Ain’t this a turn of events? The Nevada Gaming Control Board has seen fit to publish the latest tally on the northern end of the state’s grand enterprise of chance, and lo and behold, the figures ain’t exactly cause for celebration—unless, of course, you happen to be the sort who takes delight in watching the house lose for once.
In Carson City and the Carson Valley, the gaming tables stood their ground like a stubborn old mule, showing but the faintest retreat—a minuscule 0.48 percent drop in February compared to last year. The good people of Carson, Gardnerville, Minden, and their neighboring haunts wagered and lost a respectable $10,297,812, which is a tidy sum by most reckonings, but still, the coffers jingled just a mite less than before.
When it comes to the total across Nevada, the story turns grim. The state’s nonrestricted gaming licensees—those fine establishments specializing in separating fools from their money—reported a “gaming win” of $1,217,662,484 in February. A handsome figure, no doubt, but it’s 9.28 percent short of last year’s spoils. And for those keeping the books over the long haul, the fiscal year’s tally from July to February is also limping along, trailing by 1.14 percent.
And what of the once-mighty shores of Lake Tahoe? The South Shore casinos took a staggering hit, down 17.35 percent, while their North Shore kin found themselves short by 9.34 percent. Reno, that great citadel of neon and nostalgia, watched its gaming revenue slip 6.44 percent, and Sparks fared only slightly better, down 2.65 percent.
In sum, gamblers have either grown wiser or luck has taken an extended vacation–either way, the house ain’t winning this round, and that, dear reader, is a spectacle rare enough to warrant a good, long look.
It’s not every day that Northern Nevada gets mistaken for a Hollywood backlot, but here we are—snowflakes fallin’ like stage props while a pack of film folks set up shop in Carson City and Washoe Valley. The movie, a Warner Brothers-backed picture, has been described as a “Yellowstone”-esque tale and the age-old question–Are we destined to trip over the same rake our parents did, or can we finally learn to step around it?
Juan Pablo Arias Muñoz, the film’s director, said, “It’s a film about family. It’s a film about tradition.”
With the snow fallin’ thick as a politician’s promise, the media got invited behind the scenes of a sequel to a five-part Amazon Prime series of the same name, Casa Grande. The production company, ESX Entertainment, started shooting in Northern California but decided Nevada had a certain untamed charm.
“When we landed here, we were like, ‘Wow, it looks like a postcard,’” said Ali Afshar, President of ESX Entertainment. “The snow looks so perfect, it almost seems fake.”
One might argue that Nevada winters need no Hollywood magic—it’s been trickin’ folks for free since the Pony Express.
The filmmakers have been good at using the region’s diverse scenery, from farmland to mountain peaks to small-town charm. One day, they were holed up in a house shootin’ some scenes and choreographing a fight—presumably not over who gets the last cup of coffee.
Now, as with most grand adventures, the weather’s been both a help and a hindrance.
“It’s so cool looking with the snow and whatnot, but then cars are getting stuck in the mud,” Afshar admitted. “We’re parking in this field, and we have to tow them out. Also, I went to Scheels and spent a ton of money—we don’t even have Scheels in California!”
There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned snowstorm to turn a filmmaker into a local shopper.
Aiding this cinematic endeavor are some up-and-comers from Nevada’s Future Filmmakers Foundation, a program out of the Cordillera Film Festival.
“They’re really prepared,” Muñoz said. “They show up and already know what they’re doing.”
A rare and remarkable thing, indeed.
Once Casa Grande wraps, ESX Entertainment will take its cameras south to Las Vegas for another film. Afshar hopes Nevada will open its doors wider to the industry so productions don’t have to keep running off to Georgia or parts unknown.
Filming will conclude in Carson City’s prison—though one hopes the actors are only there temporarily. Casa Grande will hit theaters by late 2025 or early 2026, giving audiences a taste of Nevada’s cinematic potential.
And who knows? If Hollywood keeps sniffin’ around the Silver State, we may see Nevada become more than a backdrop for car commercials and cowboy movies—it might just turn into the next great stage for storytelling, snowstorms, and all.
If you ever wanted a lesson on how to rub your head and pat your belly—while standing on one foot and whistling Dixie—then, by all means, stroll through the Nevada Legislature this session. It seems our esteemed lawmakers have found themselves in the peculiar predicament of lamenting potential Medicaid cuts with one hand while gleefully doling out millions to Hollywood with the other.
Senate Minority Leader Robin Titus, a woman of medicine and plain-spoken common sense, appeared downright flabbergasted as she pointed out the sheer contradiction.
“One of the ironies of this whole session is the Democrats have been hammering, hammering Trump and Republicans about possible reductions to Medicaid,” she said. “But at the same time, they introduce a $150 million transferable tax credit program for the film industry. Now, if that’s not irony…”
And that, dear reader, is what we call a humdinger.
While some lawmakers in Carson City quake in their boots at the thought of losing $1.9 billion in Medicaid funds, others are rolling out the red carpet for Hollywood bigwigs, pitching a generous $120 million a year in tax credits for a Las Vegas movie studio. The bill’s backed by Sony Pictures, Warner Bros., Discovery, and Howard Hughes Holdings—because nothing says fiscal responsibility quite like giving corporate giants a hearty helping of taxpayer gravy.
Speaker of the Assembly Steve Yeager, ever the optimist, tried to downplay the Medicaid panic, reassuring folks that “it’s just not going to happen.” Meanwhile, Assembly members Sandra Jauregui and Daniele Monroe-Moreno must have had stars in their eyes as they introduced their film tax credit bill, touting it as Nevada’s golden ticket to cinematic greatness.
Titus, however, isn’t one for fawning over actors or swallowing rosy economic projections whole.
“You will never see me in a picture with an actor or actress because I’m just not star struck,” she declared, likely to the horror of Carson City’s most enthusiastic celebrity-chasers.
As for the promised economic returns on the film industry investment? A consulting report claims that for every tax dollar spent–Nevada will reap $25 in economic benefits—which sounds suspiciously like the kind of Common Core math that turns water into wine.
Titus, ever skeptical, isn’t buying it.
“For every dollar invested in this, in the film credits, you only get about 50 cents back,” she countered. “We just cannot justify that.”
On the Medicaid front, Titus pledged to fight for its survival but acknowledged that adjustments may be inevitable. And the first on the chopping block? The “childless adults” added to Medicaid during the COVID expansion—many of whom, Titus pointed out, are employed by corporations like Walmart and Amazon, which could probably foot their healthcare bills without needing a handout from the state.
And so, as Carson City politicians wring their hands over Medicaid while rolling out the welcome mat for Tinseltown, one can’t help but marvel at the spectacle. It’s a show with all the makings of a blockbuster: drama, irony, misplaced priorities, and a budget twist worthy of a Hollywood script.
The girl was seven. It was her birthday. Her mother took her to the park. Then to the store. She let the girl pick out a toy.
The mother was a woman of faith. She had a prayer closet. She knelt there in the morning. She knelt there in the evening. It was her place alone.
The girl chose a rubber ball. Red.
They came home. The mother went to the kitchen to start dinner. Then the sound came. Tires screaming across the pavement.
The mother looked out the window. The red ball bounced in the street. She ran outside. The girl lay in the road, still.
That night, the father sat in the living room. The sun was going down. Shadows stretched across the floor as he lost his temper and blamed her; the gate had been left open.
Hours passed. The house was silent. He realized she had not come out of her prayer closet.
They found her there. Emergency crews cut her down from the hanger rack.
The apron was still knotted tight around her throat.
Governor Joe Lombardo has taken a moment from the rigors of governance to enlighten law enforcement on immigration enforcement.
“My advice to Nevada sheriffs and chiefs is, those sheriffs are autonomous, they’re elected officials, but I would recommend they use a similar policy as Las Vegas Metro,” declared Lombardo, exhibiting a deference to independence while nudging the flock toward his past practices.
Now, the curious reader might inquire, what precisely is that policy?
It appears that Nevada’s law enforcement, including the esteemed Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, has opted not to involve itself with the federal government’s immigration escapades unless the individual in question is both undocumented and of a particularly violent inclination. In such cases, Metro notifies Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) at the time of booking and release. The federal authorities must then retrieve the individual with a warrant in hand.
However, the efficiency of such arrangements is questionable, as both Lombardo and current LVMPD Sheriff Kevin McMahill have noted that ICE, though duly notified, only collects a fraction of the uninvited guests. Perhaps the agency, like a cat presented with too many mice, is overwhelmed by the abundance.
Lombardo points out the distinction between state law and federal law—a delineation that often proves inconvenient to governance. While under his watch at Metro, the department maintained a partnership with ICE in the jail, which met its demise in 2019 following a court ruling about booking records.
Meanwhile, Democratic Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford has presented guidance, instructing state agencies, courts, and schools to concern themselves primarily with state law and to refrain from performing the federal government’s chores free of charge. These recommendations, however, come with the remarkable condition that they are entirely optional, thus rendering them an elegant exercise in suggestion rather than statute.
“You remove the worst of the worst,” Lombardo remarked of Metro’s approach, an assurance meant to soothe the nerves of the law-abiding citizen.
Yet, he acknowledges that policing, much like any other endeavor, is constrained by means and resources. Being far from the Rio Grande, Nevada does not bear the title of a border state, though Lombardo stands at the ready should President Trump deem it necessary to send the Nevada National Guard southward to lend a hand.
“I totally respect and I support what Donald Trump is trying to do in the immigration space,” the governor stated, leaving no doubt where his sympathies lie.
Should Trump come calling, Lombardo stands prepared to answer—noting that federal efforts in Nevada are sorely lacking in resources and personnel. Lombardo seems particularly resolute on his intention to veto any legislative mischief aimed at curtailing federal immigration enforcement in schools or churches, those bastions of learning and worship that, in the eyes of some, ought to remain untangled from the machinations of border control.
As for the broader efforts of ICE, the Department of Homeland Security proudly proclaimed that in the first 50 days of the administration, nearly 33,000 undocumented individuals found themselves apprehended—three-quarters of whom bore accusations or convictions of crime. However, should one be so bold as to inquire how many such arrests transpired in Nevada, the department, much like a seasoned politician, proves less forthcoming.
And so, the matter of immigration enforcement in Nevada continues, an affair guided by policy, politics, and the occasional gubernatorial pronouncement—each carrying the weight of authority and the flourish of opinion–as is tradition in the great American pastime of governance.
Senate Republican Whip Lisa Krasner, armed with the conviction of a missionary and the determination of a Missouri mule, has set forth a pair of education bills that aim to patch up some of the holes in Nevada’s schoolhouse roof.
The first, Senate Bill 272, takes dead aim at a rule that presently leaves students twiddling their thumbs for 180 days after transferring schools, barring them from playing sports or joining extracurricular activities as if they had committed some grave offense. Krasner’s proposal would let students skip that purgatory if they can show they transferred due to emotional distress—a term broad enough to cover everything from genuine hardship to the peculiar torments of adolescence.
The bill also throws a lifeline to the children of military families, ensuring they don’t lose precious time on the field or stage simply because Uncle Sam decided to shuffle their parents elsewhere.
“Every student deserves a fair chance,” said Krasner, picturing forlorn teenagers sidelined from glory. “This bill ensures that no student is left behind due to circumstances outside of their control.”
Meanwhile, Senate Bill 357 takes up the cause of students with visual impairments, mandating that the State Board of Education lay down clear standards for teaching Braille and providing assistive technology. In plain terms, she wants students to have more to rely on than good intentions and crossed fingers.
“Education should be accessible to every student,” Krasner declared, as if anyone in polite company might dare to disagree.
Whether these bills will sail smoothly through the legislative waters or sink beneath the weight of political wrangling remains to be seen. But for now, Senator Krasner has thrown down the gauntlet, and the matter rests with those august lawmakers who will decide whether Nevada’s students deserve a fair shake—or just more of the same.
Eighteen months ago, Alex Meruelo took the stage at his Grand Sierra Resort, flanked by cheerleaders, mascots, and a mayor ready to bask in the glow of grand promises. He spoke of a billion-dollar expansion, a $400 million arena, and the University of Nevada, Reno’s men’s basketball team, a new home—free of charge, no burden to the good taxpayers of Reno.
“Not one dollar!” he declared, presumably with his hand over his heart and his other in someone else’s pocket.
A year later, Meruelo’s got that pocket turned inside out, knocking on the city’s door, hat in hand, asking for $97 million in public money. The financing sleight-of-hand is called tax increment financing (TIF), a fancy way of saying, “We freeze the taxes, and any new revenue that would’ve gone to schools, roads, and public services now goes to me instead.”
It’s a classic case of corporate welfare dressed up in economic development’s Sunday best.
Naturally, Reno’s other casino operators—who have been fattening their pockets just fine without a government teat to suckle—are less than pleased. The owners of the Eldorado, Silver Legacy, Sparks Nugget, and Peppermill have banded together, claiming that TIF should go for reviving blighted areas, not cushioning the operational expenses of a man who already owns a fleet of casinos.
One lawyer for the coalition, Joshua Hicks, spelled it out in a letter to the city council: “[Grand Sierra Resort] is clearly willing and able to pay the up-front construction costs… This appears to be about covering operating costs, not redevelopment.”
Meruelo, feigning shock at the pushback, rattled off the usual playbook lines about how Reno has been doing this sort of thing for 30 years—pointing to the baseball stadium, bowling complex, and other taxpayer-funded boondoggles that have left the city with debt, but little else. Mayor Hillary Schieve, caught somewhere between political pragmatism and a genuine desire to see development, now wants an April 9 presentation before blessing the handout.
Meanwhile, Meruelo’s men are scratching their heads, wondering why anyone’s upset. Perhaps they should’ve led with that rather than the “not one dollar” routine from a year ago.
To sweeten the deal, state lawmakers are even considering extending the timeline for TIF funding, arguing that the pandemic slowed development and, well, why should a billionaire shoulder the burden alone when there are good tax dollars for redirection his way? Senator Edgar Flores is pushing a bill to extend TIF eligibility from 30 to 50 years, which, in a feat of irony, he says isn’t about state money helping Meruelo.
“We just want to give developers time to use the full breadth of the timeline,” he says–as if this were some cosmic justice for the trials and tribulations of resort owners.
Of course, this isn’t Meruelo’s first time at the public trough. Back in Arizona, his dream of a new hockey arena for the Arizona Coyotes ended in flames, with voters in Tempe rejecting his $2.1 billion entertainment district. The NHL finally gave up on him in 2024, forcing a sale and moving the team to Salt Lake City, leaving Meruelo to squabble over his $3.5 million security deposit like a gambler arguing over a bad beat.
With Reno staring down a $3.7 million shortfall in its annual budget, Meruelo’s request for $97 million in public financing is the kind of proposal that ought to come with a laugh track. Other casino operators aren’t buying it, as the state faces financial uncertainty. If taxpayers in Reno are paying attention, they might start questioning why their funds should support a billionaire’s dream project.
And so, as the city council weighs the request–when a rich man says he doesn’t need your money, check his other hand—it’s probably in your pocket already.
The Nevada Legislature, never one to let a sleeping homeowner lie, is presently toying with a scheme so bold, so ingenious in its audacity, that one must pause to admire the nerve. Assembly Joint Resolution 1 (AJR1), proposed by Assemblywoman Natha Anderson, seeks to reconfigure property taxes with all the gentle subtlety of a pickpocket in a crowd—only this time, the crowd is new homebuyers, and the pickpocket is the state.
Under the present system, Nevada acknowledges that houses, like men, do not improve with age but rather sag, crack, and depreciate, so the tax burden eases accordingly. It has long kept the peace between property owners and the revenue collectors.
But peace is fragile, and AJR1 aims to smash it to bits.
Should this amendment slither its way into law, the hapless soul who dares to purchase a home will have two new and delightful features–first, all depreciation benefits will be summarily abolished for the first year after purchase, and second, for every year thereafter, the home will get taxed as if built yesterday—never mind if the paint is peeling, the roof is sagging, or the pipes wheeze like an asthmatic mule.
An analysis of the measure suggests that homebuyers could see their tax bills inflate by 30-50 percent, a development that will no doubt leave them dazzled with the brilliance of legislative innovation. Identical homes may be subject to wildly different tax bills, all because one was unfortunate enough to have a “For Sale” sign in the yard.
The resolution’s defenders insist it will bring in more “consistent revenue,” which is legislative parlance for “it’s not about fairness, it’s about cash.” Meanwhile, a vague promise of tax relief for seniors and the challenged has been sprinkled in as a soothing balm—though, like most legislative promises, the specifics are as clear as mud.
Should the dubious proposal survive two consecutive legislative sessions, it will find itself on the ballot, where the public may either bless it with their approval or bury it six feet deep under a landslide of “no” votes. Given the nature of tax amendments—permanent, unyielding, and prone to causing regret—one would be wise to nip this one in the bud before it takes root and flourishes into a full-grown fiscal affliction.
In short, Nevada’s taxpayers are advised to keep a wary eye on their pockets, for the long arm of the law is reaching once again, and this time, it’s aiming for the deed to the family home.
It’s a grand and noble thing to talk about school choice, just as it is a grand and noble thing to talk about freedom, justice, and the pursuit of happiness—provided none of these things require a ride to get there.
Governor Joe Lombardo stood before the people of Nevada and, with great solemnity, declared that no child should stay shackled to a failing school simply because of their ZIP code. Lombardo’s grand plan hinges on what the learned folks call “open zoning,” which, boiled down, means that a child may attend a school other than the one assigned to them by bureaucratic decree.
It is a system that already exists in some form, much like the law against jaywalking—it is there, but who understands how it works?
The trouble, of course, lies not in choosing a school but in getting to it, as the plan does not necessarily include the minor detail of transportation. And so, children without the means to procure a carriage (or, in modern parlance, a ride from their beleaguered parents) are left precisely where they started—firmly rooted in the soil of their failing institution.
On the opposing side of this educational chess game stands Assemblywoman Selena Torres-Fossett, whose plan is to impose some manner of standardization on this business of open zoning. She proposes a more transparent process, ensuring that families know precisely why their child’s application was accepted or denied—though, in the absence of transportation solutions, such knowledge will be like knowing why one lost the lottery.
Lombardo’s bill, which remains shrouded in mystery, proposes that children from the most underperforming schools be granted passage to finer institutions, including private schools, through a program most assuredly titled to sound benevolent–the Nevada Integrity in Academic Funding Program. What remains unclear is whether such integrity extends to tuition, transportation, or any other trifling expenses that tend to arise when a child attempts to secure an education beyond his immediate vicinity.
The honorable senator Marilyn Dondero Loop, whose name alone suggests she has seen such policy debates circle back on themselves more than once, pointed out the inherent flaw in all this–in a town where there is one school, a student’s options are about as open as a saloon at high noon on the Sabbath.
Still, the debate rages on, with grand declarations and high ideals filling the air like fireworks on July Fourth —beautiful, dazzling, and of little consequence once the smoke clears. An education is a fine thing, a necessary thing, and a thing that depends on whether one can find a way to get to it.
On Saturday, a small but spirited congregation of agitated citizens descended upon South Virginia Street near the Tesla dealership, hoisting signs and hollering grievances against one Mr. Elon Musk—a man who, if he harbored a dime for every controversy he stirred, could purchase the very moon itself and rent it out to tourists.
The gathering was part of a grander affair, a “global day of protest” against the billionaire’s rather creative approach to governance, which, in collaboration with President Donald Trump and a peculiar currency named DOGE, has involved the wholesale dismantling of federal departments and the brisk unemployment of tens of thousands.
Reports tell us that similar demonstrations sprouted in locales far and wide—from the rain-drenched streets of Seattle to the towering steel canyons of New York City, not to mention the hallowed grounds of London, where even the most prim and proper found cause to shake their fists.
In Reno, the protest received its share of digital drum-beating from Northern Nevada Veterans for Change, which sounded the call on Reddit—where young philosophers and irate citizens gather to decide the world’s fate from the comfort of their recliners. The result was a turnout of several dozen souls, who, perhaps not striking terror into the heart of Musk, at least managed to slow traffic.
Opponents of the protest, meanwhile, had no shortage of opinions, insisting that Musk’s unorthodox methods were nothing short of divine intervention for a government long plagued by the parasites of waste and fraud. After all, it was Musk who created the mighty Gigafactory in Storey County in 2014, providing employment and prosperity.
Had his Boring Company not tunneled beneath Las Vegas, solving the age-old problem of too much sunlight and too little subterranean travel? And had he not, in a fit of pique against Delaware’s judicial meddling, relocated Neuralink to Nevada, thereby blessing the state with the dubious honor of housing the headquarters for experimental brain chips?
In the end, the battle lines are drawn—on one side, those who see Musk as a modern-day Prometheus, bestowing the fires of technology upon the world; on the other, those who see him as a reckless tinkerer, unfastening the nuts and bolts of civilization with a Tesla-branded wrench. For now, the only certainty is that the protests will rage, Musk will tweet, and somewhere, deep within the neon glow of Nevada, a self-driving car will be utterly unimpressed by it all.
The Old Blog in the Desert 