The Old Blog in the Desert

It is a truth universally acknowledged—except, perhaps, in the hallowed halls of the U.S. Senate—that where the parents go, the children go. It has been the practice of civilized nations since time immemorial. Yet Nevada Senators Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen have taken it upon themselves to challenge this natural order with the Born in the USA Act, a bill designed to block President Trump’s attempt to end automatic citizenship for children of illegal immigrants.

Now, sensible folk might reckon that if a person sneaks into a country uninvited, their offspring ought not to be handed the keys to the city. But the honorable senators, bless their hearts, seem to think otherwise.

Their bill, in effect, declares that so long as a mother can waddle across the border before delivering, she has accomplished something more impressive than childbirth—she has produced a brand-new American citizen! And all without so much as a pledge of allegiance or a working knowledge of the Constitution.

“President Trump can’t change the Constitution with a swipe of his pen,” said Cortez Masto, with the confidence of a woman who believes she has cornered the market on legal interpretation.

Never mind the Fourteenth Amendment’s ‘subject to the jurisdiction thereof’ clause has never been definitively ruled upon by the Supreme Court. One might think the senator is unaware of this detail—or worse, simply uninterested.

Senator Rosen, determined not to be outdone, declared, “The U.S. Constitution is abundantly clear.”

If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? But clarity has never been the strong suit of those in Washington, particularly when it interferes with a preferred narrative.

Both senators have a long history of advocating for policies that smooth the road for illegal immigration, whether it be protecting Temporary Protected Status (TPS) holders, pushing for Dreamer citizenship, or even allowing non-citizens to work in Congress. One might suspect their enthusiasm for immigration reform is less about compassion and more about importing a fresh batch of future voters who will keep them in office until the earth stops spinning.

Meanwhile, Trump’s order moves forward, and the people of Nevada—those who, inconveniently for their senators, voted overwhelmingly for the man—are left wondering if their voices carry any weight. But Washington, D.C., has its peculiar laws of physics, and in that upside-down world, it seems the only thing that truly matters is whose hand holds the pen, not whether it has any business writing the rules in the first place.

Whether It Works or Not

The noble legislators of Nevada are once again donning their armor and mounting their steeds in the grand and time-honored battle against sky-high rent, this time hoping to shield the state’s seniors and disabled folks from the unkind hands of landlords with a 10 percent cap on rent increases.

A similar bill got flung into the legislative furnace in 2023, where Governor Joe Lombardo had to put it out of its misery with a swift veto, no doubt fearing for the delicate welfare of Nevada’s ever-struggling real estate moguls. But hope springs eternal, and Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui is back in the saddle, insisting that unless something gets done, the Silver State’s elderly and disabled will be left to choose between rent and supper, or worse—rent and dignity.

Of course, not everyone is swooning over the idea. The Nevada Association of Realtors are clutching their ear lobes, warning that capping rents might do more harm than good. If landlords ain’t free to raise the rent, they might do something drastic—like sell their properties outright or leave them vacant out of sheer spite, shrinking the rental market.

Tourist towns could take a wallop as the measure might put the kibosh on short-term rentals, cutting off the steady flow of wide-eyed travelers eager to fork over their dollars for overpriced weekend stays.

Then there’s the matter of enforcement. The government will have to put together some manner of “Rent Sheriff’s Office” to ensure that every landlord toes the line, meaning more paperwork, more bureaucracy, and—if history teaches us anything—more opportunities for confusion, inefficiency, and a few well-placed bribes to keep things moving smoothly.

And, lest we forget, some landlords might take things underground, switching to unrecorded cash deals faster than a gambler spotting an easy mark. The result? Tenants could end up with even fewer protections, less oversight, and no legal recourse when the landlord decides it’s time to up the ante.

So here we are, standing at the crossroads of good intentions and unintended consequences, as our fearless lawmakers decide whether legislating against greed is a noble pursuit or a fool’s errand. Will this bill keep Nevada’s most vulnerable indoors, warm, and well-fed—or will it backfire like an old shotgun and leave them worse off than before?

One thing is for sure–rent–like death and taxes, always finds a way to go up.

Thursday night saw a bit of frontier justice doled out on the hardwood, and it was the Virginia City Muckers holding the gavel. In a contest that left little room for argument, they sent the Eureka Vandals packing with a 65-44 drubbing, marking the third straight time the boys from Eureka have tried and failed to unseat their Nevada rivals.

The Vandals, now sitting at 18-7, fought with all the grit you’d expect, but the Muckers were simply too much—slicker, sharper, and deadlier when it counted. That win pushes Virginia City to a sterling 23-3 record, a tally made all the more impressive by their ongoing habit of leaving townsfolk in stunned silence—this being their 19th straight road victory dating back to last season.

With Eureka officially out of the saddle for the season, Virginia City now sets its sights on a fresh scrap with Spring Mountain this Friday at 8:00 p.m. The boys from down south are riding in with an 11-game winning streak, no doubt thinking they’ve got another one in the bag. But if history’s got a say in it, they’ll find the Muckers ready, willing, and fully capable of rearranging their plans.

Mark your almanacs, hitch up the wagon, and prepare for a night that’ll shake the dust off chandeliers! On the evening of Saturday, March 29, at the esteemed Piper’s Opera House, the Renegade Orchestra is set to put on a spectacle unlike any the old town has seen.

Now, don’t go expectin’ your typical prim-and-proper symphony, where folks sit stiff as fence posts and nod off betwixt movements. No, sir! Here is an orchestra that’s tossed out the rule book, set fire to the ashes, and stomped the embers for good measure. They take the highfalutin’ elegance of violins and cellos and mix it with the unbridled thunder of classic rock—like Beethoven and Led Zeppelin had a fistfight, and both won.

Clapping? Encouraged. Cheering? Required. General hoopin’ and hollerin’? Well, if the spirit moves you, who’s to stop it?

So, if you’re hankering for music that rips, roars, and rattles the floorboards, best get a seat. And if you don’t, well, you’ll have to live with the regret of missing a night where culture and calamity make a joyful racket together.

Quietly, since losing my position writing news for the Comstock Chronicle, I’ve been busy substacking Nevada news at https://substack.com/@sagebrushwriter. Please feel free to visit. I am pretty much irreverent, which is to say that I am not following the well-established practices of journalism — but rather those of a smart-ass.

It’s a curious thing about the coyote—this wiry, unlovely specimen of the animal kingdom that roams the deserts with the air of a bankrupt philosopher. I’ve studied him closely, for once you’ve encountered a coyote, you can’t help but feel a peculiar mixture of amusement and pity, the same as you might for a poorly tuned fiddle played with great confidence.

A coyote is a gaunt affair—a lean, rangy frame draped in a grayish hide that looks like it might peel off in a stiff wind. Its tail hangs as if apologizing for following it around, and its eyes have a calculating gleam as if it’s measuring the distance between your throat and its survival. To put it plainly, it’s the living embodiment of hard times, a shuffling bundle of bones and hunger with an outlook that would make even a miser look extravagant.

Now, there’s a drama to the coyote’s movements. If you meet one in the desert, it’ll fix you with a look that says, “Don’t get any ideas, friend,” before trotting off in a peculiar, gliding gait.

It’s a performance, you see, for it’s careful to keep you interested just enough to make you wonder if you could catch him. Spoiler: you can’t.

If you make a move for your pistol, it’ll put a mile of sagebrush between you before the hammer’s half-cocked. It’s not fast, mind you—it’s cunning. It doesn’t run; it insinuates itself into the horizon.

Now, if you happen to unleash a self-respecting dog after it, the real show begins. The coyote’s first move is to let that dog think it’s got it dead to rights.

It trots just ahead, casting over-the-shoulder glances so tantalizingly smug they’d make a saint curse. The dog, pride swelling with every stride, puts all his faith in his legs and none in his better judgment. The coyote, meanwhile, moves as if propelled by sheer scorn.

Round about mile two, the dog begins to reconsider his career choices. His lungs burn, his legs falter, and the coyote—cool as a shadow—glances back one last time with a look that says, “Bless your heart,” and vanishes like smoke in a breeze.

The dog slinks home, head hung low, a chastened beast. It’s a humbling affair that leaves the dog pondering the fragility of ego for weeks to come.

The coyote’s diet is as varied as his luck. He subsists on the leavings of discarded scraps and the occasional miracle of carrion. He shares his grim repast with his comrades, the ravens and buzzards.

His bark—a high, sharp thing like the crack of a whip—pierces the desert nights. It’s a mournful sound, a complaint against the universe for having the audacity to exist.

And yet, despite his wretched appearance and hard luck, you can’t help but admire him. He’s a scrapper, a survivor, a proof of the tenacity of life in its most threadbare form.

If the world ends tomorrow, there is little doubt the coyote will be there the day after, trotting through the rubble, looking for something edible and smiling to himself at the foolishness of it all.

There is one thing the enlightened federal government excels at–sending its fine young folk off to inhospitable places, promising them gratitude and care, only to develop a highly selective amnesia once they return. Such is the case with those stationed at the Nevada Test and Training Range from 1972 to 2005, who, having faithfully inhaled whatever invisible horrors Uncle Sam happened to scatter about, are now being asked to provide irrefutable proof of their misfortune—preferably notarized, in triplicate, and signed by the very particles that did the damage.

Enter Representative Mark Amodei, who states what’s obvious–that veterans, having been exposed to whatever was lurking in the Nevada dust, should not have to scale bureaucratic Everest to receive the care promised. With Congresswoman Susie Lee at his side, Amodei has reintroduced a bill to grant them the presumption of exposure—an effort to spare them from the indignity of proving what everyone with a functioning mind already knows.

“Veterans, who made such selfless sacrifices for our nation, should not have to move mountains to prove they are suffering,” Amodei declared, perhaps forgetting that moving mountains is precisely what the government expects of its veterans—preferably uphill, in the snow, both ways.

Congresswoman Lee echoed his sentiments, championing the bill as a long-overdue measure of justice for those who, having served their country, would now like to avoid being treated like a collection of bothersome receipts lost in a bureaucratic ledger.

Whether the noble endeavor will be embraced with the urgency it deserves or merely added to the great pile of neglected promises remains to be seen. But one thing is known—while the radiation may have been invisible, the neglect is plain to see.

The fine legislators of Nevada are once again engaged in the noble pursuit of rearranging deck chairs on a ship they set adrift years ago. Assembly Bill 48, now making its rounds in the statehouse, proposes a grand solution to the scourge of bullying.

Instead of sending the poor, battered child off to a new school like an unwelcome houseguest, the school board may now, if kindly asked, shuffle the bully instead. It’s a remarkable stroke of wisdom, akin to relocating the fox when he gets too enthusiastic about the chicken coop.

Now, while these lawmakers pat each other on the back for their high-minded efforts, one cannot help but wonder if they have considered the time-honored approach—one that predates government committees, education codes, and the ever-expanding rulebooks of modern civilization–called teaching your child to fight.

Before the pearl clutchers take to their fainting couches, let’s clarify. Not brawling. Not hooliganism. No. It is the fine, upright tradition of self-defense—an education in standing one’s ground when some pint-sized highwayman deems it his right to pummel another child for sport.

There was a time when a youngster–after receiving an ill-tempered shove, understood that the correct response was not to file a grievance with the school board but rather to plant their feet, square the jaw, and make it abundantly clear that they are not to be treated as a doormat.

Now, of course, we live in enlightened times. Bullying reports in Clark County alone number 15,000 a year, with 6,000 of them dismissed as the kind of schoolyard nonsense that once sorted itself out on the playground without a tribunal.

The proposed law would allow parents of the offending party to request their child get transferred, a curious notion indeed, as bullies are rarely known for their eagerness to leave their carefully cultivated fiefdoms. Meanwhile, the real victims are left waiting for salvation from a policy that treats them as something to be relocated rather than empowered.

One wonders if the honorable legislators have ever seen a bully meet an unexpected right hook. It is an educational moment far more effective than a stack of bureaucratic policies.

There is great talk these days about preparing children for the real world. Well, here is a lesson worth teaching: Some will test you, push you, and take from you, and at times, the best course of action is to introduce them, firmly and without hesitation, to the consequences of their actions.

If Nevada wishes to curb bullying–it might look at a more pragmatic approach. Rather than drafting another bill to shuffle the problem from one building to another, perhaps parents should do what parents once did—teach their children to stand up for themselves and tell politicians to leave the child-rearing to mom and dad.

But Not If These Folks Have Their Way

Some folks think that the way to secure the blessings of liberty is to restrict it at every turn. Nowhere is this more evident than in Nevada’s latest legislative mischief, where Democratic lawmakers have taken it upon themselves to propose new restrictions on the good citizen’s right to bear arms—never minding that the Constitution, that old inconvenient document, plainly says they ought not to.

Leading this latest crusade is Assemblymember Sandra Jauregui, who has introduced Assembly Bill 105, a measure that would make it unlawful to carry a firearm within 100 feet of an election site. They claim it is to ensure the integrity of the voting process, though one would be hard-pressed to find an instance where an upstanding, armed citizen has threatened the ballot box. The bill generously allows for law enforcement officers, private security, and those keeping their firearms tucked away in their carriages—so long as they do not “brandish” them, which, one suspects, is subject to interpretation by those who already distrust the commoner’s right to self-defense.

Not content with merely hemming in the rights of responsible adults, Jauregui has also introduced Assembly Bill 245, which would prevent anyone under the age of 21 from purchasing or possessing a semi-automatic shotgun or rifle. Curious that a young person, at 18, may be sent off to war, entrusted with defending the nation, but here in Nevada, these lawmakers would see him unfit to keep so much as a scattergun at home.

Politicians think a person gains wisdom and responsibility upon blowing out the candles on their 21st birthday, but such enlightenment is not determined by the calendar.

Meanwhile, State Senator Julie Pazina has introduced Senate Bill 89, which aims to prohibit firearm ownership for those convicted of “hate crimes.” Now, hatred is an ugly thing, to be sure, but it is an even uglier thing when the law becomes a tool of caprice, where definitions shift like sand in the wind.

The bill seeks to prevent those convicted of offenses based on race, religion, or a host of other characteristics from owning a firearm for ten years—a fine notion until one considers how broadly such crimes may be defined. Today, a crime of hate is one thing; tomorrow, it may be merely disagreeing with the prevailing orthodoxy. And in that case, the right to self-defense becomes subject not to law but to the whims of those in power.

It bears mentioning that these measures resemble bills passed in 2023 and vetoed by Governor Joe Lombardo. One would think that such a rebuke would deter these fine legislators from wasting more time on ill-fated schemes. But common sense is not so easily imposed upon those who fancy themselves the architects of a safer world—no matter how many freedoms they must strip away to build it.

The battle between liberty and those who would curtail it is never quite settled. And if history has taught us anything, it is that when the people surrender their rights bit by bit, they never return without great toil and sacrifice.

These bills sit in committee, their fate uncertain.

A Peculiar Notion

Common sense is a commodity in short supply, and nowhere is that more evident than in the peculiar case of Nevada’s wrong-way drivers. One would reckon that barrelling down the highway against traffic ought to be frowned upon by the law—perhaps even earn a feller a visit to the local hoosegow. But no, dear reader, in the fine state of Nevada, a gentleman can take it upon himself to go careening headlong into oncoming traffic, and the worst he might face is a fine, assuming he survives the encounter.

It wasn’t always this way, but in their boundless wisdom, the legislators of 2021, in the name of what they called Social Justice, saw fit to downgrade wrong-way driving from a crime to a mere civil infraction—something akin to jaywalking, only with considerably more carnage. The reasoning, they claimed, was to keep people out of the criminal justice system, though it appears no one gave much thought to the people who would soon be out of the justice system entirely—namely, the victims.

Now, after a rash of deadly crashes, including the heartbreaking case of little Jaya Brooks, who lost her life in December at the hands of a wrong-way driver, lawmakers are scrambling to undo their prior blunder. Enter Assembly Bill 111, introduced by Republican Assemblymember Brian Hibbetts, who seems to have made the shocking discovery that driving the wrong way at high speed ought to be, at the very least, a misdemeanor crime.

“Every time I mention it, I get the wide-eyed, deer in the headlights look like, ‘Oh my God. What do you mean it’s not a crime?’ Well, it’s a civil matter,” Hibbetts explained, as though describing some ludicrous fiction instead of the actual state of Nevada law.

His bill, aptly named Jaya’s Law, seeks to restore wrong-way driving to its rightful place among punishable offenses—something that, to any reasonable person, ought not to have needed fixing in the first place.

Jaya’s father, Jan Brooks, testified before the Assembly Judiciary Committee, his words a testament to the kind of grief no parent should endure.

“I can’t express how much pain I walk around with that will never go away,” he said. “Of course, this bill won’t bring my daughter back, but if we can save others from going through this, that’s all I care about.”

Hibbetts laid out the grim numbers for lawmakers–731 wrong-way driver reports in 2024 by the Nevada Highway Patrol, with 634 in Las Vegas alone last year. No one spoke against the bill during the hearing. Perhaps even the staunchest defenders of the 2021 reforms knew better than to stand in front of this speeding carriage.

The committee has not yet voted on Jaya’s Law, but one would hope they do so with greater prudence than their predecessors. For if a man may drive full tilt against traffic and face nothing more than a fine, then we are no longer governed by reason but by folly—a condition too common in the affairs of men.