I know I shouldn’t write about things I know nothing about, but this has never been a deterrent to me in the past, so I’m hankering to write about Vivaldi, yes, that Vivaldi. So, recently inspired by Donna Axton’s Holiday Concert with the North Tahoe Community Choir, featuring Antonio Vivaldi’s Magnificat, I am writing on musical adrenalin alone. Yes, I am still high from the concert of a few nights ago…

I suppose all good music does that to us, though in this case, Vivaldi hit a vibrant chord that set me aglow. I felt a strong urge to attend a second performance scheduled for the next day, sing alongside Ariel Ramiriz, Ania Helwing, Mary Collins, and belt out the Magnificat in four-part harmony. 

I actually did start to sing along in that first concert, and in my best contralto too, until a cold hand cupped my neck from behind, and I couldn’t breathe.

I always thought Vivaldi was a cream cheese that you pull a string to open, but then the string never works and you have to lick your fingers to get to the cheese. But I did a little research. I went to the refrigerator, fished around, and discovered my cream cheese was not Vivaldi Cheese at all, but “Laughing Cow.”

My Latin, weak as it is, fetched me up onto the rocks until I found a translation into Italian, and from that into English. Herein is the translation that reeled me in and made me a fan of Vivaldi… “Now she smiles, the lovely Mary, and heaven grows bright with a radiant glow. Her voice is a song, her eyes like the stars that shine above Bethlehem.” 

Well, If that don’t fetch’em, I don’t know Bethlehem…

I’ve come a long way since fourth grade, when Miss. Blumberger introduced us to opera by playing a recording of “Madama Butterfly.” And I remember all too well, her announcing to our paralyzed class that, “Just because McAvoy does not appreciate this particular form of art, does not necessarily mean, ‘It stinks!’” 

Anyways, should I see Donna Axton around here in the village, I shall buy her the adult beverage of her choice and maybe a Ginger Man cookie to say thanks for a most memorable evening of Vivaldi. 

By the way, Miss Donna threw in Joy to the World, White Christmas and Silent Night at no extra charge. If she isn’t one of them Vivaldi angels from Bethlehem herself, well, I don’t know my Vivaldi, and I think I do…

In closing, instead of leaving the last word to Mark Twain as I am wont to do, I shall leave the last word to Vivaldi: 

“Move on! Move on! Little donkey move on!”

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

Flirting with death releases pheromones that make you feel more alive than before. Or as Winston Churchill put it, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”

I’ve only had that feeling once in my life, but it proved true to form…

I got into a gunfight with a gentleman from North Vietnam, and he was as bad a shot as I was, thank goodness. We jumped around behind some trees while firing handguns at each other like a couple kids in a schoolyard, without result. I might have done better to throw rocks at him than shoot aimlessly with my .45 caliber…

Mercifully we both ran out of ammunition about the same time, and in place of opting for hand-to-hand combat, we looked each other over, shrugged our shoulders, and walked away. I have never felt so alive, and I’ll bet my Golden Gloves that my gentleman friend from the north felt the same way. In fact, he might be relating a similar story to his grandkids today…

“Oh, away back in ’66 I got into a skirmish with a Marine who was just as bad a shot as was I. We ducked behind the few trees between us, while firing our sidearms as we saw fit. But neither of us could hit a tent from the inside. When we both ran out of ammunition, we looked bemused at each other, shrugged our shoulders and walked away.”

Sometimes running out of ammo is an acceptable resolution to a conflict. I walked on air for the rest of the day following that flirtation with death, and felt more alive for the encounter…

I sometimes wonder what that gentleman from North Vietnam is doing today. I would love to call him up and ask, “Hey, do you remember shooting at a Marine while jumping around behind a few scruffy trees away back in ‘66? Because if you do, I want to fly over there and buy you the adult beverage of your choice.”

I don’t imagine I’ll ever have that glorious opportunity, but it would put years onto my already ancient life if I did. Hell, I don’t even know where we were, Hill 881, the Rockpile, the Razorback? I just don’t know…

We left some good men behind us, good men on both sides. And I guess God was on both sides too now that I think about it…

These days I’m feeling an intriguing sense of euphoria, and wondering if I might be flirting with death on a more natural plane, being older than Mathusalem’s horse and all. It’s a delicate feeling that I hope does not come with a prescient and immediate call to another shore. I’m not going to think about it, but will accept it as simply a signal of gratitude for living a long life following a gunfight at the Vietnam OK Corral between Two Guys Who Could Not Shoot Straight…

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

Welcome to “The Wonderful Era of Artificial Intelligence.” If you’re like me, wanting to keep AI at arm’s length because we love eye contact and body language, well, to put it in New York City parlance, “Fuhgeddaboudit.” 

You and I are not unlike Mark Twain, watching the Paige Compositor drive him into bankruptcy. Just when we think we are living in the information age, along comes a polymorphic chip to make us look dumb as clams, and not clams at high tide, but clams at low tide. “Look how small my scull has become!”

I can remember how smart I felt when I became the last person in the room to get my head around iambic pentameter. Now with AI I can rewrite the Constitution in iambic pentameter, and have it sung to me in Barbra Streisand’s voice.

And too, I’m sure you’ve heard about the sorrowful crime where a bad AI actor appealed to a grandmother for a little money for charity, and did it over the phone in the voice of her granddaughter. Yes, that grandmother is feeling mighty sick today, and not wanting much to do with AI.

The Encyclopedia Britannica was a noble advancement, and the internet was another evolution in our intellectual development, but our transition from the internet era to the AI era is going to amount to a monumental sea change for all of us humans and humanoids. In fact, we are at a species-level inflection point, where it’s goodbye binary – hello poly, and human artistry can take a rest. 

This transition can be most helpful in solving problems like climate change but can also be devastating if hijacked by bad dudes, and there are more than a few smart dudes out there wrapped in identity tribes and bound by shared grievances who are capable of weaponizing AI in its most fearful forms. 

And too, soon enough, AI will be able to train itself at lightning speed, and when AI learns how to see, well, we had all better start looking for a place to hide, and even that will be a daunting challenge… 

AI can help us bind healthy interdependencies and help us to see our world as the small planet it is, in desperate need of constant care and stewardship. This 21^st century is fast becoming an age in which we must collaborate universally in order to preserve our social fabric, and perhaps, preserve our very survival.    

If AI enables us to see ourselves as one, that will justify its existence to be sure. But we should start tapping the brakes today to avoid unleashing a flood of catastrophic AI tsunamis tomorrow. I have faith in the talented technicians advancing artificial general intelligence, or A.G.I., the machine that can do anything the human brain can do. but as we say in Nevada, “Cut the cards.” 

We will survive AI when (if) we learn to sing along rather than sing alone. So let us continue to remind each other that the clock we are watching while harnessing AI’s autonomous capabilities, is ticking…

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

When I was a seventh grader, I was sure about one thing, that in college I would be quarterbacking UCLA. As it happened, I would be diving at Oregon, but that seventh grader had the conference right. So what can an aspiring seventh grader be certain about today? Could it be what Mark Twain alluded to? “Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”

Had you told me when I was in seventh grade, that I would become a performance artist, portraying Mark Twain for a living, I would have asked, “What’s a performance artist?”

I suppose the first indication I had that art could change people’s lives for the better came on the Island of Maui, where I had taken a position as morning announcer at KTOH radio. (K for west of the Mississippi, TOH for Territory of Hawaii.) Along with playing music and interviewing guests, I delivered a five-minute newscast at the top of the hour from 6-10am. It was a dream job come true.

One beautiful Maui morning, something was pressing at home, and I had to leave the station early, so I recorded my ten o’clock newscast and stuck my thumb out for Spreckelsville, as my motorcycle was in the shop. 

A young surfer picked me up, and I had to smile at the fact that he was smoking a big fat Waikapu Whacko, and listening to KTOH on his Jeep radio. We shared some small talk, and then my prerecorded newscast started playing on his radio. I noticed that my young surfer friend was looking at his doobie, and maybe wondering if he might have purchased a bad batch, as my voice was coming at him from two different directions.

Somewhat amused at what I could see was happening, I thought I’d have some fun, and double down on this abnormality. I knew the last line of my newscast would be, “And the score of last night’s football game was Baldwin 21, Maui High 17.” So I started talking to my now attentive friend about last night’s football game, then chimed in with the same words on the radio, “And the score of last night’s football game was Baldwin 21, Maui High 17.”

My surfer friend took a long last look at his Waikapu Whacko, tucked it between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked it unceremoniously onto the road. I doubt that he ever smoked again, so I like to take credit for reforming a young Maui surfer in my first act as a performance artist. I wonder sometimes what that young surfer might be doing today.

I was afforded fifteen enjoyable years of radio before getting a tap on the shoulder from Samuel Langhorne Clemens, who gifted me a 37-year career as an impressionist of Mark Twain. What luck, and what a blessing. That seventh grader is smiling…

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

We know horses love their show jumping, and dogs love their Frisbees, but what about birds and sea otters? Well, anyone who has been to Twain Haven in the last eight years has met Huckleberry, my pet jay, who lands here on the top deck at 8am for breakfast, noon for lunch, and Happy Hour for a Beer Nut. I whistle his favorite tune, “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” which makes him laugh, and he waves his beak to the rhythm of the tune…

If I’m not paying attention, Huck will tap on the glass door, or jump up onto the flagstaff and wave Old Glory to get my attention. But his favorite trick takes place when I’m in the forest next door, trimming my fingernails, and casting my shadow on the forest floor, whereupon Huckleberry stations himself on a branch behind and above me, and dances his shadow atop mine. It’s enough to make a lama laugh…

But now what about sea otters? I read recently that they are stealing surfboards in Santa Cruz, not the first time either. We humans have given one of these furry surfboard robbers a number, “841” as she is a repeat offender. 841 will hang ten herself, but most of her sport is carried on at night we suspect, as she does not want to draw attention to her newfound hobby.

841, let’s call her Eglantine to give her some dignity, reminds me of a night I felt so alive while body surfing with my wife on our honeymoon at Brenneke Beach on the Island of Kauai, under a midnight Poipu full moon, when a family of dolphins joined us, almost touching us in sharing our dreamlike waves. It gives me chicken skin to think about it even today…

So we know that some animals are playful, and it behooves us to encourage such playfulness, and bring out the very best Snoopy that they all have to offer. 

And what about us playful humans? I have to believe that given the choice, all playful humans would choose to live in Nevada. Why Nevada? Well, for a number of good reasons. One, we don’t wear watches in Nevada. We eat when we’re hungry, and sleep when we’re tired. And we have Las Vegas: Mother Earth’s warmest erogenous zone, and we live by the betting line, “If the line should dip, take the dog.” Yes, money made Nevada and Nevada makes money. In Nevada parlance, “Good coaches win, great coaches cover.”

Above all, Nevada is a land of unique personalities, from eccentrics of the highest order,
who will jump a water fountain on a motorcycle, to entertainment’s elite, “Viva Las Vegas!” Yes, in Nevada, divorce is an industry, and gaming an institution. In Nevada we trust everyone, but cut the cards. 

In closing we have to love all those animals that are playful, particularly those two-legged animals that reside in the Great State of Nevada…

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

I’m not a political analyst by any stretch of the imagination, but I do know a hawk from a handsaw when I see them together, and Russia’s President Putin is easy to read as a Halloween pumpkin head. Yes, once Putin believes he can bedevil Estonia with impunity, lookout NATO. 

Imperialism is a disease, and a contagious one. Most of us know when enough is enough, and are satisfied with our lot. But the imperialist is never satisfied with his lot, he is too eager to gobble up the next-door neighbor along with the neighbor’s neighbor…

But now if we step on Putin’s toes, and down one of his jets inside NATO airspace, he just might take a step back, or at least hold the line. The risk of escalation always remains a factor in the equation, but it’s either deter, or fold our cards at the table. 

So the idea is to hamstring Putin when he commits future aggressions, and do it with this caveat: “Do that again and we will kick you in the knee, and if that does not dissuade you, we will kick you in the…other knee.”

President for Life Putin has no accountability. There is no future election or threat of impeachment. He has free reign to become Dennis the Menace and fly in the face of all usual and expected challenges to his revanchist ambitions. So our world does need to display steadfast might in discouraging him from invading another of his neighbors in the name of his beloved Russian Empire, the largest empire in Europe in the 19^th century.

To the imperialist, a body count is merely a number. KIA’s have no faces, no mothers, no souls, they are merely fodder for the Empire to roll over on the way to expansion. Imperialism is a heartless march for domain and is a threat to peace, and quite possibly, a full-throated threat to engage in warfare. No longer is the question, “How many fighter jets do you have,” but, “How many drones do you have?” 

Russia claims it can produce 4,000 drones per day. An attack by Russian drones could feel like, well, as Mark Twain might say, “An attack of Russian drones might feel like being in a wasps’ nest in a short shirttail.”

I read that President Trump’s meeting with President Putin in Budapest has been scrapped, so I would hope President Trump might be busy in the kitchen concocting a mixture of restraint and resolve to present to President Putin…

State boundaries of 2025 are too well established to be challenged or threatened by heads of state. Yet there are those few who refuse to be pulled out of the 19^th century. I’m one of them, so I know one when I see one. In the course of extraordinary events, Russia might be one of the biggest challenges on the horizon, and I, as one small member of the peanut gallery, wish everyone the best of outcomes… 

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

Having observed the many fascinating features of mankind for 82 years now, I have come to believe that we are one warring tribe, constrained only by mothers, wives, and an occasional daughter. With the possible exception of Joan of Arc, women are the peacekeepers. They keep the home fires burning.

In the past few years the Russian quest for empire in Ukraine has cost a million killed or wounded. How can we read such a staggering number without a visceral reaction? We can, and we do. 

The story of Adam & Eve is enduring because there were only two of them. Perhaps if we were to annihilate ourselves down to a remaining two, one of those two, guess which one, might show some concern. 

Warfare has become so sterile we seldom ever even see the eyes of the foe anymore. Where we used to grab an adversary by the beard to teach him a lesson, today it’s, “Send In The Drones!” Russia claims it can produce 4,000 drones a day. All too suddenly the skies are filled with snipers that hover over a battlefield for 45 minutes before swooping in for the kill.

The year 2025 has delivered A.I. driven mini-submarines, fighter jets and cockroach spies to the business of warfare. In our highly combustible world, computer vision and robotic killing machines are now accessible, mass-producible and affordable, thus making the third year of war in Ukraine deadlier than the first two years combined.

Mark Twain told us, “No civilization can be perfect until exact equality between man and woman is included.” I might like to take that a bridge further, “No civilization can be perfect until rule by women is empowered.”

Let’s face it men, we are too quick to turn to violence to settle our grievances. I confess to having said it myself once in a tavern as a young man, “Don’t make me come over there!” Then again, I fought in Vietnam in the Marine Corps for no good reason. We’re friends with them now, in fact, the white suit I’ll be wearing tomorrow night while speaking as Mark Twain, was made in Vietnam…

Testosterone is the culprit in the arena of increased aggression. And so we hear the expression, “That’s anger on testosterone.”

I saw a thought-provoking piece of Judy Chicago’s art recently that simply asked, “What if women ruled the world?” It caused me to think about the possibility, remote as it may be, and I hope it might cause you to think about it too. 

With congratulations to President Trump for his good work in brokering a ceasefire in the Middle East, we have left the ruling of our world up to men for far too long, while the weapons of war have increased in their lethality. We don’t want an unthinkable WWIII. So if we can get this done before we blow ourselves up, wouldn’t it be nice? 

What If Women Ruled the World?

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

Having never been seriously hurt before, it came as quite a surprise when my back fired a lightning rod down my right leg, dropping me like a stone to the floor. Luckily my bones are made of Indian rubber, and I was able to gather myself and let loose with a litany of curses. Then, having been in the Marine Corps, I threw in a few expletives that I didn’t know I had in me, but felt some relief in the discovery. 

There is something about cursing that provides immediate assistance. As our mutual friend Mark Twain reminds us, “When it comes to pure ornamental cursing, the average American is gifted above the sons of men. Our dear friend, ally and thirty-year housekeeper, Katy Leary, wrote about me in her book, ‘Mr. Clemens swore like an angel.’”

I had an embarrassing thing happen to me this past summer when it rained on our cute little outdoor amphitheater at St. Pat’s and we had to move inside, where I had to speak from the pulpit. And it was there that I stuck my big size eleven boot into my mouth.

 “I have found that there are times when profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.” 

In the next moment there was a loud thunderclap and the lights went out, leaving us in the dark. I raised my finger to the heavens and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And just then the lights came back on with a gentle titter from the audience.

I suppose now that I’m retired, I can safely say I will never speak from a pulpit again.

And now that I think of it, I have a friend whose wife sets a jar out whenever I stop by, and the jar advertises, “One Dollar for Each Swearword for Charity.” I always carry an extra twenty dollar bill with me when visiting them, because, yes, I am a charitable person.

But getting back to my bad back, I suspect my bed is to blame. It’s too soft. It’s nothing more than a large pillowcase stuffed with chicken feathers, and when I climb into it, well, it swallows me up to where I can’t be found. I heard from an old Gypsy woman who told my fortune once, that I would someday be eaten by a large animal, and that it would happen in a foreign land, New Jersey. I understand now what she was talking about…

I encourage you to check your bed. Just toss your cat gently onto the bed, and if that cat disappears, well, you’ve got yourself a future trip to the physical therapist my friend. And that just happens to be where I’m heading right now… 

As we are wont to do, we shall leave the last word to Mark Twain… 

“When angry, count four; when very angry, go ahead and swear.  It’s the people’s poetry.”

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

I read a recent account of a young fisherman’s fight for life while alone in a lifeboat for thirteen days adrift in the Pacific Ocean. It reminded me of Mark Twain’s account of a similar saga of survival, away back in 1866… 

The Hornet sailed out of New York with a quantity of kerosene onboard and caught fire in the middle of the Pacific. Capt. Mitchell and his crew set themselves adrift in two lifeboats, the second of which was never to be seen again. 

Surviving at sea 43 days on 10 day’s rations for 15 men, they washed ashore at Laupahoihoi on the Big Island of Hawaii. Well, Mark Twain just happened to be there at the time, and scooped the story. His vivid account appeared in the Sacramento Union, the paper that sent him out there to write up the potential of commerce between California and Hawaii. Subsequently it also appeared in Harpers under the by-line, Mark “Swain.” 

According to Mark, one crew member, when asked how he and the crew of the Hornet survived, responded, “Eggs.”

“Eggs?  Where did you get eggs?”

“Every morning the captain would check the weather and lay to.” 

On the 38^th day all provisions ran out entirely.  Those 15 men took to pounding their boots to pulp and eating them.  One sailor contended that the boots he ate were full of holes, but the holes tasted about as good as the boot. A shell of a green turtle was scraped with knives and eaten to the very last shaving.

Twain commented, “These men could starve if need be, but they seem not to have known how to be mean.” 

Upon his return to Sacramento with the Hornet story, the Union publishers asked what Sam thought his bonus ought to be. “Oh, I’m a modest man; I don’t want the whole Union office, call it $100 a column.”

They laughed, not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like you’re eating bread that’s got sand in it.  Then they made out the check. The cashier didn’t faint, but he came rather near it. Said Samuel, “They were the best two men who ever owned a newspaper.”

Upon returning to the city by the bay, Sam discovered that renting the San Francisco Music Hall for a lecture on the Hornet was $50, or about $1,000 today.  He took it on credit at a dollar a ticket, or about $20 today.  

“For three days before that lecture I was the most distressed and frightened creature on the west coast.”  

But Sam went on to record the first profit of his life, if you don’t count the five dollars he made on a mule he bought for ten dollars on the Big Island, rode for two hundred miles, and sold for fifteen…

So the story of the Hornet helped to launch Mark Twain’s career as the Lincoln of our literature, a seasoned lecturer, and one of America’s best loved humorists… 

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