Being the curious sort, I went in search of words that might have started wars over the centuries, and was startled to discover how inoffensive some of them actually were…

The very first war was more of a domestic dispute between Adam & Eve that started with Eve’s surprising disclosure, “Wow, what a hairy back!” 

To wit, Adam responded, “Yeah? Well, you spell CAT with a K!” That exchange escalated until a snake arrived to distract their attentions and put an end to their dispute…

History’s first recorded real war, where people actually died, took place 2,700 year before Christ, between the Sumarians and the Elamites. That war started with a simple shout on April First, “Hey! Nude Volleyball! HA-HA! Made you look!”

The weapons used during that first recorded war were of such inferior quality that most had to rely on headbutting to exact any damage. Grabbing an opponent by the beard and slapping him silly was also a popular salutation. One Sumarian was known to be in possession of such a deadly headlock that many Elamites elected to climb a tree and jump to their deaths, rather than let Egor get a hold of them in a headlock…

The Battle of Megiddo was next, fought a week later, when Egyptian forces under the command of Pharaoh Thutmose III attacked a rebellious coalition of Canaanite vassal states led by the king of Kadesh. As sketchy records indicate, no one died in this conflict, as it was fought entirely with ripe melons that were rotting on the vine. One of Thutmose’s boys spent an entire week carving a petroglyph depicting the King of Kadesh soaked, and dripping cantaloupe juice from every aperture. People came from as far away as Siberia to cast their eyes upon it, and laugh, and make sketches of it to show back home.

The shortest war in recorded history is said to be the Anglo-Zanzibar War, when Khālid is said to have shouted to an officer of the British Royal Navy, “Your mother wears combat boots!” Mr. Khalid was set upon by the entire Royal Navy and was keelhauled seven minutes later.

For those too young to know what keelhauling is, well, they tied Khalid’s hands and feet,

then dragged him from one side of a Royal Navy vessel to the other, not on top of the vessel, but underneath it, causing Khalid to consume barrels of water and expire after pleading, “Can I have just one little cookie?!”

Well, I could go on, because there were 7,463 wars in that millennium alone, and as the efficiency of weaponry improved, casualties in each ensuing war escalated to the mortifying position we find ourselves in today, where a World War III. would leave only cockroaches and a possible return of Beach Blanket Babylon left on the face of the planet Earth.

People tell me I’m a good historian where facts are not essential, and that’s all I have for today, thanks for listening…

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

Yesterday, a great friend of mine invited me to join the Stanford Club on a five-mile hike to Galena Falls, led by geologist emeritus, Dave. I have always been fond of rocks, ever since I overheard a geologist uncle of mine assure my aunt while pointing to an eight-year-old me, “That boy’s got rocks in his head.”

However, I found a new appreciation for rocks while hiking, as Dave elucidated on their content, their virtue, and their beauty. Though at one point I did trip on a gobblin that I mistook for a half-gobblin. Then too, I was alarmed to learn that an active earthquake fault passes directly beneath my bed. I could get a wakeup call by Mother Earth tonight, and end up on the floor. I also resolved to give every volcano I see a wide berth, no matter how old Dave thinks it might be, or how old the Stanford grad at my side thinks it might be… 

One member of our party asked Dave how old Lake Tahoe is, and I could not help but to jump in ahead of him and answer that question, as I happened to know the answer down to the very year. Dave looked a little perturbed as I expounded, “Lake Tahoe is three million and three years old.”

There was a hush before Dave asked, “So, good sir, how do you know Lake Tahoe is three million and three years old?”

“Well, you see, a Washoe elder told me Tahoe was three million years old, and that was three years ago.”

Dave gave me an indulging smile, before kicking the dirt (granular granite) with his boot. I wanted to take over the leadership of the tour at that point, but Dave held his ground…

One of our members sported a shirt that boasted DEAD SEA on her chest, and I could not help but to whisper to her, “I was there when the Dead Sea was only sick.” 

She looked at me like I had asked to borrow five dollars, and stuck her tongue out at me…

I guess it didn’t help that I was wearing a t-shirt that swaggered a Cal football win over Stanford away back in 1982 with “The Play” diagramed there on my chest, involving six laterals for a touchdown that knocked over half the Stanford band waiting in the endzone to celebrate Stanford’s seemingly certain victory. 

Well, those Stanford grads took to looking at me like I had tested positive for Covid, but then when I asked a lady for one little cookie when I could see she had two, she gave them both to me. So I do love them Stanford grads, though by the end of Dave’s fascinating tour, I found myself biting my nails in anticipation of a looming earthquake or lava flow, and promised myself that I would go to confession on the following Sunday…

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

Bachelor parties are becoming more dignified these days. At least that’s my take on the two bachelor parties I have hosted in An Evening with Mark Twain. It seems a literary night out for literary fellows can beat a night out in Mound House, and may be a leetle less expensive. The eight noble fellows who attended my Big Fat Bachelor Party last night were perfect gentlemen and likeable literary lads, as opposed to Attila and the Huns I used to hang out with on the Island of Maui some years ago. It made me proud to be an American, though in full disclosure, I did miss that lady popping out of that cake…

A couple summers ago I got a call from a young man who told me, “I asked my brother whom he might like to have a conversation with, dead or alive, and he told me, Mark Twain. There are too many of us for your venue, but we’d like to send a limousine for you, and fulfill my brother’s wish at his South Shore bachelor party.”

What could I say to that? So I rode in comfort to South Shore, where they hid me in a cellar while they loosened up brother with some whiskey before asking, “So Brother, I once asked you whom you might like to have a conversation with dead or alive…do you remember your answer?”

Just here I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes in hoping he would not say Oscar Wilde, and sure enough he said, Mark Twain, whereupon I made my way slowly, one noisy step at a time, up the wooden stairs into a kitchen that was in silent anticipation, then suddenly burst forth in full-throated laughter and joy. I’ve never had such a warm reception as Mark Twain, as “Brother” shook my hand like a water pump, and hugged the air right out of my white suit. The other brother handed me a glass of whiskey and I proceeded to propose a toast to the groom, and provide him with some valuable advice toward achieving a happy and lasting marriage.

We then adjourned to the large deck outside where I was able to hold forth and fill the assembled faithful with as much wisdom and humor as they could stand. Once they were full to bursting with sagacity, they invited me to join them on a sojourn to Mound House, at which point I glanced at my pocket watch and realized it was already passed my bedtime, so I humbly thanked them for their gracious hospitality, and bid them a hearty goodnight.

On the quiet ride home, I had time to absorb the joy that filled my heart after fulfilling a young man’s wish on the night before he was to start a new life alongside his bride as they vowed to, “be by your side through sickness and in health, poverty and in wealth, forever and always.”

Wow…

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

Four vibrant, wholesome young kids in their thirties came by yesterday asking if I would take them on a hike, and share some Tahoe history. I was honored of course, and cautioned them that we would be on a mission. They agreed to be my foot soldiers, and up we trekked,  toward Crystal Bay Point…

Along the way I described a regal character in Tahoe history, who lived and died not far from our destination, the former fire lookout atop Crystal Bay. They brought a sprightly dog along which made the sojourn even more pleasant… 

So I filled their imaginations with this loveable character, Luigi, a man about their own age, who resided in the Village of Incline away back in the sixties, worked at Kings Castle, and roomed with another wonderful character by the name of Bob.

One sunny Tahoe afternoon Bob arrived home in a state of excitement and shared the good news with Luigi…

“Guess what, Dude? The fire department is testing tomorrow morning for two openings in the force. What say we set our alarm and get over there at six-thirty and give it a try?”

Luigi jumped in with both feet, and they discussed what they might like to purchase when they received their first paychecks.

When the alarm went off Bob jumped up and was out the door. He would be hired by Incline’s finest as a snubber, raise a family, and retire after 35 years in the force with a nice pension. Luigi, meanwhile, slept in, eventually taking a job tending bar at Lefty O’Doul’s in San Franscisco, where he became a popular personality, and celebrated that fact each night when he got off work at two.

I asked my young friends to pick some wildflowers as we wound our way toward the summit. We stopped at the Mark Twain interpretive sign, where I started to speak…

“Luigi, you led a vigorous life, and became the most popular barkeep in the City by the Bay. You were loved by all, and you loved back just a little too hard. Mom always said I was her Coocoo Boy, and you were her Pride & Joy. And I always knew you would be mayor of San Francisco one day, but God wanted you more. The little rabbit that resides here amongst your ashes seems to have inherited your bravery as he just stared down our dog. You made the world a better place when your candle was burning bright, and you still imbue a warm glow in my heart. May you rest comfortably there in eternal peace.”

And we tossed our wildflowers onto the snow-swept, heaven-bound ashes of my little brother, Luigi…

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

What’s the hardest job you ever had? Me too. Shoveling snow is by far the hardest job I ever had, because just when you think you’ve got it on the run, here comes some more. Of course this is nothing to first responders, firefighters or police officers. They make me feel like a Banana Slug, and my hat is off to them.

So then, what’s the easiest job you ever had? Me too. Shoveling snow is by far the easiest job I ever had, because just when your back is giving out, you go borrow a snowblower from a neighbor. But do first responders, firefighters and police officers ever have an easy time of it? Hardly.

As a news director in Honolulu I once took a ride-along on an overnight cruise with a police officer, and here’s how it played out…

We stopped on Hotel Street to separate a man and a woman who were fighting tooth and nail on the sidewalk. I pitched in to try to help my partner, and he tried to wave me off, but too late. The fighting couple turned on me, and the next thing I knew I was getting pummeled with fists and high heels. My pardner came to the rescue and arrested them both for disturbing the peace. I had a red eye, but the cruise continued until we came upon a couple shoplifters who were exiting a liquor store on the lam with liquor in hand. They took off in separate directions, so my partner took off after one, and I made the mistake of chasing the other. I was a pretty good runner back then and managed to run down my man and knock him to the ground, though I went down with him, breaking a large jug of red wine to make our landing ever more interesting. I’ll never forget the surprised look on his face as he gazed at me there on the ground and asked innocently enough, “Where’d you come from?”

I decided I had enough excitement for one night, and asked my partner for a ride home…

“Had enough Pard?” he asked, smiling.

“Yeah, for one night.”

I shook his hand, saluted him, and slept that night like a dead man.

I have never fought a fire, and I worship those who do, and too, I remember in Vietnam when we called, “Corpsman Up!” Those noble first responders came running no matter what hell was going on at the time. What valor, what ardor…wow!

So this winter, when I start whining about my back being too sore to shovel a berm, just tell me, “Oh dry up!” And remind me that the first responders and firefighters and police officers who might also have sore backs, are out there on the job, answering the call…Bravo!

PS: I just figured out why Finland has been voted yet again, “the Happiest Place on Earth.” It’s because they’re getting 19 hours of sunlight today. Duh!

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

Philosophy to me is a little like analytical geometry, you learn about it in college, then never ever use it. Granted, I have tried to visualize what the first philosopher, Thales, told us, “All things are full of gods.” But to me, a rock is still, just a rock.

Please believe me when I tell you that I have tried to ascribe to the notion implanted in my head by Plato, that, there is a transmigration of souls, though I kinda doubt it.

In full disclosure, I have gained some stoic calm from Seneca, “To mankind, mankind is holy.” I would like to have hung out with Seneca for a weekend, though I suspect he would be drinking Diet Mountain Dew, and not laughing at my jokes.

Kierkegaard might be better company for me. A friend gave me a bottle of Bareknuckle Brandy with these instructions on the label: “Pour two ounces in a snifter, neat. Serve with a cigar you cannot afford, and some quotes by Kierkegaard, because Bareknuckle Brandy is a joke that took nine months to distill, barrel aged in Scrooge McDuck’s pile of cash.”  

Darwin’s Natural Law of Adaptation once enabled me to jump out of the way of a teenager’s first day on an electric bike, and live to tell about it.

Yet hard as I try, I cannot wrap my brain around the infinity of space, or the eternity of time. Only when I stop trying, and drop the subject out of mind, can I savor the sweet taste of serenity.

The word “philosopher” defines, “one who loves wisdom,” and philosophers will continue to search for the meaning of life, God love them. Personally, I don’t love philosophy, but I do like philosophers, just as I don’t love poetry, but do like poets. To subscribe to one philosophy or another, you must have a certain amount of faith, and as our mutual friend Mark Twain reminds us, “Faith is believin’ what you know ain’t so.”

I remember my wonderful high school teacher, Ms. Mosure, who assigned us seniors the almost impossible task of writing our philosophy of life in 500 words or fewer. Well, I no more had a philosophy of life than I had a pet alligator, so I wrote down five jokes of one hundred words each, and handed in my paper. She gave me an F, a grade I was fully expecting and deserved.

Five years later, while fighting with Marines in Vietnam, I sent Ms. Mosure a letter asking her forgiveness. I only wish I could take her to brunch at the Hyatt today, as she must be smiling down from above at the fact that I handed my paper in five years late, and remember her fondly in 2024. Good teachers have good lasting effects on indolent students. 

Just here, we shall leave the last word to Marcus Aurelius, “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

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

I love Nevada. Don’t you? Our motto? “I’ll keep my nose out of your business if you’ll keep your nose out of mine.” Facebook? While giving due credit to Brooklyn for a Nevada shoutout to Facebook, it sounds something like this: “Fuhgeddaboudit!” Yes, along with being fiercely private, we happen to be the only state in the Union that remains active in gold digging, and I’m not talking about Las Vegas, where, yes, the word, “book” is a verb.

Fact is, I’m going to spend this coming Sunday rooting around for treasure in Carson City. Inspired by an article I found in the Library of Congress, I shall spend my day digging near the prison, for according to the article, a Wells Fargo Stagecoach was held up in Empire City back in 1864, where it was relieved of its 300-pound strongbox full of gold destined for the Carson City Mint. The driver of that stagecoach, William Manners, raced his team of horses one mile into Carson, where he organized a posse. That posse ran down three of the desperados, shot them dead, and a fourth, Manuel Gonzales, was sent to Nevada Territorial Prison, where he could be found staring out his window day after day, lamenting to his fellow inmates, “I can see that treasure from here.”

Well, Empire City is no longer here, but the prison sits right where it was in 1864, so given what little time they had to bury the box, a surveyor would not need a Gunter’s chain to eyeball where that treasure must be hidden.  Some say it’s in that mound close to the prison, where one will sometimes see off-duty guards digging around, as word of the gold’s possible whereabouts gets passed along from generation to generation. But I have a new theory. Those desperados were on their way to Mound House to purchase a brothel or two.

I reckon they got tired along the way and emptied that strong box onto the ground, split the treasure four ways, and each made his own way to Mound House, or buried his portion of the bullion where he saw fit, leaving us a few more chances to find that gold. They did not have time to go far, or dig deep, so that treasure is still right there for the taking.

When Manuel Gonzales was released eight years later, he was shadowed by lawmen and treasure hunters alike, and died before getting his hands again on that ill-gotten gold.

So should we happen upon a portion of that treasure this Sunday, we will give it back to Wells Fargo, of course, and too, we shall stop at the Fox to celebrate that find on our way home.

Don’t you just love Nevada? Me too. I would sing a verse of “Home Means Nevada” to you, but a friend once told me, “McAvoy, those who criticize your writing never heard you sing.”

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

We are a culture with a gun problem exacerbated by a rage problem, resulting in an era of political violence. So here we are, in this hot summer of ‘24, recognizing that we are the canaries in the coal mine. It’s hotter than the hinges on The Gates of Hades, and The Gates of Hades are hotter than usual with the heavy flow of traffic passing through them these days… 

The question festers, how do we restore a modicum of respect for the next fellow’s beliefs? Well, first, a little history…

As Mark Twain told us back in 1897 in his excellent book, Following the Equator…

“The ordinary reverence, the reverence defined and explained by the dictionary, costs nothing.  Reverence for one’s own sacred things -parents, religion, flag, laws, and respect for one’s own beliefs -these are feelings which we cannot even help. They come natural to us; they are involuntary, like breathing. There is no personal merit in breathing. But the reverence which is difficult, and which has personal merit in it, is the respect which you pay, without compulsion, to the political and religious attitude of a man whose beliefs are not yours. 
You can’t revere his gods or his politics, and no one expects you to do that, but you could respect his belief in them if you tried hard enough.  But it is very, very difficult; it is next to impossible, and so we hardly ever try.  If the man doesn’t believe as we do, we say he is a crank, and that settles it.  I mean it does nowadays, because now we can’t burn him.”

Thank you, Samuel, for reminding us that our irreverence is not new. What is new, is that while hate continues to diminish all haters, both major political parties are suffering from primordial instincts of rage. Both continue to call each other hard names, names derived from primeval emotions that eclipse reason.

Even our revered Supreme Court is no longer above reproach, as we come to realize that although our justices are very smart people, they have no better grasp of what’s right and what’s wrong than that fella selling ice cream from his stand on the corner. 

The way I see it, a president who knows right from wrong will not have any need for immunity, so to avoid the immunity issue, we need to elect a president who knows right from wrong…

Being an Ancient Father of Unborn Historical Incidents, I do hope I live to see the day that Beethoven wrote about with his Ode to Joy, when our world is ruled by women, and all men have become brothers. My good VA doctor tells me I will not live to see that day unless I quit smoking cheap cigars, drinking cheap whiskey, and staying up half the night swapping stories with wonderful characters. Life’s a crapshoot, so I will rub my lucky horseshoe, and take note with keen interest…

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

As we continue to confront the delicacy of our American democracy, even I, who am no prophet, foresee a new dispensation dawning over America.  Granted, a benevolent autocracy might be the laziest way to govern, but if you are older than twenty years of age, you can foresee the inevitable tragedy of tyranny and oppression inherent in autocracy. No, my mate, democracy remains the best possible form of government, and tattered as Old Glory appears to be, we cannot let our democracy slip away.

I used to have the honor of reading the Declaration of Independence on the Village Green on the Fourth of July, and it became my responsibility to trim the number of grievances toward King George, to coincide with the timing of a Marine Corps flyover. Timing was all important, and when it worked, well, it gives me chicken skin to think about it…

How could we have guessed that in 2024 one little caveat from that wonderful document would jump out at us: “Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes…” 

I shall record a few of the 1776 grievances here to see if they might reveal a harbinger of possible perils to come…

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people…

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws…

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury.

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us…

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Wow! How prescient, that our grievances of 1776 should herald cause to sound the alarm of the threat of similar abuses in this Year of Our Lord, 2024…

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