to go sailing with the Dutch. But he rose in the ranks until at last he had his own command, and that’s when the trouble started for Henry…

By 1611 Henry thought himself to be a regular Ferdinand Magellan, though a Magellan who could swordfight his way out of trouble if necessary. Nevertheless, he had no idea how cold it could get up there on Hudson Bay, and sure as Carter Has Liver Pills, he got stuck in the ice.

Well, he hauled his ship, the Half Moon, ashore, don’t ask me how, and struck a hasty camp. But his crew soon ran out of smelt and nobody knew where to find more food. So they took to bobbing for apples. And if anybody so much as caught the smallest smelt, well, he would have to do paper-scissors-rock with Henry, and Henry was really good at paper-scissors-rock; he won most every time.  

So eventually the crew decided on mutiny. They put Henry in a small open dinghy without any oars, pushed him out to sea, and shouted, “Try the Northwest Passage, Captain…if you can find it!”  Then they laughed themselves hoarse.

Well, that was the last anybody ever saw of old Henry, and, unless he floated up on the coast of Florida and discovered the Fountain of Youth, he’s probably dead now. Nevertheless, serious people are still out there looking for the Northwest Passage, even today. 

So you might be wondering, is there a moral to this history?  Yes, and it comes to us from Henry Hudson’s mother-in-law, who told her daughter, “Honey, never marry a dreamer!”

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

As a warmup to celebrating our 250^th birthday, I find myself reflecting upon memories regarding the discovery of the Fountain of Youth as I recall them from fourth-grade…

The first European to see America, so far as we know, was a Norseman named Barney, sometime around A.D. 986. Barney was wading ashore, holding his shoes, when he encountered some Native Americans who were not in a good humor on that particular afternoon, and they gave Barney the bum’s rush. So he absquatulated in his dinghy, and rowed for home.

It would be 500 years before another European would venture a look, and that European would be Chris Columbus, who, though gifted as a lobbyist at home, was ham-fisted at sea. When the winds dropped off and the rum ran out with no land in sight, his crew decided to keelhaul Captain Chris, but Chris managed to hornswoggle them into staying the course, and they actually did catch a brief glimpse of America before landing in the New World, Cuba.

Then along came Ponce de Leon, who upon capturing Puerto Rico without firing a shot, heard word of a large Island north of Cuba that contained a Fountain of Youth, today’s Florida.  Well, that was just the place Ponce was looking for, as he was contemplating retirement and had no pension. 

Ponce was advised by a Puerto Rican travel agent that most old folks his age retired to Tampa, and their parents retired in St. Pete. So Ponce went to Florida to find the Fountain of Youth, or make a reservation at a retirement home, whichever came first.

Thus, Ponce de Leon became the first European to actually set foot in America.  There is a Ponce de Leon Hotel in St. Pete today to commemorate that occasion.  And those lucky few who actually did discover the fountain of youth, well, yes, they are alive and well in Key Largo today I imagine. (Our fourth-grade bus driver gave us all this wonderful history while we were stuck in traffic.) 

We no longer celebrate Columbus Day in America, but rightly celebrate our indigenous population of Native Americans on the second Monday in October, as it should be. Our Native Americans were most hospitable until their new neighbors gave them an eviction notice. 

However, I’d like to propose that we show a modicum of respect for Ponce de Leon and name a national holiday for him. One way we could celebrate Ponce de Leon Day is for everybody over the age of eighty to drink Fountain of Youth Root Beer free, while those youngsters who have been drinking from the Fountain of Youth can heap encouragement upon their elders. We really can’t do enough to honor the memory of the man who discovered and passed on to us, the gift of eternal youth. And too, Ponce gave us an excuse for our occasional immaturity, “I must have been drinking from the Fountain of Youth.”

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

Isn’t it too bad that we are clever enough to create a weapon so powerful as to deter our enemies, then we have to start knocking off our enemies before they replicate that same weapon, and knock us off…

Where does it all end? May I humbly suggest Drawing Down Weapons of Mass Destruction until our world is free from the threat of devastation by our own hand. And let us start tomorrow, before an accident metastasizes, and it’s “Bye-Bye-Baby!”

I carry my last words around with me just in case I can’t remember what I want to say should the time come…“Thanks, Mom!”

Presently, we find ourselves awaiting a call for brotherhood, followed by a wave of harmony to unite the human race. The time is upon us when good folks can no longer afford to remain silent…

President Teddy Roosevelt wrote to a friend in 1897: “In strict confidence…I should welcome almost any war, for I think this country needs one.” 

Yes, and he said that back in the slow-moving days when warfare was still confined, for the most part, to the battlefield.

Are we too self-centered to call for brotherhood? If so, the last words ever heard here on Earth just might be, “Hands Off that autonomous weapon!”

Yesterday a black gentleman with a saxophone reached out to me and asked, “May we play you a song?”

“Of course,” I respond, “I’d be honored.”

An Asian lady sang along, and they played the sweetest music…

“There is still a chance that they will see…There will be an answer, let it be…” 

When the music stopped I hugged them both. They invited me to join them for tea and the three of us walked arm in arm to the teahouse. They told me they knew I wrote a column for this noble journal and asked if I might comment on some current events of the day.

I abjured that there were many folks better qualified to comment on current events, but I might like to offer one little adjunct to complement their noble rendition of “Let It Be.”

Let us ask our 195 nations of the world to remember today what Benjamin Franklin quipped during the signing of the Declaration of Independence two hundred and fifty years ago.”  

“We must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.” 

Old Ben was not above using double entendres as a declaration of self-preservation in defiance of possible peril. We can all learn from Old Ben… 

Once inside the teahouse my new friends struck up a 1985 song by USA for Africa, and we all joined in with the lyrics…

“There comes a time, when we heed a certain call, when the world must come together as one.” 

It’s a powerful piece of music, a piece of music that could rightfully become a 2026 anthem for all nations of the world, in welcoming a peaceful dawn…

In closing, there will come a time, when we heed a certain call, when the world must come together as one. That time is now… 

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

Most friends who have visited Twain Haven (my home) over the past nine years have met Huckleberry, my pet Steller Jay who stops by every afternoon at Happy Hour for a Beer Nut. We have a special relationship, a bond we only wish we could pass along to our more antagonistic two-legged friends…

I was just reading about birds of different feathers actually preening, and some birds will sit on eggs not their own to keep them warm. Hey, if birds of a different feather can flock together why can’t we? The way I see it, Mother Nature is working on the birds now, and we’re next. 

The Hope Academy in Carson City is employing the performance art of Chautauqua to enhance the teaching of conflict resolution. It’s heartening to see a twelve-year-old stand up and extol the virtues of non-violence in the guise of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.. And the list goes on with the teaching of living history through enrichment programs in the classroom. It will warm the coldest of hearts to witness a twelve-year-old depicting Sarah Winnemucca’s broadmindedness for differences in people…

Next, we are going to take Chautauqua out into the public square, where families can gather to experience living history and learn from our colorful past.

Currently I’m reading a book of American history that is deadly dull and almost painful to read. But I entertain myself by imagining Chautauquans acting out our history in period costume…

Kim Harris has been successful in presenting youth Chautauqua out at Dangberg Ranch in Carson Valley. Want to smile a smile that will stay with you for days to come? Just stop by for one of her Youth Chautauquas this summer. I will bet my Golden Gloves that these kids will soon take the next step, embody the virtues of the characters they portray, and carry those virtues with them into the future to make our world an even better place.

Can’t you picture a young Chautauquan portraying Marie Curie, and then going on to bring us advancements in saving lives? It can happen, as art so often becomes a catalyst for creativity.

I would go on, but Huckleberry is here and is banging on the window with his beak. He waves that beak to the beat of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” as I whistle to him while placing a Beer Nut on the railing outside. Our nine-year friendship is built upon trust. I dropped a Beer Nut once and it landed on my slipper. Huckleberry smiled with his eyes, then dived down to fetch it. He trusted me to stand still while he retrieved that Beer Nut. I thought I heard him chuckle, though it could have been my imagination. Truth is, in spite of our vast differences, we humans can learn to flock together in kindness and courtesy, and while we’re at it, we might want to start drawing down our weapons of mass destruction. But excuse me, Huckleberry has arrived…

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

When Ski Incline expanded to 8500 feet with a new quad to become Diamond Peak back in 1987, Lee Weber Koch invited me to be the first civilian to ride up with her and mountain manager Jim Bradshaw, and ski down. What an honor…

School was out that day, and I did not get off the air until ten o’clock, so the kids were lined up and wetting their pants waiting for me. There are adults in our village today who still hate me for holding them up on that memorable day…

At risk of damaging my reputation for humility, I asked if Diamond Peak might consider naming that new run after me. But they only laughed and insisted, “Faceplant would not be an appropriate name!”

That great gentleman and fabulous skier, George Galante RIP taught me how to ski in ’83, and he did it while skiing backwards. I was a surfer fresh from the Islands so it was no easy task, but George was patient and coaxed me down the avalanche shutes of Mt. Rose, back when they were out of bounds and we had to hitchhike back up from Mt. Rose Highway. 

George, God Rest his beautiful soul, never worked a day in his life. He taught skiing in the winter and tennis in the summer. He hailed me one day in the village and told me he had a confession to make. I said, “George, please don’t tell me you had to work a day. I’ll be crushed!”

“Yes,” he confessed, “I had to take three cocktail waitresses skiing!”

I bought him an adult beverage and we both recovered, but my immense respect for him was forever damaged…

We had such great fun back in those days, skiing all day, then retiring to the social club in the lodge for an apre ski drink and some good conversation, which usually led to talking about sports and laying a sawbuck down at the Hyatt Sports Book on a little three-teamer made in heaven…

Along with riding a perfect wave, hitting a perfect golf shot, or getting a kiss from your sweetheart, there is nothing comparable to a bluebird day at Diamond Peak.

I would be up there today, instead of writing this dang column, but my friends told me I was a hazard to them, so I gracefully retired from skiing a few years ago…

Still, on my daily walks, I gaze up there and long to be gliding down, with a song in my heart, carving turns to the beat of Lido Shuffle, and thanking those who came before me for making Diamond Peak such a wonderful place to capture the essence of life with a perfect run…

Happy Sixtieth Birthday Diamond Peak…we love you!

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

Smitty moved from Las Vegas to Maui in the seventies, dramatically changing his lifestyle from a well-healed casino croupier to a barefoot Hana cave dweller. We had a running club on Maui and Smitty jumped right in. He was a talker, and the baldest man I ever met. I saw a fly try to land on Smitty’s head one day and that fly slipped and broke a leg…

I helped him move into his new home in Hana, a cave set into the cliff overlooking Heavenly Hana beach there at Koki Park. It didn’t take but ten minutes to move him in as he had hardly any belongings. Then we went for a run on the beach…

He kept a small garden next to his cave, and seemed satisfied to live on seeds, seaweed and shellfish.

One day while out running I told Smitty I was going to Las Vegas for the weekend. He smiled a knowing smile and asked innocently enough, “Mac, would you like a number to call for some female companionship? You might get lonely out there on the strip.” Apparently, Smitty was quite a swinger in his ramblin’-gamblin’ days.

I remember Smitty giving everybody a hug after a run one day, and my girlfriend asking me, “Honey, who is that interesting man?”

“That’s my bookie, Honey, Smitty. He knows more about football than John Madden.”

Smitty ran the Maui Marathon barefooted, with J-E-S-U-S  S-A-V-E-S printed on his toes. He finished in under three hours, then retreated to his Hana cave without partaking in the apre race party. Besides, he had to get back to his unofficial job as lifeguard of Koki Beach. He also considered himself to be the Beach Kahuna, and as such he would police any and all litter every morning after a sunrise swim…

He told me once that he would use his portable radio to listen to kids asking me a riddle each morning on the air at 6:30. I never did get a riddle right, so Smitty guessed that’s why they called me the king, and he had a laugh at that…

Smitty was at home one morning when the ledge he lived on gave way and carried him to his death beneath a pile of Hana cinder. If ever there was an act of God that was identifiable to me, that was it…

The Maui Sun asked me about Smitty, and I recently came across what I said at the time: “I loved that guy. We have to believe he’s up there acting as race director for Jesus.”

That was March of 1984. I imagine by now Smitty is in charge of all foot races in heaven, and is delivering the pre-race blessings himself. And if after the race you just happen to have a pair of dice on you, well, you might want to sit down next to Smitty and test your luck…

Everybody loved Born Again Smitty. May his beautiful Hana soul rest in eternal marathons…

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

I’m excited to be collaborating with celebrated author Michael Archer on a pictorial essay we’re calling, Now Let’s Get Your Story Out! 

Michael wrote the book on Bill Raggio, and is in possession of a very sharp sardonic but kind sense of humor that can cast mirth upon most any subject.

The first part of our essay is to encourage the performance art of Chautauqua as an alternative to screen time. Chautauqua is destined to diminish adverse effects of our modern-day smart phone in this age of AI. Our people are craving eye contact, subtle signals of body language, and the warm sound of a live human voice…

So we would ask you to start thinking about who you might like to be. History is so much more interesting when presented firsthand, and you can put some muscle and blood into the telling of the story. You might be thinking, “I could never do that,” but you could, if you found it to be an interesting challenge, which is exactly what will happen… 

And then, let’s get your story out! We all have a good one to tell, and you only need to do two things.  One, read good books. “The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them.” So whenever you have a choice of two things to read, let’s say between social media and a good book, try to remember that quote from our old friend Mark Twain. Just this morning I stopped for coffee, and while looking around, saw this headline on the cover of a tabloid, “Woman Pigs Out on Five Gallons of Haagen-Dazs and Freezes to Death!”

Reading social media is like eating cotton candy for breakfast, you have nothing to build on, but when you read a good book you have ideals and ideas, and that good book can bring out your best instincts, and good things can happen for you when you read good books.”

Now the other thing you need to do is to provide yourself with some solitude, that is to say a place where you cannot be interrupted by a person or a text. Only then can you engage the critical thinking, the creative thinking necessary to unleash your imagination and let it work its magic. 

If you do those two things, read good books and provide yourself with some solitude, your story will jump out just like that Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. It might not come out in book form, it might emerge as a screen play or a song or a poem, but it will jump out, and people will be glad to see it…

We shall leave the last word here to Mark Twain: “There is only time for love, and but an instant, so to speak, for that.”

So now you have a sneak preview of Michael and my pictorial essay coming soon to a Thrift Shop near you…

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

Footballs are pointy and bounce funny. I guess that’s what makes football so much fun. Watching a grown man chase a fumble is like watching a child chase a duck, it’s enough to make a cow laugh, really.

Betting on sports is popular these days, but you don’t want to bet on football. No, save your money for March Madness where the balls are round and the games are determined by something the fat guys in Las Vegas cannot measure or predict, that of the heart. 

My good friend Pilarski RIP and me, used to carry money out of the Hyatt Sports Book in wheelbarrows in March. Of course, we would give it back over the balance of the year, but, hey, we had a few free drinks and one merry hell of a good time along the way.

There was one season in my hoary old days of sports betting where I actually made a small fortune by adding up the total tonnage of offensive lines, and betting on the heavy side to best protect the quarterback and the running backs. That proposition vaporized however when my swaggering stats got swallowed up by an even heavier defensive line.

Then for a while, I rode comfortably along with the Tooth Fairy by betting strictly on the strongest kickers, as so many games are determined by a field goal. That manifesto served me well until my favorite kicker got turf toe and kicked me out at the next homeless shelter for escaped sports book apostates.

Every little surefire sportsbook scheme that set me on fire from head to foot soon enough left me grasping for a Little-Three-Team-Prospect-Made-in-Heaven. 

For a few short weeks I actually made money on the flip of the coin. I figured the captain of the team who won the toss would be so jacked-up as to continue his good fortune with a dead-center win, and there was still time to get in on the action. That prediction market held me over for a few weeks of euphoria until I got puffed up big as a Kauai Bufo and bet the farm on one single provocative toss. I am limping still from the loss…

At the end of my string, I turned to that Oracle of Prophecy, my ex-wife, whose favorite team is the Bengals, though she calls them the “Bagels.” 

“Honey, who do you like in this Sunday’s feature game?” I asked over the phone.

“Who’s playing?”

“The Bengals and the Rams.”

“Well, you know I love my Bagels, so bet against the Lambs.”

You might wonder why I might consult my ex-wife for advice on football bets.

Well, when her attorney called to tell me I was late with my alimony, I excused myself by telling him, “But she told me to put it on the Bagels!”

I shall leave the last word about football to Mark Twain’s astute observation of 1900, 

“Football beats croquet. There’s more go about it!”

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