I just want to be remembered as an entertainer. A monatomic gas that glows brightly in a vacuum-discharge tube who tried to show people a good time.

Perhaps you’ve heard of Brandolini’s Law. It states that the amount of energy needed to refute BS is an order of magnitude larger than that needed to produce it. I propose a corollary: The amount of theatrical bluster and outrage behind an opinion is inversely proportional to how informed that opinion is.

I don’t recall precisely when I first heard the acronym NIMBY, but I do recall what I initially thought of it: Not in my back yard? How silly. How … unprogressive. Then the years flew by, I became a homeowner, and someone wanted to build a storage facility on the empty lot around the corner from my house. Oh, hell no — not in my backyard!

The Future of the Mind, Michio Kaku - Assuming the mind has a future, this fella — who comes bearing a boatload of scientific honors and a shelf of best-selling science books — is better positioned than almost anyone to say what it is.

The Morton brothers could have opened a decent steakhouse with their eyes shut. With MB Steak, they outdid their own legacy.

From street tacos to fajitas, Mexican food-loving herbivores have more fresh options. Southern Nevada’s vegan food scene isn’t the barren wasteland it was five years ago — more and more restaurants are responding to the demands of those, like me, who opt out of meat and dairy.

Hell’s Kitchen Comes to Town - This month, famously shouting chef Gordon Ramsey will open his fifth Las Vegas restaurant, this one themed after his hit reality TV series, Hell’s Kitchen.

Yes, I can (*twitch*) totally handle (*shudder*) a whole week (ack!) of digital detox. I am, in the parlance of the kids these days, an Old. In practical terms, that means I remember a time before the internet, before we all decided that leaving each other indignant Facebook comments or fooling our friends with carefully curated vacation pictures would be our primary mode of communication.

A hot tea cocktail might strike you as gimmicky, but one sip of The Secret Garden will cure you of that idea: It’s like a steamy, lemon-gingery hug for your face, nose, throat and other possible winter-afflicted face-cavities.

Here now a few words from the cognitive dissident Jw Caldwell, one of the city’s most bearded, sweetly irascible, and deservedly beloved artists.