The Old Blog in the Desert

Now,

I ain’t one to put much stock in Hollywood doings, but it seems the silver screen moguls have set their sights on a tale fit for the twilight hours—none other than the life and times of our old bud, Art Bell, the late-night oracle of the weird and wondrous. A man who made his home in the fine metropolis of Pahrump, where the air is dry, the mysteries plentiful, and spent nights whispering ghostly truths and unearthly fiction into the ears of the American public.

Word has it from the folks at Deadline that a mighty bidding war is afoot, with Universal, Warner Bros., and Amazon all looking to stake their claim on Bell’s story. And who do they reckon to step into the role of the midnight storyteller? Paul Giamatti.

For them unfamiliar with Bell’s peculiar corner of the airwaves, he was a man who kept company with a most unusual breed of guest. He welcomed time travelers, Bigfoot slayers, witches with dark secrets, fellers predicting the end of days, and peculiar government types who’d whispered about flying saucers and men in black. Even the occasional high-class visitor, such as Regis Philbin or Leonard Nimoy, found their way to his microphone, though they may have been more terrestrial than his usual crowd.

The man’s departure from this mortal plane was as fitting as his life—a Friday the 13 exit, in 2018 at 72. It was an occasion marked with no small amount of eerie significance–as if the universe had decided to give him a sendoff in proper fashion.

From the humble airwaves of KNYE-FM 95.1 in Pahrump, Bell’s Coast to Coast AM reached some 500 stations across the country, cementing his legend as the great bard of the bizarre. His contributions did not go unnoticed—by 2006, the Nevada Broadcasters Association saw fit to honor him, and two years later, the National Radio Hall of Fame did the same.

Now, this cinematic undertaking falls into the hands of Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett, the duo known as Radio Silence, who’ve built themselves a reputation scaring the bejesus out of folks with films like Ready or Not, the recent Scream revivals, and last year’s Abigail. If ever there were men suited to tell the tale of a man who spent his life in the dark, speaking of things that go bump in the night, these may be the fellers for the job.

One can only hope the movie does the man justice—though I reckon if it doesn’t, he might find a way to haunt them.

Grandma always said, “Get out of the kitchen if you can’t stand the heat.” But what happens when the whole state’s turned into a roaring oven and there ain’t no door to run through?

That’s the question Nevada lawmakers are wrestling with as they take a gander at Assembly Bill 96—which would require the two most populous counties in the state to start planning for extreme heat before the sun bakes folks like yesterday’s cornbread.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of strolling through Las Vegas or Reno in the summer, you know it ain’t a cool mountain breeze. These cities are heating up faster than a two-dollar skillet on a campfire, and last year alone, Clark County saw 526 heat-related deaths—a mighty jump from the 294 recorded in 2023.

More folks are keeling over from the heat than from traffic accidents. That got lawmakers thinking–if we throw millions at keeping folks from crashing into each other, maybe we ought to spare a nickel to keep them from dropping dead on the sidewalk.

The bill, backed by Assemblymember Venise Karris, would make Clark and Washoe counties include “heat mitigation” plans in their development blueprints. That means more shady spots, cooling stations, and less asphalt that soaks up heat like a blacksmith’s anvil. Other cities in the Southwest, like Phoenix, already have fancy offices dedicated to keeping people from frying like eggs on Main Street.

Of course, not everyone is keen on the idea. Governor Joe Lombardo put the kibosh on a similar bill in 2023, claiming there wasn’t enough evidence that all this development was to blame for the rising temperatures.

Never mind the U.S. Geological Survey, which found nearly half of Las Vegas covered in heat-absorbing roads, buildings, and sidewalks, or the study that showed trees—yes, trees—can cool the air by nearly 45 degrees in certain parts of town.

Despite the evidence, the bill still has a few hills to climb before it sees daylight.

It appears the North Lyon County Fire Protection District has learned the hard way that counting on the federal government for financial stability is about as wise as balancing your monthly expenses on the chance of finding a gold nugget in your backyard. Having placed their trust in the fleeting generosity of Washington, they now find themselves tightening their belts, reducing daily staffing levels, and coming to terms with the notion that money given freely today often disappears like a politician’s promise tomorrow.

Effective immediately, the district has decreed that no fewer than four firefighters and one battalion chief shall be on duty each day—an admirable attempt to maintain services while steering clear of fiscal ruin. According to their official release, the reasoning is to “ensure fiscal responsibility while maintaining essential service to the community,” which is a polite way of saying, “We spent money we didn’t really have, and now we must make do with less.”

The previous budgets, it seems, were propped up by one-time financial windfalls—The American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA) of 2021 and mutual aid billing—that, much like a drunken prospector’s last dollar, were never meant to last. The district now acknowledges that these sources are not sustainable, which is a bit like realizing, after a lavish spree, that the purse is empty and the bartender expects payment in real money.

And so, with fewer hands to hold the hoses, North Lyon marches forward, a living demonstration of the dangers of trusting fickle government schemes instead of plain old-fashioned prudence.

Dayton Falls in Playoff Clash

The scent of playoff glory filled the air, but only Fernley grasped it. In a contest that could have swung either way, the Vaqueros held firm and eked out a 44-43 triumph over the Spring Creek Spartans. Victory is nothing new to Fernley, who have now strung together eight consecutive wins.

Spring Creek gave them all they could handle, with a team effort on offense. Snowdon Bear Williams led the charge with 15 points in a blistering six-for-eight shooting performance. Not far behind was Scott Bylund, who made his presence known with a double-double, tallying 10 points and hauling down 12 rebounds.

With the win, Fernley remains an immovable force on their home court, marking their eighth straight triumph at home and boosting their season tally to 21-6. On the other hand, Spring Creek sees their record dip to 20-7.

Both squads now turn their sights to the playoffs. Fernley will lock horns with Democracy Prep Agassi Campus at 8:00 p.m. on Thursday, facing an opponent that has rattled off at least 55 points in their last 12 outings. Meanwhile, Spring Creek braces for a clash with Mater Academy East Las Vegas at 4:40 p.m. Mater Academy is riding high, gunning for their 13th straight victory—a feat Spring Creek will be determined to prevent.

While Fernley and Spring Creek battle on, Dayton saw their playoff dreams dashed on Friday. Despite a remarkable regular season, the Dust Devils couldn’t summon the same magic in their postseason opener, falling 67-56 to Spring Creek. Their struggles against the Spartans continue, as they have dropped seven straight meetings.

Spring Creek’s sophomore sensation Scott Bylund led the charge, delivering a 21-point, six-rebound performance while steadily increasing his scoring output over the last three games. Tayden Francis also chipped in with 11 points and six boards to fortify the Spartans’ offensive front.

The loss leaves Dayton’s season in the rearview mirror with a final record of 16-8. Spring Creek, however, rode their momentum into the next round, only to fall short in a razor-thin 44-43 loss to Fernley on the 15th. With the dust settling, all eyes now turn to the battles ahead, where the stakes grow higher.

As I gazed into the reflecting glass this morning, I spied a face I almost failed to recognize—the countenance of a younger, more optimistic version of myself.

The sight summoned forth a memory that had lain hidden in the recesses of my mind like an old coin lost behind the cushions of a sofa. It was the day I earned my food handler certificate—a prestigious parchment that, in the right hands, meant access to the hallowed grills of McDonald’s on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.

Having conquered the rigorous examination of sanitary wisdom and burger-flipping acumen, I had an entire afternoon with nothing to do but squander it.

The valley wind blew sharp and cold, but it carried a kind of freedom in its bite. My VW Bug, a noble steed of dubious reliability, awaited me in the parking lot. I fed it the last ten-dollar bill from my wallet, an investment of faith that it might carry me somewhere worth going.

Three blocks east, I discovered the new aqueducts—a marvel of modern engineering, though a bit dry on spectacle. There, I perched upon a wall and watched as the dust devils frolicked in the basin below, each a miniature tempest, spinning and whirling like dervishes drunk on the desert air. It was a fine enough pastime, but I tired of it before long and returned to my chariot, which remained where it was left, indifferent to my comings and goings.

Sitting on the sidewalk with legs crossed and feet in the gutter, I felt as content as a prince surveying his dominion. That’s when my hand chanced upon a Roosevelt-headed dime minted in 1967. I turned it over in my fingers, the small coin glinting in the sun.

The year tugged at my memory–1967–when we moved into our new home and my sister was born. A fine year, as I recalled, unmarred by the complications of adulthood or the indignities of gainful employment.

Then came the epiphany: the dime, this Rooseveltian relic of the Johnson administration, was all I had money-wise. Nary a fund in the bank, no jangling coins in the car’s ashtray, no secret cache buried in a coffee can. Just this dime.

But if I’d expected despair to descend upon me like a hungry buzzard, I was sorely mistaken. Unlike that illustrious sage, Mark Twain, who once contemplated throwing himself off a wharf in San Francisco for want of a coin, I felt no such melancholy.

My circumstances were simple: I had completed my military service, severed ties with most of my family, and counted but a few friends. Yet, for all that, I felt richer than Croesus.

As I turned the coin over in my palm, admiring its luster and imagining the small miracles it might perform—a phone call, perhaps, or a fraction of a cup of coffee—a shadow fell across my reverie. A flatfoot, resplendent in municipal authority, stood before me.

“You can’t sit here,” he said, suggesting that sitting on sidewalks was a crime on par with horse thievery or jaywalking. “It’s loitering.”

I rose with an exaggerated courtesy, brushed off my trousers, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Apologies, Officer,” I said, tucking the dime into my pocket. “I was merely reflecting on the nature of wealth and the absurdity of human existence. But since that, too, appears to be prohibited, I’ll take my musings elsewhere.”

With that, I climbed into my trusty VW Bug and drove off with ten cents to my name and the world before me.

The great state of Nevada has taken a bold step toward innovation—or, depending on your perspective, lunacy—with Assembly Bill 20. The piece of legislative craftsmanship proposes that the Department of Motor Vehicles be allowed the privilege of slapping personalized medical condition symbols on driver’s licenses and ID cards, presumably to ensure that no citizen goes unclassified.

Yes, friends, in a world where we can’t use our driver’s license to prove we are who we say we are at the ballot box, we can be conveniently sorted by our ailments. No longer must the DMV be limited to the crude efficiency of a single symbol denoting a medical condition; now, with individualized codes, your card can function as both identification and a handy pocket-sized medical dossier.

Why stop there? Perhaps they’ll include your dietary restrictions and emotional triggers to round things out.

The DMV can only affix a single, mysterious symbol to indicate a medical condition, a practice that, while already questionable, at least afforded a shred of ambiguity. Under the proposed bill, each affliction— an allergy to peanuts, a tendency toward melancholy, or an unfortunate case of gout—may receive a distinguishing mark.

Imagine the possibilities–a little storm cloud for depression, a sneezing emoji for allergies, or maybe a tiny skull and crossbones for those with serious ailments.

The measure doesn’t stop there. In a move toward modernization, the bill also aims to streamline how the DMV pesters vehicle owners about their liability insurance.

Instead of sending an official-looking letter that gets promptly ignored, the department will now have the option of bombarding citizens with emails. The same folks who ignore paper notices will leap into action at the sight of an urgent DMV email—nestled somewhere between a phishing scam and an offer for discounted auto warranties.

Not everyone is thrilled with this grand vision of bureaucratic efficiency. The Libertarian Party of Nevada has taken a firm stance against the proposal, pointing out that a driver’s license—already a highly requested form of identification—could become an involuntary medical file accessible in places where no reasonable person would expect to see their medical history.

After all, do we want the bouncer at the local saloon scrutinizing our license for a diagnosis before letting us in?

The bill, first introduced on February 4, continues to wind its way through the legislative process, with another hearing scheduled for February 20. One can only hope that, amid all this effort to catalog our conditions, someone remembers that the DMV’s primary function is to regulate drivers, not moonlight as a branch of the medical profession.

It appears that the grand and glorious body of lawmakers in Nevada, never ones to let well enough alone, have once again taken to the noble pursuit of fixing things unbroken and breaking things that were working just fine. Enter Senate Bill 100, a measure so bristling with penalties and bureaucratic muscle that a man might find himself clapped in irons for so much as misplacing a voter registration form.

Under its provisions, public officers who dawdle too long over their election duties may discover themselves the proud recipients of a felony charge, a distinction heretofore reserved for more celebrated scoundrels. And should some hapless county clerk run afoul of the great and powerful Secretary of State, said official may be banished from his post by judicial decree, presumably to wander the sagebrush in search of redemption.

But this, dear reader, is mere child’s play compared to the peculiar horror of SB 102. This fine specimen of legislative invention appears to labor under the delusion that questioning an election is an offense so grave as to warrant eternal political exile.

Should a fellow dare to wonder aloud if all was fair in the ballot box, he may soon find himself stripped of the right to hold public office, as though he had committed some high crime against the Republic rather than the far lesser sin of exercising his vocal cords. The Democrat-controlled offices of the Secretary of State and Attorney General would have the power to prosecute at will, ensuring that political discourse remains as one-sided as a Nevada poker game with a marked deck.

Thus, in the spirit of progress, Nevada marches backward, ensuring elections shall henceforth be conducted with all the efficiency of a man attempting to saddle an unbroken Mustang with a twine—while simultaneously warning any citizen against expressing so much as a skeptical brow without fear of swift and merciless reprisal.

Gather ‘round, for I bring tidings of a most harmonious nature!

Our dear friend—who, by no fault of her own, is also a celebrated country music songstress—Lacy J. Dalton, shall be gracing the stage come Friday, February 21, at that hallowed hall of culture and calamity, Piper’s Opera House. She shan’t be alone in this endeavor, for David John of the Comstock Cowboys shall be riding alongside her, and they aim to deliver an evening of song fit to charm the gold fillings right out of your teeth.

Ms. Dalton dubbed the concert “Still My Valentine,”—an event promising more sentiment than a widow’s lament and more twang than a screen door in a windstorm. Those with the good sense to attend shall get treated to the rare spectacle of two fine entertainers, making historic Virginia City all the finer for their presence.

The doors shall swing open at the respectable hour of 5 p.m., with dinner to follow at 6 p.m.–that’s supper for those of you raised right–and the performance commencing at 7:30 p.m.—which is just about the time when respectable folk settle in for the night but the rest of us commence to livin’.

Should you wish to secure your place at this auspicious gathering, you may procure your tickets online, or if you prefer transactions conducted with a proper handshake and the scent of whiskey in the air, you may obtain them at the famed Bucket of Blood Saloon.

And should you wish to keep up with Ms. Dalton’s further adventures, you may follow her on that modern miracle known as Facebook—though I reckon if Mark Twain had such a contraption, he’d have never gotten a thing done.

The Nevada Division of Outdoor Recreation (NDOR) has unveiled a new website, ndor.nv.gov, designed to enhance the public’s access to Nevada’s great outdoors—by first requiring them to stay indoors, fire up their computing contraptions, and navigate a digital landscape before setting foot on an actual one.

In what can only be a masterpiece of modern irony, NDOR’s latest innovation offers an interactive hub filled with information on parks, trails, waterways, and public lands—presumably for those who enjoy reading about nature more than experiencing it. The site promises to make trip planning easier, though some might argue nature itself has a way of being found without the aid of government web design.

Beyond maps and directions, the website also touts NDOR’s efforts to promote outdoor recreation as an economic driver, ensuring that even in the wilderness, the specter of commerce is never too far behind. Conservation efforts are listed alongside grants for outdoor education programs because what is an unspoiled landscape without a well-funded committee to study it?

Denise Beronio, Administrator of NDOR, heralded the launch, declaring, “The launch of our new website represents a major step forward in making outdoor opportunities more accessible and beneficial for all.”

It is unknown if the mule deer and mountain lions will also find the interface intuitive.

The public is encouraged to explore the website and revel in the information. And when they’ve had enough digital nature, they might even step outside and see the real thing.

A New Tax Notion Rides into Town

The venerable sport of tax tinkering is alive and well in the Nevada Legislature.

Assemblywoman Natha Anderson has saddled up a fresh proposal to rearrange the arithmetic of property assessments. This enterprising scheme, known as AJR1, aims to upend the traditional method of taxation, ensuring that when a man parts ways with his land, the taxman is ready at the gate with a brand-new ledger and a sharp pencil.

Under the present arrangement, Nevada calculates property taxes based on land value and the cost of improvements, subtracting a modest sum each year for the wear and tear inflicted by time—1.5 percent annually, up to half a century. Partial abatements act as a damper, preventing taxes from ballooning like a politician’s campaign promises.

But fear not, for AJR1 proposes to snip away at these kindly considerations. Depreciation, that small mercy granted to the weary homeowner, would vanish the first year after a sale, and any improvements would be judged afresh as if age and entropy were mere fictions.

To soften the blow—or perhaps to ensure the townsfolk don’t take up pitchforks—the grand revision includes a tax refund program for those who have achieved the ripe age of 62 or find themselves beset by disabilities, provided they reside in the home taxed upon. The measure debuted in the Assembly on January 22, though it appears to be loitering in the halls of government, awaiting its next move.

Whether it rides triumphantly into law or led out the back door remains to be seen, but one thing is for sure–when it comes to taxes, the rules may change, but the payer remains the same.