The Old Blog in the Desert

If there’s one thing history teaches us, Nevada has never been short on mischief, calamity, and the occasional bit of justice—though not always in that order. From stagecoach robberies and suspicious deaths to prison riots and masked men reclaiming their legend, the past proves that some things never change, except maybe the price of bail.

One hundred fifty-five years ago, Mr. Delevan decided to capture the noble image of a group of Washoe Indians on the Plaza. Fortunately for him, the locals seemed to enjoy the attention and, more importantly, understood that his camera wasn’t some newfangled shooting iron. If only all frontier encounters went so smoothly.

Fifteen years later, in a different part of the state, a man named Gilson found himself in legal trouble for selling liquor to Indians. His defense was a peculiar one—he claimed that, while tending to nature’s call in an outhouse, a group of squaws helped themselves to his basket of spirits. Whether the judge believed him is unclear, but his bail was set at $200, proving that, in those days, being careless with one’s whiskey was nearly as bad as selling it.

One hundred twenty years ago, Dr. Newman, a European eye specialist, arrived in Carson City for a single day, ready to cure poor vision, headaches, and the nervous afflictions of aging. One wonders whether the good doctor could have done anything about the short-sightedness of the state’s politicians, but alas, his talents were limited to spectacles, not miracles.

By sixty years ago, entertainment had replaced scandal for a moment as the Carson City High School concert band prepared for its annual midwinter concert. Director Albert Saliman promised a program of light, bright music, and even drum majorettes—perhaps to distract from the growing troubles elsewhere in the state.

For just forty years ago, Nevada’s prison system was bursting at the seams, strained to the breaking point by sentencing laws and tight parole restrictions. Officials warned that riots—like the one at Indian Springs that weekend—were becoming more common. When you squeeze a system too tight, something is bound to burst.

In 1869, a Wells Fargo & Co. stagecoach robbery had the town in an uproar, even though loot got recovered. Unfortunately for the driver, suspicions lingered that he had been in on the crime. There’s no record of whether he protested his innocence, but history suggests that when a man gets suspected of robbing a stagecoach, he tends to find himself in a hurry to leave town.

By 1884, Nevada had its royal scandal brewing. Princess Sarah Winnemucca, long a vocal critic of the Paiute Indian Agent William Gibson, found herself accused of a rather un-princess-like crime—gambling with and then robbing a Bannock Indian, leaving him beaten and penniless.

Gibson, likely eager for revenge, wired Washington looking for help in arresting her and her accomplices. The feud between the two was far from over, but whether Sarah was guilty or merely framed is a question history will likely never settle.

Meanwhile, in 1904, the town was shocked to hear that Frank Craven had been found dead in a well east of Carson. Witnesses had last seen him in a drunken state, and suspicions of foul play swirled until the coroner declared it was nothing more than death by alcoholism and exposure. Whether that ruling brought any comfort to his widow and son is another matter entirely.

Sixty years ago, Nevada Supreme Court Chief Justice Frank McNamee was also in bad shape, though not like Craven, McNamee had a fighting chance. After a brutal beating left him in a coma for a week, he began to show signs of consciousness. His attacker, a 21-year-old named Phillip A. Denning, was sitting in a St. Louis jail, awaiting extradition on charges of attempted murder and robbery.

Meanwhile, justice proved elusive in the case of Elia Joan Williams, accused in the Harvey’s Wagon Wheel bombing. A hopelessly deadlocked jury resulted in a mistrial, and the foreman expressed doubt about trying the case again. Justice, it seemed, had wandered off for a drink.

Three days after the initial reports, the truth behind the 1869 Pine Grove stagecoach robbery was beginning to take shape. A Pine Grove constable had unearthed the stolen money, buried near Wellington’s Station. Whether the driver’s involvement was a case of unlucky proximity remained unclear, but there’s no doubt that if someone accused you of stealing, you’d best have an alibi—or a fast horse.

In 1884, the feud between Sarah Winnemucca and William Gibson continued. While Gibson insisted she was a criminal, her supporters countered that no amount of accusations could tarnish his “honorable record.” It seems unlikely that Sarah agreed with that assessment.

Meanwhile, in 1904, the final word on Frank Craven’s fate came in—no foul play, just the unfortunate effects of drink and a cold night. The coroner’s jury ruled it an accident, but accidents of that nature seemed to happen often.

In recent times, Nevada’s lawmakers were busy debating the need for a constitutional convention. The state’s century-old governing document was full of outdated provisions, and some legislators felt it was time for a fresh start. Whether they succeeded in bringing Nevada into the modern age is debatable, given that politicians are often more interested in arguing about laws than fixing them.

But perhaps the most satisfying news came from Hollywood—or at least from an old cowboy’s heart. After a legal battle, Clayton Moore, better known as the Lone Ranger, finally reclaimed his famous mask. Five years earlier, a court order had forbidden him from wearing it, but justice had prevailed, and with a hearty cry of “Hi-Ho, Silver, away,” he rode into legend.

One cannot help but wonder if Nevada might still need a masked man to set things right.

The Lyon County Board of County Commissioners convened on Thursday, February 20, for one of those meetings that had a little bit of everything—land disputes, heroics, and the always-thrilling procurement of government vehicles.

The most electrifying topic of the day—at least to those with a keen appreciation for power lines—was a request from Arevia Power for a Conditional Use Permit (CUP) to construct a 4.7-mile-long, 345-kV generation tie-line linking the Libra Solar project to the Fort Churchill Substation. Now, lest anyone get too excited about this meaning the commissioners had suddenly taken up solar farming as a pastime, officials quickly clarified that their jurisdiction extended only to the gen-tie lines within Lyon County as the actual solar project itself lays in neighboring Mineral County, where it was someone else’s headache.

The permit’s approval wasn’t without disagreement, as these things tend to go. Commissioners Keller, Hendrix, and Cassinelli voted in favor, as Commissioner Hockaday objected, likely because of some deeply held convictions regarding the placement of such lines or perhaps to keep things interesting.

Commissioner Jacobson, meanwhile, was absent and thus spared from any controversy. The permit came with conditions, including roadway paving and drainage improvements along East Walker Road. After all, what is a good government decision without a few strings attached?

Shifting from the mundane to the truly remarkable, Sheriff Brad Pope took the floor to recognize a cadre of local heroes. Dispatch Supervisor Eric Engelman, Dispatchers Elizabeth Waid and Mickenzie Stretch, Sergeant Gabriel Santos, and Deputies Jessie Cornett, Ian Foster, Jessica Frontuto, and Travis Masterson were all honored with the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office “Life Saving Award.”

The fine folks had, on January 11, sprung into action to assist a young woman in the throes of childbirth, bringing two newborns into the world who had, at first, seemed reluctant to join the living. Thanks to their swift and skillful efforts, the infants were given the care they needed to survive, proving once again that some public servants do far more than shuffle papers and approve power lines.

Other business was attended to, as it must be in such gatherings. The commissioners approved a Memorandum of Understanding with the Lyon County School District, providing an additional $25,000 to place another School Resource Officer in Fernley for the remainder of the academic year, presumably in response to either an increase in rowdiness or a newfound enthusiasm for the protection of scholars. They also saw fit to dedicate the Fernley Senior Center to the late Commissioner LeRoy Goodman and authorize $2,000 for a commemorative plaque, ensuring his memory.

And, of course, no county meeting would be complete without a discussion of government vehicles. The commissioners approved the purchase of seven new cars for the Sheriff’s Office at $475,000, a tidy expenditure from the General Fund contingency.

While there was no word on whether these vehicles would come equipped with any particularly thrilling features, one imagines they will be the sort allowing deputies to continue doing what they do best—keeping the peace and delivering babies in their spare time.

A Torch to the Wallet

The safest method for igniting a romantic blaze is the old-fashioned way—eye contact across a crowded room, a well-timed jest, or, at the very least, the steady hand of a matchstick, known to the uncharred as a Lucifer. But in our modern age, where love comes at the tip of a finger rather than the twinkle of an eye, one poor soul after another has been drawn like moths to a digital inferno, and none more tragically than the gentlemen who swiped their way into the clutches of one Miss Aurora Phelps.

Miss Phelps, a resident of both Las Vegas and Guadalajara, Mexico, is accused by federal authorities of operating what the sober-minded lawmen call a “romance scam on steroids.” In terms more plainly put, the lady in question did not content herself with pilfering hearts but instead made off with bank accounts, brokerage funds, automobiles, and, most distressingly, lives.

Her alleged exploits, stretching from the neon-lit dens of Las Vegas to the shaded alleys of Mexico City, have left behind a trail of empty wallets and cold bodies, with at least one of her admirers departing this world in an ill-fated wheelchair excursion across the border. The Justice Department, which has taken a rather dim view of her activities, has laid out a 21-count indictment, listing such unladylike offenses as wire fraud, identity theft, and kidnapping resulting in death.

The FBI, ever diligent in affairs of deceit, states that Miss Phelps primarily preyed upon the elderly but was not above hoodwinking younger victims nor even members of her sex. With the aid of prescription sedatives—one must suppose she lacked the patience for sweet words alone—she relieved her suitors of their worldly possessions as they slumbered, then set about converting their hard-earned savings into gold, luxury goods, and, in one instance, a failed attempt at plundering Social Security and retirement accounts.

Authorities believe her schemes drained the fortunes of her victims by the hundreds of thousands, with an attempted heist reaching into the millions. And while a great many men have awakened from her enchantment to find their purses lighter, some have not awakened at all. Three souls have been lost in connection with her exploits, though she faces charges for but one of the deaths.

Presently, Miss Phelps is enjoying the hospitality of the Mexican authorities as she awaits extradition to the United States, where a cell and a lengthy judicial inquisition no doubt await. Should she be convicted on all counts, her romantic pursuits will henceforth be limited to the confines of a federal penitentiary.

As for those still seeking companionship in the treacherous waters of the Internet, the FBI offers this sage counsel–be cautious, ask questions, and attempt—however possible—to verify the true nature of the affections bestowed upon you. Or, failing that, one might consider taking up a good book, a steady dog, or, in times of true desperation, a well-worn deck of playing cards. These, at least, will take your money honestly.

Water Doesn’t Vote,

Water is a simple thing. It flows where it must, settles where it can, and never once has it needed a politician’s permission to exist. But in Nevada, where the land is dry and the deals are slick, some folks have decided that water’s value depends entirely on who’s pumping it.

Take Assembly Bill 109 (AB109), a bill meant to close a loophole that lets mining and geothermal companies pull groundwater without the usual permitting process. Now, if you’re a rancher or a farmer, you already know what happens when you sneeze near a water source—you get a stack of regulations dropped in your lap, along with a lecture about conservation.

But if you’re in the business of lithium mining, well, that’s different. Suddenly, the same lawmakers who preach about sustainability can’t roll out the red carpet fast enough.

The Biden administration, with full-throated support from Nevada’s Democratic leadership, had been pushing lithium mining under the banner of “green energy.” The same people who claim to be protecting the land are now cheering on a rush to tear it up—all because lithium makes electric vehicles and solar batteries, and that, they say, makes it worth the sacrifice.

Never mind that the mines need vast amounts of water. Forget that the aquifers won’t stay put once you start pulling them apart.

“Yes, you can return water to the source after it’s pumped,” says Kyle Roerink of the Great Basin Water Network. “But that pumping throws off aquifers. And it unstabilizes and unbalances aquifers.”

In other words, water is not an obedient servant—it won’t simply sit back where you put it, waiting for reuse. Once it’s disturbed, it goes where it pleases, and often it never returns at all.

Of course, the mining companies insist they are responsible stewards. Albemarle, which runs the nation’s only active lithium mine at Silver Peak, says it “carefully measures water withdrawals” to ensure “no adverse impacts.” It’s a comforting thought—if you’re the kind of person who believes a pickpocket is honest just because he counts the coins before he takes them.

Water doesn’t understand politics. It doesn’t know that some industries get a free pass while others get crushed under regulation.

It exists, or it doesn’t. And when it’s gone, all the “green energy” promises won’t bring it back.

So, push for lithium mines in the name of the future. But don’t pretend it’s about protecting the land. The water knows better.

A Generous Offer to Take More of Your Money

In unparalleled generosity, NV Energy has once again approached the Public Utilities Commission of Nevada (PUCN) with a humble request–permission to raise customers’ base rates by up to nine percent. The act of benevolence comes with a heartwarming promise that, despite the increase, customers “should expect to pay less” by the end of 2025.

How, you ask? Why, through the wondrous powers of corporate arithmetic, where up is down, more is less, and a rate hike is a blessing in disguise.

By their calculations, the average residential customer—using 1,151 kilowatt-hours per month—will see an increase of roughly $11. But fear not. NV Energy assures us that if we resist the temptation to use the electricity we are paying more for, we might end up paying less.

A brilliant strategy, indeed.

The company, with the purest of intentions, insists the hike is necessary to fund “investments” in infrastructure. The noble expenditures, including the Reid Gardner battery storage project, will allegedly bring long-term savings despite the immediate and short-term costs. NV Energy CEO Scott Cannon, ever the optimist, assures us that by spending more now, we’ll somehow spend less later—a theory that, coincidentally, never seems to apply to executive salaries or shareholder dividends.

But wait, there’s more.

NV Energy is also introducing three new policies to “help customers save money,” provided customers have patience enough to wait until at least 2026 for relief. Among these proposals–a discount for low-income households, a new billing structure that encourages customers to shift their energy usage, presumably to midnight or during work hours when they aren’t home, and a new solar billing system that NV Energy promises is fair—though notably, fairer for them than for the customers.

Of course, these visionary plans are pending approval from the regulatory body of the PUNC, which historically finds NV Energy’s financial woes more compelling than the plight of ordinary Nevadans just trying to keep the lights on. But take heart—NV Energy’s track record suggests that no matter what happens, they’ll find a way to ensure their bottom line remains bright, even if the rest of us are in the dark.

It is a well-established principle that if a man builds himself a fine house, stocks it with all manner of furniture, and then hires a burglar to stand watch at the door, he oughtn’t be too surprised when he wakes up one morning to find the whole place stripped bare. Yet, the fine gentlefolk of Nevada’s 2021 Democrat-led legislature managed to outdo even this level of folly, for they have not merely hired the burglar but dismissed the watchman altogether, leaving the state’s roads to the mercy of chance, recklessness, and the occasional guardrail.

The Nevada State Police, tasked with keeping the highways in a respectable state of order, are in such dire straits that they could hardly fill a single dance hall, let alone police an entire state. Where there ought to be 400 troopers, there is scarcely half that number.

In Reno, one finds just 25 troopers struggling to cover ground meant for 60. Carson City, which might reasonably expect 20, must make do with less than 10. And Las Vegas—where a surplus of vices demands a surplus of enforcement—has only 50 troopers where there should be 120. If a major crash occurs, as they often do, the entire force flocks to the scene like hens at feeding time, leaving the rest of the state as unguarded as a pig in a butcher’s shop.

One might ask how a state so bountiful in gambling revenue and political ambition could have created such a catastrophe. As it is in most cases, the answer lies in misplaced priorities and a curious disdain for those tasked with keeping order.

In the heady days of 2021, the Democratic majority in Carson City, in their zeal to prove themselves champions of progress, took to treating law enforcement not as the necessary bulwark against disorder but as an unfortunate relic of a bygone era. Their anti-policing rhetoric—so high-minded, so fashionable, and so utterly divorced from reality—laid the foundation for the crisis unfolding on Nevada’s roads.

Of course, as any honest person will tell you, a profession loses its appeal when underpaid and unwelcome. A state trooper in Nevada finds themselves in the unenviable position of making less money than his city-bound counterparts while being taxed at a rate that would make a gold miner weep.

With the state unwilling to pay its share of retirement contributions, troopers see nearly a third of their paychecks siphoned off before they can even buy a pound of bacon. And as the cost of living soars to heights previously reserved for eagles and the ambitions of officeholders, young troopers find themselves unable to afford so much as a patch of dirt in the state they are meant to protect.

The solution, if common sense were in fashion, would be a simple one–pay them what they are worth, restore respect to their station, and end the folly that has made a career in law enforcement a punishment rather than a profession. Whether the legislature will come to such a conclusion before the state’s highways descend into complete chaos remains to be seen.

But for now, any Nevadan venturing onto the roads would do well to keep a steady hand on the wheel, for if trouble comes calling, it may be a long wait before help arrives.

In these enlightened times, when civilization has reached such heights that folks have nothing better to do than pass judgment on perfect strangers, a poor soul in Lovelock finds herself not merely the victim of fate but also the subject of a public trial conducted by the Honorable High Court of Social Media, where the sentence is often death threats and a jury composed of those who have never so much as driven a wagon across a muddy street, let alone navigated a Nevada highway at dawn.

The unfortunate woman–whose name is withheld hereby out of mercy–not that it has stopped the righteous horde from sharpening their pitchforks–was making her way down Upper Valley Road when she ran into a woolly congregation of sheep. The collision was regrettable, fatal for 39 members of that noble order, and enough to summon the wrath of every armchair shepherd with an Internet connection.

Now, in any other part of the country, a motorist striking livestock might elicit some sympathy—perhaps a kind word, a neighborly shrug, or a lament for the unfortunate beasts. But no, the modern world demands a villain in every mishap, and this poor woman has been cast in the role, whether she auditioned or not.

Sheriff Jerry Allen, who likely has seen more than one steer lose a duel with a pickup truck, assures us that such accidents are a regular feature of rural life. Livestock, after all, have an ornery way of ignoring traffic laws. The good sheriff notes that neither speed, drink, nor the cursed cell phone played a role—only the unfortunate combination of a dim morning, a swift vehicle, and a considerable amount of mutton standing in the middle of the road.

Yet, the Court of Public Outrage will hear none of it. They demand justice, though what form it should take is unclear—perhaps a grand parade of sheep through the driver’s front yard as penance or an ironclad law requiring every ewe to carry a lantern and a bell. For now, the matter rests in the hands of the Pershing County District Attorney’s Office, which will decide if this beleaguered woman should face legal penalties, though the judgment of the masses is all but pre-rendered.

Sentenced to fear, shame, and the knowledge that one can make a mistake, one must never do so within sight of the all-seeing, all-condemning jury of the Internet.

And the Rest of Us from Deepfakes

Ever vigilant to defend truth, justice, and their political skins, the Nevada Legislature has set its sights on artificial intelligence—or at least the parts of it that might embarrass them. Four Assemblymembers have proposed AB 271, a bill regulating campaign materials that use computer-generated trickery, known as deepfakes.

Under the proposed law, any political video or audio utilizing artificial intelligence to portray a candidate in a less-than-flattering light must have a disclaimer—so people will know that their favorite officeholder never said or did anything ridiculous. The requirement kicks in within 90 days of an election, ensuring that only good, honest, old-fashioned mudslinging makes it into the final stretch.

While the bill curbs technological deception, it contains loopholes like news reports, commentary, satire, and parody. One might wonder how the average voter can distinguish between a deepfake and a good, hearty lampoon—especially when the behavior of certain politicians is often indistinguishable from satire.

A deepfake, as defined by the bill, is “synthetic media” intended to harm a candidate’s reputation by depicting them engaging in fictional misdeeds. It also requires campaign materials to disclose if they feature “materially deceptive” depictions, including adjustments to a candidate’s physical appearance. Whether this means an airbrushed campaign photo constitutes a criminal offense remains to be seen.

Violators of this statute could face a misdemeanor charge, while the wronged candidate would have the right to seek an injunction and damages. Meanwhile, at least twenty other states have passed similar laws, with some only allowing for civil penalties, proving once again that Nevada lawmakers are nothing if not bold in their pursuit of truth—or at least the illusion of it.

Lastly, in a flourish of wisdom, AB 271 would also prohibit using artificial intelligence in ballot processing or counting, extending its reach beyond campaign theatrics and into the sacred act of vote tallying. No longer will cold, unfeeling machines determine whose dubious promises win the day—that honor remains reserved for human error.

As of yet, there’s no hearing set. But rest assured, when that day comes, every word spoken will be 100 percent authentic, unfiltered, and free of artificial intelligence—just as nature intended.

No one tells you this. No one wants to admit it. Shit happens to your body as you grow old.

This afternoon, I sat outside, soaking up the sunlight like some dumb lizard, hoping for vitamin D to sink into my fat, white, pasty skin. At least the sun is free, even if everything else is subject to inflation.

I sat down on the cement, and right away, there was a little discomfort in my right armpit. No, not the kind of pain that sends you to the hospital, just an annoying, skin-pinching, hair-yanking sort of thing. It felt like my pit hairs had gotten caught in the fold between my arm and my pit, a new and exciting development in the ongoing disaster that is my body.

Ten minutes later, a fresh hell: a sudden, sharp tickling in the crotch. More specifically, the head of my cock. A sensation like tiny needles, like ants with razors for feet. I jumped up, trying to shake it off, and just like that—it was gone.

My dick, I mean.

The damned thing just sucked itself in like a scared turtle retreating into the fleshy folds of its miserable existence. So, it turns out that if I sit too long on a hard surface, things other than my ass start to go numb.

A new fucking trick for this old dog.

And what the fuck else is coming? What other lovely surprises does this traitorous sack of bones and meat have in store? How much more is there to discover? New pains, new indignities, new reasons to wish for a stroke in my sleep.

And where the hell are the self-help books for this? Those survival guides for old, fat bastards? Nowhere. Society’s moved on. Let the wreckage pile up. Let the useless ones rot.

Fine. But at least tell me if my balls are about to fall the fuck off.

I’ll gang tae the glen where the hill folk bide,
An’ carry a jar o’ their gleamin’ pride.
Beneath the pale moon where the heather lies,
I’ll drink till the morn wi’ the burnin’ skies.

When dawn’s light returns o’er the hills sae high,
My thirst will demand, “Aye, nae time tae lie!”
Back up tae the hills whaur the spirits cry,
For the bottle’s gone dry, an’ sae am I!