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Because reality still matters.

Politics. Culture. Humor. History. Human nature. The incentives that drive them all.

No talking points. No approved narratives. No consultants. No focus groups. Just one man’s attempt to make sense of a world that increasingly refuses to make sense.

New essays arrive the moment they are published.

And Bob?

Bob lives a few miles up the mountain. Nobody knows exactly how old he is. He was here before most of us arrived and will probably still be here after we’re gone. He drives an old truck, fixes things that ought to be broken, and notices things other people miss. If the road washes out, Bob shows up. If the power goes off, Bob already has a generator running. If the news doesn’t make sense, Bob usually knows why. He’s the sort of man everyone hopes is their neighbor and is grateful to call a friend.

The Truck

Bob says he bought his blue 1951 Chevy pickup truck back in 1970. He purchased it from a Santa Maria Japanese-American gardener. He paid $225 for it. He says he got a deal because the families knew each other.

The truck has now been with him longer than most modern careers, marriages, mortgages, politicians, television networks, and social movements.

It still runs.

Not because it is special.

Because Bob is.

Over the years, the truck has hauled lumber, firewood, livestock feed, fencing, engines, furniture, generators, water tanks, grandchildren, dogs, chainsaws, and enough miscellaneous hardware to stock a small town.

It once hauled an upright piano through Isla Vista while the piano player sat in the back happily pounding out honky-tonk tunes the entire trip.

Bob says it was one of the quieter loads.

The original engine is long gone. So are a number of other parts. Bob claims that replacing parts is simply how old trucks stay young.

“Same truck,” he says.

The philosophers may disagree.

Nobody else does.

The truck sits under a shed roof most nights. It starts when needed. It rarely complains. The paint has faded in places. The seat has been repaired more than once. There are dents that have stories and stories that have dents.

Like Bob, the truck is not retired.

It merely works fewer hours.

Nobody is quite sure whether Bob owns the truck or the truck owns Bob.

Neither seems interested in settling the question.

Truth be told, most people around here feel the same way about Bob.

He was here before many of us arrived.

He’ll probably be here after we’re gone.

And if the road washes out tomorrow morning, don’t be surprised if the first thing you see is an old blue pickup climbing the hill.