Category: random

It appears that the wise heads down at Storey County Emergency Management, along with the fire-eaters at the Fire Protection District and the badge-wearers at the Sheriff’s Office, have come together in rare harmony to put on a wildfire evacuation drill up yonder in the Virginia City Highlands. This grand spectacle’s goin’ to take place Saturday, June 14th — provided the wind don’t blow the whole county into next week beforehand.

Before the stampede begins, they’re holding an Informational Town Hall meeting on Tuesday, May 6th, from six o’clock sharp to six forty-five — not a minute more, mind you — at the Virginia City Highlands Community Center, at 2610 Cartwright Road. That’s where they’ll lay out the evacuation routes, the emergency squawk-box alerts, and what a body needs to do besides wringing their hands and hollerin’ at the dog when trouble comes knocking.

“This drill is an important part of keeping our community safe,” quoth Adam Wilson, the Emergency Management Director, with all the solemnity of a man warning folks off thin ice.

He reckons wildfire season’s stretching out longer than a preacher’s Sunday sermon these days and that practice might save a heap of misery later on. He says he wants every soul in the Highlands to feel “confident and informed” before the hills light up like a Fourth of July sky.

Good folks are heartily encouraged to drag themselves down to the Town Hall, show up bright and early for the June 14th drill, and make sure their kinfolk, critters, and valuables are ready for whatever Nature throws at them. Not that the regular Virginia City weekly will tell you a blessed thing about it.

Joins Merry Band of AGs to Protect DOE Handouts

Out here in the wild and woolly territory of Nevada — where a man is supposed to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow and not by the trembling of his pen — our very own Attorney General, Mr. Ford, has once again hitched his wagon to the fancy parade of spendthrifts known as the Coalition of 19 Attorneys General. Their latest spectacle? Filing suit against the Department of Education (DOE), like a posse of fortune hunters suing the sun for setting too soon.

Now, the Department of Education — never known for its towering wisdom — sent word down the line that states must bow and scrape before the administration’s new reading of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or else watch their federal coffers dry up faster than a waterhole in Death Valley. In plain speech, if the states don’t snip away at any notion of equal access to education the way Washington dictates, they can kiss their dollars goodbye.

Nevada, poor soul, stands to lose almost a billion dollars a year — most of it thrown into the noble causes of special education, low-income aid, non-native speaker programs, and heaven knows what else. One could feed every horse, cow, and politician from here to Reno on that much coin and still have silver left for the gambling tables.

And who stands on the front lines of this noble fight to keep the gravy train running? Why, none other than Mr. Ford — the man who has wasted more Nevada taxpayer dollars chasing lawsuits, ghost causes, and political pipe dreams than any politician who ever daydreamed about being Governor.

Ford proudly joins hands with his fellow letter writers from California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Oregon, Rhode Island, Vermont, Washington, and Wisconsin — a regular map of states where taxes grow faster than tumbleweeds in a storm. Mr. Ford, if given a choice between righting wrongs and riding the gravy train, would not only buy a first-class ticket but demand a private car and a brass band to announce his arrival.

Whether the lawsuit saves the day or sinks like a stone, one thing is as sure as sunrise–Ford will have spent more of Nevada’s hard-earned money making noise than he ever will saving it.

In the capital of the Silver State, where one might hope civilization had taken root a bit deeper than the sagebrush, deputies found themselves busier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs this past week.

First, there’s a fellow named Perry Adams, age forty-six. He figured a quarrel with his girlfriend about his flirtations on Instagram would best be resolved not with words–but with a stick.

Deputies were called to a modest home on Dori Way after reports of a disturbance. They found the victim—shaky, whispering, and nodding her head in a fashion that suggested she wasn’t so much answering questions as warning them without words.

Invited into the house, a rare courtesy in these parts when tempers are up, they found Adams, who looked as innocent as a schoolboy caught with a slingshot. The woman told deputies that Adams had gotten hisself worked up over accusations of conversing with a minor online, then suffering righteous indignation, deleted the app, no doubt to spare himself the aggravation and the possibility of the burden of evidence.

Despite claiming no harm had come of it, the woman bore the badge of battle—a red, raised welt upon her arm—and further confessed, once her fear loosened her tongue, that Adams had struck her across the face with his hand and then walloped her with a stick held in both hands like a man splitting kindling. There was choking involved as Adams had pressed his forearm against her throat in the manner of a man attempting to hush an unpleasant truth.

The beating, for good measure, was delivered while a child slept elsewhere in the house, blissfully unaware of the foolishness of grown folk. Deputies, not being entirely born yesterday, arrested Adams on the charge of felony domestic battery with a deadly weapon and confiscated both the sticks and the phone, which Adams pretended he could no longer access.

No sooner had the dust settled from that escapade than the deputies got summoned to Como Street, where a 22-year-old woman decided that if love couldn’t find restoration by persuasion, it might get revived through violence.

The young lady, suspecting her former sweetheart of infidelity with a man—a curious complaint for an ex-girlfriend to make—barged into the woman’s bedroom and delivered a punch to the face hard enough to leave a cut and the early bloom of a black eye. She was thoughtful enough to keep her sister on speakerphone during the assault, a detail which proved about as helpful to her case as a screen door on a submarine.

In her defense—stitched together with the kind of care usually reserved for secondhand quilts—the ex-girlfriend claimed she got smacked first, though she could not recall which hand had done the deed. Deputies, using the effective method of common sense, determined that the victim, not the aggressor, had summoned the law and that the injuries spoke louder than the accused. Thus, the ex-girlfriend got herself arrested for domestic battery.

In Carson City as elsewhere, while love may lift some to the stars, it just as often drops us flat on our faces.

Now, friends, it has come to pass that one of our more silver-headed truth-hunters, Jacques Vallée by name, has raised a cautionary finger against the reckless unmasking of the world’s best-kept secret—that the night sky is full of neighbors and some of’em don’t come bearing apple pie.

Mister Vallée, a veteran of sixty years’ worth of stargazing and spitball fights with the learned men of science, has said plainly that telling the whole truth about these flying whatchamacallits—and worse yet, the grim record of the people they’ve maimed—is a job fit for more than just a loudmouth with a megaphone. He says it needs a plan. A grand strategy. A structure not yet invented by man or beast.

Now, you might wonder, how did we get ourselves into such a box of rattlesnakes?

Why, through the oldest American traditions—secrecy, lying, and the self-righteous belief that if we bury a bad thing deep enough, it’ll sprout into a rosebush. That trick ain’t never worked, not once, but the government, like an old hound with no sense, keeps sniffing down the same rabbit hole.

Vallée himself has waded through the muck. He helped with a Pentagon-backed effort called the Advanced Aerospace Weapon System Applications Program—AAWSAP for short, though it ought to be called “Another Attempt At Sweeping Away Problems.” Hidden in the bowels of a Las Vegas aerospace outfit, these good gentlemen and ladies documented a grim thing–hundreds of poor souls, in Brazil and elsewhere, left scorched and battered after getting a little too friendly with the strange lights in the sky.

Some of those injuries weren’t accidents, Vallée says. Some were deliberate—as in, shot-on-purpose. Death was no stranger to their investigations.

In truth, these sky critters, whoever or whatever they are, haven’t just been scaring cattle and old ladies—they’ve been cracking human skulls. And while such deadly encounters are said to be rare, they’re not rare enough for comfort.

In his latest scribblings, Forbidden Science 6: Scattered Castles, Vallée talks about secret chats with billionaires and desert-dwelling scientists who have made it their business to poke around crashed machines not of this Earth—or at least not of any neighborhood Earth knows about. The government’s been trying to cobble together a copy of this alien tinkering for decades, while rival nations have been doing the same–which explains why nobody wants to come clean–national pride and national survival.

Vallée ain’t against telling the people. Lord, no!

He believes that if we sprung the truth on the world like a drunk might by bursting into a church social, we’re bound to set off chaos so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. He says the truth needs some framework—a “structure,” one sturdy enough to carry the weight of a hundred uncomfortable follow-up questions, religious reckonings included.

And if you think that’s easy, remember: these are the same folks who couldn’t even roll out a postal service without causing a war.

In the end, it ain’t just about UFOs. It’s about the rot that’s been eating away at the country for a hundred years—the belief that lying protects liberty, that secrets save souls. If we’re in a fix now, it’s because we trusted the wrong hands to hold the candle, and now we’re fumbling around in the dark, trying to find the door.

The lively spirit of youth, ever so it can outrun misfortune, met a rude and final reckoning on the winding road of Geiger Grade. In their solemn way, authorities named the poor soul–a Reno man of but 25 tender years–Kyle Rodgers.

At about half-past six o’clock, with the sun hanging low over the Sierra and shadows stretching long across the land, troopers of the Nevada State Police were summoned to a scene of calamity near Rim Rock Road. Mr. Rodgers, mounted atop his iron steed, was tearing southward along Geiger Grade — a road not built for such galloping haste. ‘Tis a road that snakes and curves like an old river and demands a man mind his speed and prayers.

But young Rodgers, it seems, put too much trust in speed and too little in good sense. Being no more forgiving than fate, the motorcycle bucked him off when it could no longer hold to the crooked path. Man and machine skidded helplessly across the travel lanes before striking the guardrail meant to save others from such a fate.

When the dust settled, the echoes of the crash faded into the hills–Kyle Rodgers lay still. The troopers pronounced him dead at the scene, a verdict as grim as any handed down from judge or jury.

Thus, another chapter closes–a bright young life dashed to pieces on the hard stones of Geiger Grade, a reminder to all that while youth may ride fast, death rides harder.

But Don’t Break Out the Fireworks Yet

By all accounts, and against the usual run of folly, the grim reaper’s stranglehold on Nevada’s highways loosened its bony grip a mite this year. After 400 good souls were lost to the wild perils of our roadways in 2024–a year that drove up the toll faster than a Comstock miner chasing a silver lode–the early reckonings of 2025 bring a whisper of better news.

From the bristling streets of Las Vegas to the lonely dust tracks of Battle Mountain, the state’s March fatal report shows a curious dip in death. Naturally suspicious and somber, experts advise caution before raising a celebratory glass. With all its heat and hubris, Summer is yet to come–and in Nevada, summer on the road is about as safe as tickling a rattlesnake.

Ask anyone who’s braved the Nevada roads, and you’ll find the opinions as fierce as a July sun.

Erin Shannon, a city-dweller of Las Vegas extraction, spoke plain enough, “There’re certain hours of the day I won’t even stick a tire out,” she said, with the wary tone of a soldier describing no-man’s-land.

Kim Kessler, hailing from the peaceful plains of Wyoming, could hardly hide her horror. “It’s actually a little scary for me,” she said. “People are in a hurry, and if you’re not, they’ll let you know with all the manners of a hornet.”

It is why many jaws dropped like bad poker hands when word got around that traffic deaths are–for now–down.

By the end of March, 98 travelers had met their end on Nevada’s highways, a three percent decline from the same stretch last year. Clark County–where the desert shimmers with heat and hazard alike–the fall is even sharper–68 deaths against 2024s 85, marking a 20 percent drop, though 68 is still 68 too many for anyone with sense.

What caused this unlikely downturn?

Our long-time friend, Erin Breen of the Road Equity Alliance Project, a woman accustomed to surveying wreckage and heartache, was blunt, “Last year was so God-awful bad, anything would look better by comparison.” She further warned against unbridled optimism, “I’m not counting my chickens,” she said, no doubt with an eye on the still-looming thunderheads of summer.

Among the brighter notes in the otherwise dirge-like symphony, Clark County saw nearly 30 percent fewer pedestrians claimed by passing iron beasts. Tweaks to traffic signal timings–giving the two-legged a fighting chance against the four-wheeled–get some of the credit.

But Breen leaves drivers with a solemn bit of counsel, more enduring than any statistic, “Whether it’s your fault or not, taking a life will ruin yours for a good long while.”

And in Nevada–a land where fortune changes quicker than a desert storm–a bit of slowness and attention on the road might save lives and a little dignity. But if there’s one thing Nevada knows, it’s that luck, like a loaded dice game, has a way of running out when you least expect it.

South of Reno, along that stretch of road they call Interstate 580–a place not fit for man nor beast in the wee hours–a most lamentable business took place Saturday morning.

‘Twas about 2:15 by the clock when one solitary soul, beset by moonshine, saw fit to wreck his vehicle smack in the middle of the southbound lanes just south of Mt. Rose Highway. No sooner had his wreckage come to rest than a Good Samaritan, a woman of stout heart and tender conscience, took it upon herself to stop and offer aid–a thing so rare these days it ought to be preserved in a museum.

But Fate, which has no more manners than a goat at a garden party, had other ideas. Before she could assist–another motorist–barreling along the southbound way with a head full of booze–crashed into the wreckage and struck the Good Samaritan dead where she stood.

The Nevada Highway Patrol, speaking later in that sober, solemn way that law officers adopt after a particularly grim duty, noted that both the first and second drivers seemed to have taken to drink, or something worse, before climbing behind the wheel. Both were arrested and carted off to the Washoe County jail, there to reflect upon their sins.

The authorities, keen to keep the rabble from gawping at the scene, shut down the southbound side of I-580 at Mt. Rose Highway around six o’clock and kept it closed for several hours. No names are getting released right now, and the conditions of the offending parties were left to speculation–though one might wager they were in no condition to make introductions.

The road is open again, though the stain upon the morning and human nature remains.

Out in the land of dust and double-dealers, where a man can get robbed of his hat and still get taxed for the privilege, one Michele Fiore, a woman of stubborn disposition and unladylike courage, finds herself once again on the receiving end of a great American pastime–namely, public character assassination masquerading as justice.

It took a federal jury no more time than it does a rooster to crow twice to convict Miss Fiore on several counts of wire fraud back in October ’24. They called it an eight-day trial, but it had all the careful consideration of a saloon brawl. Each count came carrying the weight of twenty years–or, as some call it in Las Vegas, just long enough to forget who dealt the cards.

With a twist befitting a country where justice rides a three-legged mule, President Donald Trump issued a pardon, turning the whole affair upside down and inside out. The mob, it seems, cannot abide when a rope prepared for hanging goes unused.

The cause of all this ruction? Fiore once endeavored to raise money for statues honoring fallen officers Alyn Beck and Igor Soldo, gunned down like dogs while on a lunch break in 2014. Some money changed hands — from union boss Tommy White, from the then-sheriff and now Governor Joe Lombardo — and soon after, accusations began to breed like rabbits.

Governor Lombardo has stayed silent as a grave, which is prudent when the wolves are baying. Nevada’s Attorney General, Aaron Ford, took to the new-fangled ‘X’ platform to heap curses on the pardon, President Trump, and Fiore.

Ford, who calls himself the “top cop,” declared it a “disgrace, which, coming from a politician, is like being called damp by a fish.

Meanwhile, the law professors and learned men remind everyone that while Miss Fiore cannot get tried twice by the same court, there’s no rule stopping Nevada from dragging her back into the dock under their authority. Like an unlucky gambler who keeps pulling the wrong lever, Fiore now faces the possibility of being charged again.

The esteemed Professor Benjamin Edwards at UNLV, speaking with the gravity of a man who has never missed a meal, explained that federal and state prosecutions are as different as two fleas on a hound–one might jump, but the other still has a bite left. He even suggested that Nevada may have a “responsibility” to pursue her should the hunger for blood prove too strong to resist.

The District Attorney, Steve Wolfson, has maintained a silence deep enough to drown in. No doubt he’s consulting his horoscope to see if political winds favor mercy or mayhem.

As for the Nevada Commission on Judicial Discipline–a body of bureaucrats well-practiced in removing the speck from others’ eyes while ignoring the planks in their own–they first suspended Fiore with pay, then without, proving that even when standing still, they can manage to step on their own feet. Now, while the high-hatted gentlemen and silk-stockinged reformers sharpen their knives, Fiore remains a symbol of something that rankles the soul of every weak busybody–a woman who refuses to kneel, confess, and die quietly.

And that, dear reader, is why they still hunt her.

In the days when young McAvoy Layne, a lad yet to know he carried the reincarnated spark of ol’ Sam Clemens himself, took it into his head to join the United States Marine Corps, the world was a tangle of mischief and muddle, much like a yarn spun by a man with too much whiskey and too little sleep. To Vietnam, he went in 1966, bound for what the recruiters called an “extended vacation” of two years, though it bore as much resemblance to a holiday as a dog does to a cat.

Picture the scene, a sultry jungle night, where the air’s so thick with tension, you could slice it with a butter knife and spread it on your biscuit. Young Layne, greener than a spring frog, was posted as sentry just inside a snarl of concertina

wire he and his comrade—a wiry fella with a laugh like a busted squeezebox—had strung up that very day.

They’d laced that wire with tin cans, each holdin’ a single rock, a contraption meant to jangle a warning if the Viet Cong came sneakin’. The pair hunkered down in their fighting hole, eyes wide and nerves taut as a banjo string, waitin’ for trouble to announce itself.

It wasn’t long—a half-hour, maybe, though it felt like a coon’s age—before a rustle came from the wire, sharp and sudden, like a ghost tiptoein’ through a graveyard. Layne’s buddy, quicker than a hiccup, popped up like a jack-in-the-box, let loose a burst from his rifle toward the sound, then dove back into the hole faster than a sinner slidin’ into church on Judgment Day.

The two of ‘em froze, ears strainin’ for any hint of what might be out there. Not a whisper. The jungle held its breath, and so did they. Across the ravine, another outpost of Marines, brothers-in-arms with their worries, had heard the shots and perked up, figurin’ trouble might be brewin’.

The sudden quiet left them as jumpy as a grasshopper on a hot skillet, but that’s warfare for you—full of surprises, mostly unpleasant. What none reckoned on was young Layne, nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs in a home for the aged, cookin’ up a plan that’d make a mule laugh and a General weep.

“Best we see what’s comin’,” says his mate to Layne, his voice shakin’ like a leaf in a gale. “Let’s shoot a flare.”

His buddy, figurin’ it couldn’t hurt, nodded, and Layne, eager as a pup with a new bone, grabbed the flare gun. Now, aimin’ a flare ain’t no harder than pointin’ a finger, but Layne, bless his heart, was so rattled he might as well have been tryin’ to thread a needle in a hurricane.

He set the thing up, squeezed the trigger, and—whoo-eee!—that flare didn’t soar skyward like it was supposed to. No, sir, it shot across the ravine like a comet with a grudge, a red streak of pure cussedness headin’ straight for the other outpost.

By the grace of Providence and dumb luck, it missed the boys on the far side, sailin’ past ‘em close enough to singe their whiskers. The fellas hit the dirt, hearts poundin’ like a blacksmith’s hammer, thinkin’ the devil himself had come callin’.

When the flare fizzled out in the jungle beyond, they picked themselves up, cussin’ and laughin’ in that way men do when they’ve cheated death by a hair. Come dawn, when the outposts gathered to swap tales and tobacco, one of the Marines from across the ravine, a lanky cuss with a grin like a possum, swore that flare looked like a locomotive barrelin’ right at him, headlight blazin’ and whistle screamin’.

“Night Train,” he dubbed Layne, and the name stuck tighter than a tick on a hound. For the rest of his days in the Corps, McAvoy answered to Night Train, a moniker earned by one part courage and nine parts calamity.

Years rolled by, and Layne, havin’ survived the war’s brand of foolishness, found his true callin’. The spirit of Mark Twain, that old riverboat rascal, must’ve been lurkin’ in him all along, for he took to wearin’ a white suit and a mustache that’d make a walrus jealous, tourin’ the world with Chautauquas that spun tales of human nature with a wink and a chuckle.

And if you ever caught one of his shows, you might’ve seen a glint in his eye, a flicker of that night in Vietnam when Night Train Layne lit up the dark with a flare and a prayer, provin’ that even a fool can stumble into glory, so long as he’s got a story to tell.

Now, folks, gather ‘round and lend an ear to the latest chapter of American absurdity–a tale so rich in foolishness that even the Carson River would blush to tell it.

It seems Nevada, that grand stretch of desert and dice, had a law passed back in 1985–a simple enough notion–sayin’ that if a young’un wanted an abortion, their folks ought to get told first. You know–like parents are for birthdays, broken arms, and everything else that matters.

But quicker than you can say, “rabbit in a briar patch,” the law was tied up and tucked away, all because of Roe v. Wade, which back then gave folks the notion that the Constitution had a secret footnote about killing babies.

Fast-forward to 2022, when the Supreme Court, perhaps tired of pretending otherwise, sent Roe packing.

Nevada’s dusty old law stirred in its slumber, ready to rise and mind the children. That is until U.S. District Court Judge Anne Traum–with the solemnity of a cat pawing a ball of yarn–granted Planned Parenthood’s wish to pause the whole affair.

Let’s not mistake ourselves–Planned Parenthood don’t deal in healthcare, no matter what pretty banners they sew. Their business is the death of babies, neat and clinical as a bank ledger, and they fight for that grim trade like a gambler fights for a full deck.

In her wisdom or some pale imitation of it, the judge told Planned Parenthood they could ask the 9th Circuit Court to keep the law on ice a little longer, provided they hustle and file their papers in a week.

And so, the law that Nevada once had but never used, then thought finally to use, will keep sleeping–at least for now–while the great wheel of the courts turns slow and crooked, like an old mule heading uphill.

One’s tempted to believe that common sense might someday catch up, but like good whiskey and honest politicians, it’s always in short supply.