Author: Tom Darby

For Free!

The Nevada Legislature, in its boundless wisdom and unfailing desire to shepherd its citizens through life’s many hazards, has introduced a bill to assist those hapless souls venturing into the wild and treacherous frontier of online courtship. Assembly Bill 162 proposes a grand, statewide register of domestic scoundrels–freely available to any lovelorn seeker of truth.

Nevada’s current laws allow the public to rifle through court records for such information but require navigating a labyrinth fit for the Minotaur, all while being fleeced for fees ranging from $30 to $100.

Assemblymember Toby Yurek, the bill’s sponsor, sees this as an injustice most foul.

“What we’re trying to do,” Yurek declares, “is make sure that people who need this type of information can access it when they need it.”

Indeed, under the bill’s provisions, the Nevada Department of Public Safety would dutifully maintain an easy-to-use list of convicted offenders, allowing anyone—provided they can type in a name—to see if their latest paramour is violence-prone.

Of course, no government proposal arrives without its skeptics. Some wary citizens suggest this is but a trojan horse for bureaucrats to install themselves permanently in drawing rooms and bedrooms of private folk. Others, doubtless possessed of a more charitable disposition, merely wonder how much it will cost and whether the state can afford to play matchmaker in such a manner.

The bill has gone to the Ways and Means Committee, where it will be determined if the state treasury can spare a few coins for the sake of love. Whether this noble experiment shall become law or wither like many a well-meaning romance–only time shall tell.

In the meantime, those needing assistance because of domestic violence may call 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788.

Nevada’s Local Food Programs Get a Chilly Reception

In an act that has sent school cooks and food bank operators into animated disbelief, the federal government has momentarily taken leave of its senses and frozen over $8 million intended for fresh vittles for Nevada’s schoolchildren and food-insecure populations. The Nevada Department of Agriculture (NDA), standing in the frostbitten shadow of the decision, has confirmed that the Local Food for Schools Cooperative Agreement Program (LFS) and the Local Food Purchase Assistance Cooperative Agreement Program (LFPA) are now temporarily defunct—at least in the financial sense.

Once upon a time, which is to say, last December, the USDA was full of promises, pledging a kingly sum of $1.13 billion to ensure these programs would see the light of 2025. Then, as swiftly as a politician dodging a straight answer, the Trump administration put the brakes on the funding in January, and now, for reasons left to the imagination, the programs have been axed—though officials assure, only in a temporary, “we’ll-see-about-that” kind of way.

Had the money materialized as once foretold, Nevada schools would have received over $4 million, a welcome bounty for the 63 school food authorities tasked with keeping the young scholars of the Silver State from subsisting on nothing but air and good intentions. Another nearly $4 million was to go to the Home Feeds Nevada initiative, which, in its more prosperous days, funneled local meats and produce straight from hardworking farmers into the hands of food banks such as the Northern Nevada Food Bank and Three Square. Since 2023, the program has secured over $6 million in agricultural goods from 265 small-scale Nevada farms and ranches, ensuring that children and struggling families get sustenance with nutritional merit rather than just the government-issued powdered milk and cheese loaf.

The NDA, not one to fold under pressure, still clings to the last $139,000 rattling around in its coffers—funds expected to run dry June 30 unless the winds of legislative fortune shift in their favor. Senate Bill 233, currently milling about in the Nevada Legislature, proposes an $800,000 patch to keep the Home Feeds Nevada program from keeling over entirely.

However, as is often the case in the grand theater of politics, the bill is in no hurry, and future hearings remain conveniently unscheduled. For now, Nevada’s schools and food banks must weather the storm, waiting to see if Washington’s hand of generosity will thaw before the pantry shelves run bare.

High Prices and Low Spirits

The thermometer ain’t the only thing climbing in Nevada—gas prices are making a mad dash for the heavens, leaving drivers clutching their wallets like a gambler on his last silver dollar.

At present, the privilege of filling one’s gas tank in the Silver State comes at an average of $3.74 a gallon, though some enterprising establishments have taken it upon themselves to charge as much as $4.07. It reflects the American tradition of making a bad situation worse.

Not too long ago, prices held steady, lulling drivers into a false sense of security, but no swindle lasts forever. The national average has crept up four cents to $3.12, a number which, in Nevada, would be greeted with suspicion.

Here, drivers must dig deeper, as our fair state is ranked the fourth most expensive for fuel, trailing only California, Hawaii, and Washington—fine company if one enjoys misery. Meanwhile, the good people of Mississippi are practically bathing in cheap gasoline at $2.66 a gallon, a figure that must seem as mythical to Nevadans as a snowstorm in July.

With summer on the horizon and the oil barons rubbing their hands together in glee, the road ahead promises nothing but more fluctuations, frustrations, and the grim spectacle of travelers weighing the cost of a full tank against the merits of simply walking.

The sky was pulsing like a neon bruise, and the mushrooms were kicking in with the fury of a derailed freight train. Green oranges tasted red—no, not red, RED—a screaming, blood-warm explosion of fresh Placentia and number nine cosmic dissonance.

The air was thick with sin and sweat that stuck to the roof of your mouth like the memory of bad decisions. Alice came at me like a razor-sharp hallucination wrapped in lace—pussy French kisses and stockings stretched high, a fever dream in silk and shadow and smoke.

“Wet and wild and sour,” she whispered, her breath tasting like fermented peaches and promises I’d be too drunk to remember, save the lacerations to my softened genitalia.

Whiskey on gravel, rough and biting. No ice, no relief—just the sting of fire down my throat, the kind that makes men confess sins they haven’t committed yet. Bananas slipping in and out, away from reality like sanity on a bad trip.

Christ, had Alice called out for more? Or was I the rabbit now, tumbling down the hole with no exit? Was this my life now? Chasing down the throat of madness, or was madness chasing me down with a cocktail of psychedelics and despair?

Tall and short, the world twisting like a funhouse mirror. I laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too desperate. The music was like a chainsaw cutting through the fog of my mind, each note being a nail driven into the coffin of sanity. The smell was a mix of burnt rubber and dreams gone sour.

The stockings ran high, vanishing into shadows that should’ve been solid. Somewhere in the chaos, I knew I was lost. But hell, wasn’t that the point? Even Nixon would’ve blushed at this scene, this wild, unhinged circus of American decadence.

I could feel the walls closing in, not just physically but metaphysically. Were they watching? Did they know? Every shadow now seemed like a spy, every sound a betrayal. In one moment, I was the king of this twisted realm, and in the next, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand and played by elements I couldn’t see.

Her eyes were like twin moons, pulling at the tides of my mind and dragging me into an orbit of lunacy. Oh, you think you know fear? Try this: being caught between the high of enlightenment and the low of oblivion, with no map or guide to ignore.

The whiskey wasn’t just drinking me; it was baptizing me into a new religion of pain and pleasure, where every gulp was a sermon on the mount of madness.

Whiskey Weeps in the Corner

For lo, these many years, it was taken as gospel truth that the official beverage of Nevada was whatever whiskey could get poured from a jug, and the only credentials required for its adoption were a fiery disposition and an ability to make a man forget his troubles—sometimes permanently. But in a stunning turn of legislative fancy, the Silver State is now considering a proper and official drink, and the honor may fall upon that most Basque of libations: Picon Punch.

Assembly Bill 375, sponsored by esteemed gentlemen Steve Yeager and Bert Gurr, seeks to bestow the noble title of State Drink upon this 19th-century concoction, a mingling of Amer Picon, grenadine, club soda, and a ceremonious float of brandy, all nestled within a tulip-shaped glass—presumably so the drinker may admire it before losing his wits entirely. Once a product of foreign lands, Amer Piconnow finds its only refuge on American soil at Reno’s Ferino Distillery, making the drink a rare gem in the thirsty world of spirits.

However, as all shrewd legislators can attest, no bill can pass through the esteemed halls of government without some incentives, and AB375 is no exception.

In addition to bestowing this liquid distinction upon the state, the bill proposes a modern twist–permitting establishments to sell mixed drinks in sealed containers for off-site consumption—an innovation that will surely spare many a weary Nevadan the terrible burden of assembling a cocktail at home. Moreover, it seeks to refine the laws surrounding alcohol delivery, ensuring that the devil’s nectar may find its way to the parched with greater efficiency than ever before.

The Legislature will hear the matter Monday, and the good people of Nevada can only watch with bated breath—and perhaps a stiff drink in hand—to see whether Picon Punch will take its rightful place or if whiskey will remain the unspoken sovereign of the sagebrush frontier.

A Bill, A billion, and A Bunch of Questions

It does appear that Governor Joe Lombardo has loaded a scatter gun with a grand notion–he wants to sprinkle a cool billion dollars across the Nevada landscape like a farmer seeding a field, only instead of wheat, he’s looking to grow houses folks can afford.

The Nevada Housing Access and Attainability Act—a highfalutin’ name—promises to carve out a fund to shovel money toward housing developments, with a tidy $250 million set aside to help folks pay rent or scrape up a downpayment. Mighty generous.

Full of optimism, the Governor assures us that Nevada need not choose between growth and more growth—an assertion that, depending on who you ask, is either forward-thinking or the sort of thing a fella says before his horse steps into a gopher hole.

Now, here’s a curiosity–the proposal claims to expand eligibility for affordable housing to those making 150 percent of the area’s median income. But that raises an interesting question—what exactly became of all that federal gold dust Nevada’s got showered with thanks to Senators Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen?

After all that taxpayer money rolled in, surely there ought to be some housing to point at, or is it like a gambler’s winnings in Virginia City—gone before you know where it went?

One of the plan’s ideas is to remove barriers holding builders from using government-owned land for affordable housing. The Governor points out that public land auctions often send prices soaring higher than a Fourth of July bottle rocket, leaving affordable housing developers to pick through the ashes.

Now, it seems reasonable enough, though one wonders why the state owns all this land in the first place if nobody can afford to build on it.

Lombardo says his office worked with Nevada’s federal delegation and the White House to hammer out the details, but the fine idea has yet to take the form of an actual, numbered bill. In other words, a grand promise sitting on a fence post like Mugwump, waiting to see how the political winds blow.

For now, the folks of Nevada can take heart in knowing that their fearless leaders are thinking about affordable housing, but whether they’ll do anything about it—well, that’s a house of a different color.

If you happened to look up in Washoe Valley last week and saw a helicopter buzzing about like a dragonfly with purpose, you weren’t hallucinating—at least, not unless you’ve been into something more than fire water.

The flying machine belonged to the Nevada Division of Forestry, and it wasn’t just out for a joyride. Nope, it was busy re-seeding the scarred remains of last year’s Davis Fire, which did a thorough job of turning nearly 6,000 acres into something resembling a bad day on the moon.

The noble effort is the work of a small army of government outfits, from the Nevada Division of Forestry to the Bureau of Land Management, all shaking hands under the grand umbrella of the state’s Shared Stewardship Agreement. The idea is simple: drop enough native seeds from the sky and hope Mother Nature forgives last year’s transgressions.

Officials swear by it, saying it’s the best way to give the land a fighting chance at looking green again, rather than the ashen wasteland it currently resembles.

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the state, Clark County residents have been given a rare and generous offer–free trees, with no strings attached, no government forms requiring your firstborn.

Through the Community Canopy Project, about 4,500 water-efficient trees are up for grabs, with priority given to those most at risk of roasting alive in the desert sun. The particular act of kindness is a direct response to what was, officially, the hottest summer ever recorded in Southern Nevada, with temperatures reaching a blistering 120°F and over 500 deaths blamed on the heat.

So, whether sprinkling seeds over burned land or handing out trees like a kindly Johnny Appleseed, Nevada is doing its best to undo some calefaction damage.

Clark County Employee Jailed for Indecency

In a development that will set many a parent’s teeth on edge and send schoolhouse reputations tumbling like a poorly built fence, a Clark County School District employee has been clapped into irons for alleged misconduct with a minor.

Manuel Ayala-Tovar, aged 33 years and—one assumes—fully aware of societal consensus on right and wrong, got escorted to the Clark County Detention Center, where he will no doubt have ample time to contemplate the error of his ways. The accused had been gainfully employed at Manuel J. Cortez Elementary School since 2022, though one suspects his departure will not come with a gold watch or farewell parties.

The authorities, diligent in sniffing out misdeeds, commenced their investigation in November 2024. From that moment, Ayala-Tovar got sent home, which in schoolhouse parlance generally means “don’t come back.”

While the wheels of justice turn, the community watches and waits, hoping that such a disgraceful business never darkens the door of their schoolhouses again.

Well now, gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen, and let’s take a gander at the latest installment of Nevada’s most thrilling spectacle—The Grand and Glorious Assurance of Election Integrity!

The dazzling performance, brought to you by none other than Secretary of State Francisco Aguilar, complete with lofty pronouncements, statistical wizardry, and the ever-reliable sleight of hand that has folks nodding along.

“Ensuring the security of Nevada’s elections is one of the most serious responsibilities my office has,” quoth Aguilar, straight-faced as a Sunday school preacher, as he unfurled yet another quarterly report meant to assure the good citizens of Nevada that all is well and just in their sacred voting process.

Now, let’s take a peek behind the curtain.

In the grand 2024 general election, a minuscule 303 attempted double-votes got noted—that’s 0.02 percent of the total ballots, a number so small you’d need a government-paid mathematician to find it with a magnifying glass. But don’t fret, dear reader, for of these 303, a whopping five cases have been closed, while the remaining 298 languish in a limbo more mysterious than a prospector’s last words.

The primary election fared no better, with 68 attempted double-votes and a dazzling 48 closing with no recommendation for criminal charges—one can only assume the perpetrators received a hearty handshake and a gentle reminder to try again next time. And in the grandest of them all, the 2024 Presidential Preference Primary, the number of double votes was so microscopic—two cases out of 215,742 ballots—it’s a wonder they bothered to count them.

Both cases came up dismissed, naturally.

What Aguilar and his merry band would have you believe is that these numbers prove the election was as pure as a mountain spring. But any old-timer worth his salt will tell you: the trick to a good con ain’t what they show you but what they don’t.

And for all the fine talk of transparency and accountability, the one thing you won’t find in these reports is anyone asking questions that might make an honest man blush.

So step right up, folks, and take comfort in the knowledge that Nevada’s elections are in the safest hands—at least, according to the fellas counting the votes.

But, ain’t it just the way of politicians and their pet number-crunchers?

They’ll stand up straight as a fence post and tell you, and with all the sincerity of a fella selling snake oil, that 303 attempted double votes out of nearly a million and a half ballots ain’t worth mentioning. Why–it’s such a small number, they reckon, you’d be a fool to worry about it.

But here’s the rub—one double vote is one too many. If a man slips an extra ace into a poker game and gets caught, you don’t say, “Well, it was just one card, no harm done.” No, you kick ’em out and watch the rest of the deck mighty close because where there’s one trick, there’s bound to be another.

What bean counters conveniently forget to mention is the simple truth–if they caught a few, how many more slipped through? It ain’t like cheaters line up to turn themselves in. And yet, we get the same tired song—“Nothing to see here, folks, move along.”

A fella with sense knows better.

On Sunday evening, the good folks of Central Lyon Fire found themselves called away from whatever honest labor or idle mischief they were about to engage in as a brush fire set about making a general nuisance of itself near Stagecoach, just off Highway 50 East. Not wanting to miss the excitement, Carson City Fire hitched up their wagons and rode out for mutual assistance.

The blaze reached about an acre in size before the firefighters applied a firm and unyielding hand to dampen its aspirations. Fire crews drowned the fire by 6:30 p.m.

Meanwhile, in Indian Hills, fire crews had another engagement involving a structure fire on Vista Park Drive. At around 5:20 p.m., smoke began making itself conspicuously unwelcome at a local residence.

Perhaps feeling that one fire wouldn’t fill the evening, Carson City Fire saddled up again for mutual aid. The firefighters arrived to find the rooms excessively filled with flames.

After some effort, the fire—whether it surrendered willingly or went out kicking and screaming–got knocked down. As for the extent of the damage, the flames have been remarkably tight-lipped on the matter.

And lest Lyon County feels neglected, a brush fire in Smith Valley made a play for attention earlier in the day, striking up a lively performance off Artist View. Fire resources, not one to encourage such rowdy displays, managed to subdue the fire’s enthusiasm significantly, leaving only the usual mop-up duties.

The land, now slightly singed but otherwise unimpressed, will no doubt be ready to host the next such conflagration at a moment’s notice.