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

I remember coming home from a year in Vietnam,

stepping into the salty fog of San Francisco,

and jumping into a cab for my father’s office.

Arriving in my starched Marine Corps khakis,

I asked the receptionist if I could see Dr. Layne.

“Dr. Layne is at the Oakland office today, but you can see Dr. Oakley.”

“Is there a chance we could call Dr. Layne?

I’d like to thank him for a kindness he did me.”

“Well, sure, let’s try…”

I drummed on the counter in anticipation while she dialed.

“Yes, this is Leslie calling from the San Francisco office.

We have a young Marine here who would like to speak to Dr. Layne.

Apparently, he wants to thank him for something. 

He’s in? Oh, good. Sir, Dr. Layne is on the line.”

She handed me the phone.

“Corporal Night Train Layne here, Dad,

reporting home from Vietnam.

Can we meet for lunch?”

Leslie’s face softened in a look of delight.

She had known me as a child,

and a tear ran down her cheek.

I can see that tear even today,

fifty-eight tears now,

for those who could not make it home…

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

The first person to swim across Lake Tahoe was a woman, naturally, Myrtle Huddleston. Yes, Myrtle accomplished this feat in 1931, the same year we legalized gambling in Nevada, and there were more than a few bets placed on Myrtle to not make it…

 But Myrtle did make it. She swam from Glenbrook to Tahoe City, twelve miles, without a wetsuit. It took her 23 hours. And what was amazing about her marathon crossing was that during the night she got separated from her escort boat. So there she was, in the middle of Lake Tahoe, in the middle of the night…alone. Not since Jonah found himself inside that big fish has anybody felt quite so alone, I can only imagine…

At dawn they spotted her, and on that escort boat was her son, her 12-year-old son, and when he saw his mother he shouted out to her, “Ma, you can make it!”

Well, those were the last words in the world Myrtle Huddleston wanted to hear right then, but she did it. She put her head down, swam on, and she made it. They carried her up to the Tahoe Tavern on a gurney. Myrtle lost 12 pounds in the crossing. So if ever you want to lose twelve pounds in one day, there it is, The Myrtle Huddleston Weight Loss Plan, guaranteed to work every time. But try not to get lost in the night, it’s such a worry to everybody…

Personally, I have great admiration for Myrtle’s accomplishment, for I swam two miles in a leaky wetsuit held together with Duct Tape before I was ordered out of Lake Tahoe by a lifeguard during The World’s Toughest Triathlon.

Just before I was instructed to, “Follow me!” I could see my grandmother’s face on the bottom of the lake, and she had been gone from this earthly realm for ten years. Next, I remember shaking like a Trembling Aspen in front of a humongous heater inside a First Aid Tent, trying to thaw out. 

When I asked, “Can I go now?” I was told by a medical practitioner, “You were white when you came in here, you’re purple now, we’ll let you go when you’re red.”

For a year after that embarrassing falling-out, I was greeted in various Tahoe taverns with this question, “Does anybody know the difference between McAvoy and the Titanic?” 

“Yeah, the Titanic had a band!”

More recently, this summer, August of 2025, a hearty 55-year-old man, Alex Kostich, became the fastest person to swim the width of Tahoe when he swam from Homewood, California to Glenbrook, Nevada in four hours, 28 minutes and 55 seconds. Should I happen to run into Alex here at the North Shore of Lake Tahoe, I shall buy him an adult beverage of his choice and carry him around Incline Center twice on my shoulders. Then the two of us can hoist one on high to the greatest long-distance swimmer of all time, Myrtle Huddleston… 

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

To make yourself officially amazing you really need to get yourself into the Guinness Book of World Records, and this is not an easy task. Take Tom Dalton of the UK, who crawled 100 meters on his hands and knees to set the current Guinness World Record of 39.7 seconds for fastest crawling male. You do not want to see the video of his wife. My guess is most record holders do not want to have their videos posted online.

But picture this: The heaviest weight lifted by a beard is 140 lbs. This Herculean record was achieved by Antanas Kontrimas from Lithuania on June 26, 2013, on the set of “Rekorlar Dunyasi” in Istanbul, Turkey. Antanas, using only his beard, lifted the show’s host, Gupse Özay, right up off the ground. Again, you do not want to see the video…

And forget the shotput. You can set your shotput on a shelf and close the curtain around it, because Johan Espenkrona threw a washing machine 14 ft 7 in – about as long as a giraffe they said. Johan has never thrown an actual giraffe, but I’ll bet my Golden Gloves that he might like to try if presented with a giraffe.

Okay, for endurance let’s put aside triathlons and take a look at Łukasz Szpunar from Poland, who made history by becoming the first person to stand in a box of ice for over four hours. When Łukasz climbed out of that icebox he was asked how he felt, but nobody could understand him because his teeth were chattering so darn hard. They say to this day Łukasz cannot look at a glass of ice water without his teeth starting to chatter… 

Finally, there is The Pride of Maryland, Kimberly “Kimycola” Winter, who belted out a belch measured at 107 decibels, loud enough they said, to wake General Grant in his New York tomb. Kimycola told Guinness World Record officials she slurped coffee and beer with her breakfast on the morning of the attempt to ensure maximum volume for her humongous blast, which was just short of the 112.7-decibel male version of the record. Again, you do not want to see the video…

Just looking at some of the records in the Guinness Book has caused me to wonder how I might become officially amazing by getting my name in that book somewheres, and I think I’ve hit on it. This Pine Nuts column, number 1,671, just happens to be the longest running column in the world to be published without a blemish of an untruth in it anywhere…

Ask any AI, and you can see for yourself that Pine Nuts stands alone for veracity and accuracy over time. I shall make the Guinness submission myself, and alert you when we appear in next year’s Guinness Book of World Records alongside Łukasz Szpunar and those other 4,000 officially amazing people. As they say in Hawaii, “Hope me luck.”

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