The Old Blog in the Desert

Millions for Fuel, Not a Dime for History

Hrrumph! The wheels of progress turn, but not always in the right direction. Here we stand in Storey County, where fortunes are made as barrels of fuel roll out like a never-ending river of gold, and yet—the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, the very bones of our history, is left to rust like a forgotten tin can in a sagebrush thicket.

Here’s a bit of modern marvel for you–XCF Global Capital Inc. has seen fit to announce that New Rise Renewables LLC is churning out what they call ‘neat sustainable aviation fuel’ –which I assume means it is very tidy and does not spill. They have also secured a grand corporate purchase order for more than three million gallons of this miracle liquid, headed to some anonymous buyer.

And, if that wasn’t enough to make one’s mustache curl, the first shipments are already set to roll out faster than a politician changes his principles—early March, to be exact.

“Reaching commercial production at New Rise is an exciting milestone,” declares Mihir Dange, the fine gentleman at the helm of XCF.

He further expounds upon ‘dedication,’ ‘engineering excellence,’ and a ‘commitment to innovation’—all phrases indeed. But I reckon Storey County folks might swap some of that engineering excellence for a touch of common sense, namely in the form of a few pennies scraped together to preserve the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, rather than consign it to oblivion while barrels of this new-fangled flying juice roll out the door.

In its infinite wisdom, New Rise saw fit to convert its renewable diesel plant into a SAF-producing juggernaut churning out 3,000 barrels per day. The original plant, which sprang to life in 2022, sits on a sprawling 10-acre site within the Reno-Tahoe Industrial Complex, or the TRIC—a grand and modern name for a place that does nothing to remind one of silver strikes, steam whistles, or the charm of a locomotive rattling through the hills.

Of course, none of this could have come to pass without the generous backing of the USDA’s loan guarantee program, proving once again that when the government wishes to fund something, they do so with remarkable efficiency—so long as it doesn’t involve anything sentimental like preserving a piece of Western history. The facility, which has changed hands more times than a gambler’s last dollar, was dreamed up under the name Ryze Renewables Reno LLC and has since been subject to at least two acquisition agreements, both of which fell apart faster than a cardboard outhouse in a stiff wind.

And so, while fortunes get made and barrels of aviation fuel soar toward the heavens, our beloved Virginia and Truckee Railroad remains where the County sees fit to leave it—on the verge of ruin. Here’s a toast to progress–let us hope we live long enough to learn whether it was worth the price of our past.

Legislators Tossing Nevada Down a Mine Shaft

In the grand old tradition of selling one’s birthright for a mess of pottage, the 83rd Legislative Session of Nevada has turned into a veritable bazaar where independence, liberty, and common sense are being hawked off to the highest bidder—or worse, given away. Critics say the latest batch of bills rammed through by state Democrats is an outright assault on Nevada’s rugged spirit, handing power to illegal immigrants, bureaucrats, and coastal busybodies who wouldn’t know a sagebrush from a slot machine.

Among the most brazen of these legislative contraptions is AB140, which extends the renewal period for Driver Authorization Cards from four to eight years, making it as easy for an illegal immigrant to maintain a license as a lawful resident. Detractors call it a slap in the face to every honest Nevadan who followed the rules, arguing that rewarding lawbreaking with equal treatment is about as logical as inviting a pickpocket to manage the cash register.

Then there’s AJR6, a scheme to toss Nevada’s electoral influence onto the bonfire of the national popular vote. If this measure succeeds, say opponents, Nevadans might as well let California and New York handle the voting on their behalf since the Silver State’s voice would drown in the roar of coastal mobs. Worse yet, if it clears the Legislature, the governor can’t even veto it—meaning voters will be left to roll the dice in 2026.

Not content with meddling in elections, SB75 would grant the Secretary of State the power to raise business license fees without the pesky obstacle of a two-thirds majority vote, an innovation as fair-minded as letting a fox set the price of admission to the henhouse. As if that weren’t enough, it also does away with the English-only requirement for business filings, ensuring that Nevada’s official documents will be a linguistic free-for-all, much to the delight of lawyers and bureaucrats who thrive on confusion.

And for the grand finale, SJR7 aims to scrap Nevada’s current 24-week abortion restriction in favor of an open-ended policy. Proponents call it a victory for reproductive freedom, but critics argue that in their zeal, lawmakers have forgotten that the term “freedom” isn’t a one-way street.

These bills paint a picture of a Nevada where the frontier spirit is getting shackled by the heavy hand of overreach. With the legislative session still in full swing, Nevadans who value their state’s independence might want to grab their torches and pitchforks—figuratively, before the last vestiges of self-governance go away for good.

Hail coffee, full of caffeine. You are in me. Blessed art thou amongst beverages, and blessed is the result of thy consumption. Rightfullness. Holy coffee, color of mud, be there for us workers in the hour of our commute. Ramen

It is a peculiar feature of the human mind that a man may, by some misadventure, find himself lodged beneath a sewage drain cover and yet be at a complete loss as to how he arrived at such a station in life. Such was the case in northwest Reno, where a gentleman of unknown recollections was recently retrieved from the subterranean regions by a band of gallant firemen.

The affair began when an ordinary citizen was out taking his dog for an afternoon constitutional and found themselves unceremoniously detained by his four-legged companion, who insisted upon making the acquaintance of a particular section of pavement near W. 7th St. and N. McCarran Blvd. At that moment, the citizen and presumably the dog became aware of a most uncommon sound emanating from beneath their feet—a voice beseeching the heavens, or in this case, the sidewalk–for deliverance.

Summoning the authorities, the good Samaritan soon had the Reno Fire Department on the scene. The firefighters, whose professional experience no doubt includes many a tale stranger than fiction, did not hesitate. With commendable swiftness, they pried up the sewage drain cover, peered into the abyss, and, seeing a man in distress, lowered a ladder into that netherworld of drainage and lost dignity.

The man, once retrieved, was promptly conveyed to the hospital, where they discovered that while his physical condition remained uncertain, his recollections of how he came to be beneath Reno’s streets were most assuredly absent. Whether he had fallen, wandered, or been spirited away by some unseen force remains a mystery, as does the question of what grand purpose he was pursuing before fate saw fit to deposit him in a storm drain.

One can only hope that his memory returns in due course, if only to satisfy the curiosity of those who now find themselves pondering the age-old question–what manner of business could lead a man to awaken beneath a city street, with nothing but the echoes of his bewilderment for company?

A Tale of Schoolboard Shenanigans

It was a fine morning in Douglas County when the good people awoke to find that their hard-earned tax dollars—intended for the noble pursuit of educating their young—had instead been repurposed for a more scholastic endeavor: the instruction of public officials in the art of obeying the law. The lesson, however, came at the princely sum of $166,081.16, a tuition fee extracted not from the pockets of the errant trustees but from the taxpayers who believed their funds might purchase books, desks, and the occasional qualified instructor.

District Judge Tom Gregory delivered the final ruling in this tale of bureaucratic hide-and-seek, finding that the Douglas County School District and four trustees—Susan Jansen, David Burns, Katherine Dickerson, and former trustee Doug Englekirk—had, through a series of mystifying maneuvers, misplaced, misremembered, or otherwise failed to disclose thousands of public records. The petitioners, Messrs. Miller, Swisher, Girdner, and Lehmann, armed with little more than an inquiring mind and a suspicion that the requests had something less than forthrightness, sought to unearth these elusive documents.

The saga began in 2023 when the petitioners filed requests for public records—requests which ought to have met with swift and cheerful compliance. Instead, the school district and its trustees responded in the time-honored fashion of government functionaries everywhere: they denied the existence of any such records.

But as with all good mysteries, the truth had a habit of clawing its way to the surface, and after much legal wrangling, a trove of 6,136 pages got miraculously unearthed—having been previously concealed on the personal devices of the trustees, perhaps to see if records, like fine wine, improve with age.

Judge Gregory, who seemed to possess little patience for bureaucratic conjuring tricks, observed that “one page is sufficient” to warrant attorney’s fees in such cases. Having produced 6,636 pages after a year of staunch denial, the trustees could hardly claim to have misplaced a scrap of paper. The judge, evidently unmoved by their newfound contrition, determined that responsibility for this “unacceptable and unreasonable delay” fell squarely on the shoulders of the district and its trustees.

Having exhausted every argument save for the ever-popular “Can’t we just forget this ever happened?” the defendants suggested a previously rejected settlement should suffice as their financial obligations. Judge Gregory, not given to such easy absolutions, dismissed this plea with a flourish, noting that the petitioners could hardly accept the assurance that “No other responsive documents exist, we really mean it this time, believe us.”

Thus, the school district—charged with shaping the young minds of Douglas County—now finds itself in the unenviable position of teaching a different kind of lesson–that transparency, though occasionally inconvenient, is less expensive when embraced at the outset. Whether the taxpayers, having footed the bill for this unintentional civics course, will find solace in the wisdom gained remains to be seen.

But one thing is for sure—somewhere in Douglas County, a schoolteacher is explaining to their students the value of honesty, perhaps without the faintest trace of irony.

The Art of Doing Next to Nothing with Great Fanfare

The Nevada Legislature, that noble body of men and women who gather biennially to solve problems nobody has, has turned its mighty intellect toward smog checks. Senate Bill 230, an act of bipartisan genius, would spare the good citizens of Clark and Washoe counties the arduous task of an annual emissions test, reducing the burden to once every two years. The bill, co-sponsored by Democrat James Ohrenschall and Republican John Steinbeck, will no doubt be remembered as one of the great legislative triumphs of our time—at least by those who enjoy the fine sport of avoiding the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Under current law, rural Nevadans already enjoy the luxury of biennial smog checks, as hybrids remain blissfully exempt until their sixth model year, and vehicles older than 1967 are free to smoke like a chimney with the state’s blessing. The bill, in short, corrects the great inequity of some citizens having to endure more bureaucratic tedium than others—a cause as worthy as any ever taken up in Carson City.

But lest you think the esteemed legislators of Nevada are resting on their laurels, be assured that more works are in the pipeline. Senate Bill 228 proposes a Pediatric Stem Cell and Bone Marrow Transplant Program, with the state generously offering up $7 million in taxpayer funding to launch the effort and another $2.5 million to cover the first handful of transplants.

A noble cause, to be sure, though one suspects that by the time the money trickles through the various agencies, committees, and well-fed consultants, a sick child might be better off buying a raffle ticket.

Meanwhile, in the hallowed halls of the Assembly, AB41 seeks to rectify a matter of utmost urgency—the appointment of a deputy adjutant general for the Nevada Guard. Since no funding or additional personnel are needed, there is no apparent reason why it ain’t already happened. But in the fine tradition of government, what could be accomplished with a handshake and a memo will instead be legislated with all the pomp and circumstance that taxpayers have come to expect from their diligent representatives.

Thus, the gears of democracy grind on, ensuring that life in Nevada is ever so slightly altered, but never in a way that might inconvenience a legislator.

The good folks of Somerset Park recently awoke to find their neighborhood transformed into a scenic wetland, a real-life Everglades experience right in the heart of Henderson, courtesy of a water system in its final death throes. As residents waded through their driveways and watched air bubbles belch ominously from the asphalt, they turned to their homeowner’s association, that noble institution dedicated to collecting their hard-earned money in exchange for the privilege of being told what color they could paint their front doors.

The HOA piggy bank, expected to hold a respectable sum for emergencies, contained little more than pocket lint and good intentions. With $62,000 in reserve—about enough to buy a nice used sedan but not nearly enough to fix a failing water system—the association found itself in dire straits.

Naturally, one might ask: Where had all the money gone? Had it been spirited away to fund a vast underground tunnel system for the neighborhood’s gophers? Spent on gold-plated pool skimmers? Or had it vanished into the void, like meeting minutes and accountability tend to do?

With 85 families at risk of their homes becoming houseboats, the City of Henderson graciously stepped in with nearly $700,000 to keep the neighborhood from becoming Nevada’s first planned amphibious community. Meanwhile, Somerset Park residents were left scratching their heads and wondering why, after decades of dutifully paying their dues, their “savings” amounted to little more than three times the price of a moderately enthusiastic wedding.

The saga of Somerset Park is but one chapter in the ongoing epic of Nevada’s HOA system, a bureaucratic wonderland in which 600,000 residents pay their dues with the expectation of order, only to find themselves starring in an unfolding financial mystery. Recent reports have detailed nightmarish assessment hikes of up to 160 percent, leading many to conclude that while death and taxes may be definite, HOA fees remain the greater enigma.

One of the many delightful quirks of this system is that while HOAs are legally required to conduct and submit reserve studies to the Nevada Real Estate Division (NRED), the agency overseeing them boasts a total of one auditor for the entire state. Yes, one lonely soul wading through the financial muck of 3,800 associations, no doubt equipped with a magnifying glass, a quill pen, and a deep sense of existential dread.

Will Bradley, a retired Army officer and self-described whistleblower, learned that asking too many questions about reserve funds is a great way to get yourself uninvited from HOA meetings—or, in his case, forcibly removed from the board. His concern? HOA reserves are about as well-funded as a lemonade stand in January.

“I want to see it in writing,” he said, demanding proof that his neighborhood’s reserve funds weren’t just a collection of IOUs and wishful thinking.

The experts—those weary souls who study the arcane rituals of HOA governance—suggest that homeowners attend meetings, review budgets, and ask about reserve balances. Sage advice–though equivalent to suggesting that passengers on a sinking ship take a greater interest in the allocation of lifeboats.

Meanwhile, Heritage Management Group, the company tasked with overseeing Somerset Park’s finances, is now facing accusations of embezzlement in multiple communities. It’s shocking for anyone unfamiliar with the rich tradition of HOA mismanagement.

In the end, if you live in an HOA, your financial future may well be in the hands of people who think “fiduciary responsibility” is bottled water. And if you’re wondering whether your association is on the verge of financial collapse, you might consider investing in a good pair of waders—just in case.

The Great Nevada Film Tax Fantasy

It is a truth universally acknowledged—by lobbyists, legislators, and the occasional man of common sense—that no grand scheme involving taxpayer-funde

d money can proceed without a proper parade of confusion, division, and theatrical enthusiasm. And so, nearly two years after Nevada’s last attempt at expanding film tax credits perished from this world, two fresh and shining new bills have appeared, each carried aloft by its own set of champions and each determined to bask in the glow of the legislative limelight.

The principal actors in this production are Sen. Roberta Lange and Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui, who’ve introduced separate bills with the understanding that they must eventually stitch them together into a single, serviceable garment—provided that their respective allies and benefactors agree upon the cut of the fabric.

Jauregui’s proposal, AB238, is set to make its grand debut before the Assembly Committee on Revenue at 4 p.m. this Thursday. Lange’s bill, meanwhile, lingers in the wings, waiting for its cue.

The stage comes crowded with an ensemble cast of corporations, each whispering sweet nothings into the ears of lawmakers. Sony Pictures Entertainment and Howard Hughes Holdings Inc. are arm-in-arm with Jaurequi, while Birtcher Development and Manhattan Beach Studios escort Lange. Warner Bros. Discovery, ever the elusive suitor, has yet to declare its allegiance but lingers on the periphery, perhaps waiting for an opportune moment to step into the fray.

Naturally, where money flows, lobbyists follow. And so, as of Monday, the halls of the Legislature became the stomping grounds of nine lobbyists representing Howard Hughes, two for Sony, three for Birtcher—including the ever-dutiful Brandon Birtcher himself—and two for a shadowy entity known as Warner Media, whose precise affiliation remains one of life’s great mysteries. Birtcher, never one to miss a well-timed appearance, was even spotted at the Legislature on Friday, reinforcing that a well-placed handshake is worth a thousand well-crafted emails.

Meanwhile, the industry’s heavyweights are not above a little soirée to grease the wheels of legislative goodwill. Tonight promises an event in Carson City, hosted by Sony and Howard Hughes, where guests get to witness “an evening where innovation meets imagination”—which, translated from the language of industry pleasantries, means there will be much talk of jobs, economic growth, and the boundless virtues of tax incentives, all accompanied by an open bar.

As for Nevada’s governor, Joe Lombardo, he remains as noncommittal as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, neither embracing nor rejecting the proposals, instead waiting, one suspects, for the numbers to tell him whether it is better to be remembered as a patron of the arts or as a fiscal watchdog.

The whole affair has one lingering question: If the bills need merging–why not introduce them as one? The answer, as always, lies in money—specifically, in the amount of money each faction believes it ought to receive.

The ghosts of 2023 loom large over Howard Hughes and Birtcher, who joined hands with Sony as a silent partner to seek up to $190 million in annual tax credits over a decade for two studio projects. The proposal collapsed beneath the weight of its own cost, sending the partners scattering in different directions, each now seeking separate deals with differing studio allies and revised financial aspirations.

Adding another plot twist, the Southern Nevada Building Trades Unions announced earlier this month that it had formed a labor agreement with Summerlin Studios—an announcement so conveniently timed that one couldn’t suspect it was to nudge lawmakers in Jauregui’s direction. While some labor groups support the deal, others remain cynical, as Sony and Warner Bros. have not always been friendly toward unions.

And hanging over this entire production like the shadow of a better-funded rival, California has announced plans to more than double its film tax credits, reaching a staggering $750 million annually. In the grand game of cinematic bribery, it appears that the Golden State intends to keep its crown, leaving Nevada to decide whether it can afford to compete—or whether it ought to bow out, acknowledge the carpet-bagger, and invest its dollars in more practical pursuits, like paving roads or ensuring the local constabulary has enough hats.

One way or another, the show must go on. The only question is whether it ends in triumph, farce, or an extended intermission until the next legislative session.

Elon Musk’s Revenge

If there is one sending shivers down the spines of men in top hats and polished boots, it is the prospect of losing a dollar they believe to be rightfully theirs. And if there is one man who has made it his business to see that Delaware’s coffers grow a little lighter, it is that most peculiar and irascible billionaire, Mr. Elon Musk.

Yesterday, the good people at Aerovate Therapeutics, Inc., decided they had paid quite enough for the privilege of calling Delaware home and made arrangements to pack their corporate valises for a journey westward—to the promised land of Nevada. In a filing so thick with legalese that one could mistake it for a lawyer’s lullaby, they declared their intent to swap the oppressive clutches of the Delaware franchise tax for the warm embrace of Nevada’s business-friendly statutes.

A sensible man might say, “Why, that’s just one company—surely, Delaware will not weep over such a trifling loss?”

But one must remember that Aerovate is only the latest in a growing caravan of corporate emigrants, all heading for the land where state fees are low–and lawsuits are a distant concern. And what should be the common thread binding these weary travelers? None other than the specter of Mr. Musk himself, who, upon having his affairs trifled with by the Delaware Chancery Court, declared with all the certainty of a frontier prophet that he would see the state suffer for its insolence.

Indeed, Aerovate’s so-called “Redomestication Proposal” is neither red nor domestic—it’s an act of corporate secession, a rebellion against the tyranny of Delaware taxation. And what a rebellion it is!

By the very count of their legal scribes, they have called this act of defection “redomestication” no fewer than 174 times while mentioning the actual mechanism—conversion—a mere 31 times, as though hesitant to call the thing by its proper name. The reasons for this westward march are as predictable as a banker’s appetite for interest.

Aerovate’s board believes that Nevada’s laws will afford them greater protections from lawsuits and that its tax policies will keep more gold in their pockets. And, as any seasoned observer might note, they are not alone in these sentiments.

It remains unknown whether the halls of Delaware will soon echo with the sound of retreating footfalls or if this exodus is a temporary fit of corporate wanderlust. Remember that when you slight the world’s richest man, you had best prepare for the consequence, and those may well take the shape of an emptying treasury and a sudden affection for the Nevada sun.