The Old Blog in the Desert

Here’s the latest installment of “Things You Thought Couldn’t Happen, but Here We Are.”

The Nevada Department of Agriculture (NDA) says avian flu—bird flu—has somehow made its way into the dairy cattle of Churchill County. Yes, you heard that right. The chickens are home to roost, bringing their germs to crash the cows’ party.

The NDA assures us that the affected farms are under strict quarantine, and testing is happening with the urgency of a man trying to find his pants during a fire drill. According to the NDA’s resident voice of calm panic, State Veterinarian Peter Rolfe, “Ensuring the safety of the industry is our utmost priority.”

Translation–They’re scrambling harder than a breakfast special at Denny’s. Rolfe also stressed the importance of “biosecurity practices,” which is a fancy way of saying, “Let’s keep the cows and the chickens from sharing any more snacks or gossip.”

If you’re wondering whether you should be worried about catching bird flu from your next glass of milk or cheeseburger, the NDA and the CDC want you to take a deep breath—just maybe not while standing too close to a cow. The risk to humans, they say, remains low.

And dairy and meat products? Perfectly safe. Rolfe even reminded us to follow food safety guidelines, as if we have to be told to cook our meat instead of gnawing on it raw like a caveman reenactor.

Here’s the setup for a bad joke: “What do you get when you cross a bird and a cow?” The answer is “quarantines and a lot of nervous veterinarians.”

But let’s not forget the larger picture: Avian flu has been detected in dairy cattle across 16 states since March of 2024. That’s not just a fluke; that’s a full-blown epidemic of bizarre proportions.

So, what’s the takeaway from all this? First, maybe we shouldn’t let cows hang out with the wrong crowd. Second, let’s get some masks for the chickens, as it “scientifically” workedduring the COVID pandemic, and third, if this keeps up, we’ll need a whole new section in the grocery store labeled “Pandemic-Proof Food.”

LAS VEGAS—The sun was setting on Nevada’s clean energy dreams, but a federal judge just kicked open the vault—at least partially. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, under judicial orders, has lifted its icy grip on $156 million in community solar funding for the Silver State. But the storm isn’t over.

Monday’s ruling struck a blow to the Trump administration’s move to freeze climate-related funds, forcing the government to honor its legal commitments. By Friday, the Nevada Clean Energy Fund (NCEF) got its hands back on its Solar for All award, a lifeline for renewable energy projects across the state.

“We appreciate the leadership of Nevada officials in advocating for our communities and securing these critical resources,” said Kirsten Stasio, NCEF’s CEO, in a statement packed with diplomacy but no shortage of frustration.

This whole fiasco started on January 20—Inauguration Day—when President Donald Trump, in a grand act of executive penmanship, shut the tap on energy grants, loans, and contracts from the Inflation Reduction Act and Bipartisan Infrastructure Act. The freeze sent states scrambling, legal teams sharpening their knives.

But Nevada isn’t out of the woods. Despite the court order, $7.7 million in EPA Clean School Bus Program funds is still locked away in some bureaucratic purgatory.

That money was meant to roll 25 new electric school buses onto Nevada’s roads—at no cost to schools. Now, it’s gathering dust while Lander, Elko, Lyon, Douglas, and Carson City school districts wait in limbo.

Then there’s the matter of the Walker River Paiute Tribe. Their $20 million Community Change Grant—intended to bring energy upgrades to 150 homes, secure solar and battery storage for a key tribal building, and overhaul water infrastructure—remains frozen. The same court that freed the solar funds hasn’t yet pried open the lock on this one.

“NCEF will continue to press for the protection of legally obligated Solar for All funds, in addition to the unfreezing of other federal funds,” Stasio promised.

Meanwhile, Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford is suiting up for round two. On Friday, he joined 22 other attorneys general demanding the court enforce its ruling and stop the federal government from dragging its feet.

“President Trump’s unilateral federal funding freeze is unlawful and would be devastating to services relied upon by Nevadans all across our state,” Ford declared, throwing down the legal gauntlet.

The stakes are high. The motion filed by the states warns that without access to the Inflation Reduction Act and Bipartisan Infrastructure Law funds, states could start feeling the squeeze—fast.

The fallout? Potential cash shortfalls, disruptions to essential services, and a brutal reality check on how much power the federal government holds over state budgets, evidence Nevada ought to start doing for itself.

For now, Nevada has its solar money. But the fight isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The Nevada Off-Highway Vehicles Program is taking applications for new OHV projects. The grant manual and forms are online at ohv.nv.gov. The deadline is March 23.

Every year, the Nevada Commission on Off-Highway Vehicles funds projects to keep the state’s trails open, safe, and well-marked. The money comes from registration fees and goes to trail maintenance, mapping, law enforcement, education, and conservation.

Past grants have helped build trailheads in Lincoln and Nye Counties, put new equipment in the hands of OHV officers in Storey and Lyon, and supported outdoor education programs.

For a look at past projects, visit ohv.nv.gov/grant-recipients. Questions go to Kaden Barmore at 775-684-2794 or kbarmore@ohv.nv.gov.

Some Told to Boil Water

The City of Fernley said to boil the water. Not for all. Just for some.

A waterline broke Friday. Twelve homes on Palomino Drive. Between Shadow Lane and Nader Way. The city sent a notice.

If you got the notice, boil your water. If you didn’t, don’t.

If you have to ask, call the city. (775) 784-9850. Or (775) 784-9931.

The bar was dim, lit by the fading neon sign that buzzed in the window. Gus leaned on the bar, his gnarled hands tracing the rim of a glass that held no more than a quarter inch of whiskey.

The bartender, a stocky man with a face like a weathered boot, was wiping down the counter and glancing at the clock. “Closing up in ten, Gus,” the bartender grumbled. “You want another?”

Gus chuckled softly, a sound more like gravel sliding off a hill. “Another? Naw, Jim. I’d be nursing it till morning, and you’d have my hide for making you stay late.”

“Fair enough,” Jim muttered, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

Gus tipped his hat to the barkeep and slid off the stool with a stiffness that spoke of too many hard tumbles. He shuffled out the door. The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside, the stars above winking down like they knew all his secrets.

He walked down the empty street, his boots scuffing against the boardwalk. The wind carried a faint scent of sagebrush and dust, and somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled—a sound that had once thrilled him but now only reminded him how far from the saddle he’d fallen.

“Gus?” a voice called out behind him.

He turned to see a young man leaning against a lamppost–a lopsided grin on his face. He wore a clean white button-up shirt and jeans that hadn’t seen a day’s work. His boots were polished, his hat near perfection.

“Donny,” Gus said, nodding in greeting. “What are you doing out this late? Ain’t you got a girl to be wooing or a dance to be at?”

“Just got back into town,” Donny said, pushing off the lamppost and stepping beside Gus. “Figured I’d find you where I usually do.”

Gus chuckled again. “You found me all right. Though I ain’t much of a sight these days. Just an old man trying to outdrink his regrets.”

Donny glanced at him, his grin fading. “You talk like your story’s all told. But I remember the stories you used to tell us boys when we’d sit around the fire. You were something, Gus. Rodeo champ, wrangler, the best damn bronc buster this side of the Rockies.”

Gus stopped walking and looked up at the stars, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old coat. “That was a lifetime ago, Donny. These days, I’m just trying to figure out where a man goes when he’s too old for the saddle and too young for the grave.”

“You’re not as old as you think,” Donny said, his voice softer now. “And you’ve got more left in you than you give yourself credit for.”

Gus shook his head. “You’re kind to say so, but the truth is, the world’s moved on. Cowboys like me? We’re relics, reminders of a time that’s gone and ain’t coming back.”

They walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of gravel under their boots. When they reached the edge of town, Gus stopped and turned to Donny.

“Thanks for walking with me, son. You take care now, you hear?”

“You too, Gus,” Donny said, hesitating before adding, “You ever need a place to go, you know where to find me.”

Gus tipped his hat. “Appreciate it.”

As Donny walked back into town, Gus stood there, staring at the open desert beyond the last streetlamp’s glow. The wind whispered through the cheat grass, and for a moment, he felt the pull of the wild again, the call of open spaces and endless horizons.

He took a deep breath, straightened his hat, and walked toward the hills.

It was a dreary Tuesday afternoon—so unremarkable that even the weather seemed too disinterested to participate. The sun barely peeked through the clouds, as if it too had pressing business elsewhere.

Inside Joe’s Discount Grocery, a beacon of mediocrity and freezer-burned ambition, Earl Thistlebottom was plotting the world’s least inspired criminal escapade.

The enterprising fellow, with pockets as empty as his ambitions, had his eye on a prize–Hot Pockets. And not just any Hot Pockets, mind you—he wanted the pepperoni ones.

“The filet mignon of microwavable cuisine,” Earl thought.

With all the stealth of a raccoon rooting through a trash can, Earl slid a couple of Hot Pockets into his jacket pockets. He thought himself quite clever, though the crinkling of plastic and the suspicious bulge in his coat might have tipped off anyone with functional eyes or ears.

Alas, the store clerk—a wiry, underpaid philosopher named Jim—was not one to let such petty larceny slide.

“Hey, buddy,” Jim called out, in a tone that suggested he was more annoyed than concerned, “You gonna pay for those, or are you auditioning for a prison talent show?”

Now, Earl was not one to think on his feet, as thinking was a task he reserved for special occasions. So, when cornered, he did what any self-respecting fool might do: he bluffed.

He jammed a hand into his pocket, where the suspicious outline of a poorly concealed Hot Pocket resembled, at least in the dim light of Earl’s imagination, a firearm.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll—I’ll…” Earl stammered, trying to sound menacing but managing only to sound like he was mid-sneeze. “I’ll shoot!”

Jim, unimpressed and mildly curious, took a step back. “Sure thing, Wyatt Earp. Enjoy your gourmet feast.”

Triumphant in his victory over law and order, Earl strutted out of the store like a peacock who’d stolen a bag of breadcrumbs. Unfortunately for Earl, the police department had little else to do that day, and soon, a squad car caught up with him as he sauntered down Main Street, humming what he believed to be the theme song from Cops.

“Stop right there!” an officer shouted through the loudspeaker, his voice crackling with authority. Earl froze, though not out of fear—it took him a moment to realize they were addressing him.

“What’s the problem, officers?” Earl asked, feigning innocence so poorly that even a toddler could have outperformed him.

“Get on the ground!” the officer barked, suggesting he wasn’t in the mood for debate.

“I will not!” Earl declared, puffing out his chest in a show of defiance that would have been more impressive if his coat wasn’t leaking condensation from the pilfered Hot Pockets.

The officers, understandably concerned that Earl might be armed, decided to employ the great equalizer of law enforcement–the Taser. One quick zap later, Earl crumpled to the ground like a poorly built Jenga tower, twitching and mumbling.

As the officers handcuffed Earl, one of them noticed a peculiar aroma wafting through the air.

“Do you smell that?” the officer asked his partner.

“Yeah,” the partner replied, leaning in for a closer sniff. “Smells…delicious?”

They opened Earl’s jacket to reveal the Hot Pockets, now perfectly cooked to golden-brown perfection thanks to the 50,000 volts of electricity Earl had just received.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the first officer. “Guess we solved the mystery of why they call them Hot Pockets.”

As Earl sat in the squad car, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride. Sure, he was going to jail, but at least he’d proven one thing–you don’t need a microwave to enjoy a warm meal—just a little ingenuity and a poorly timed encounter with law enforcement.

Lawsuit Ranger Saddles Up for Another Round

Nevada’s Attorney General, Aaron Ford, has again dusted off his lawsuit boots and joined the latest cavalry charge against Donald Trump. For the third time since the former president set foot in the White House, Ford has galloped into battle, waving his legal saber at the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE)—which, by the sound of it, could sound like a joke to the unwashed.

The ruckus began when Tesla overlord and intergalactic mischief-maker Elon Musk allegedly got his hands on the U.S. Treasury’s payment system. That’s the same system responsible for shuffling around $5 trillion a year and keeping Social Security checks flowing—an operation so delicate and precise that one can only imagine it runs on the finest government technology money could buy–in 1997.

According to reports, DOGE staffers and Musk gained access to this treasure trove of bank accounts and personal information, and the ever-vigilant guardian of Nevada’s good name, Ford, jumped into the fray faster than a lobbyist spotting an open bar.

Ford and his fellow lawsuit enthusiasts from at least 11 other states declared this an “unlawful, unprecedented, and unacceptable” breach. Strong words, indeed. Of course, those words could apply to any government operation, from the DMV to the fine art of Congress passing a budget.

Their joint statement wagged its legal finger, proclaiming that DOGE “has no authority” to root through America’s bank accounts and that Trump can’t just hand out private financial information like it’s a White House souvenir pen. Naturally, Ford is also continuing his busy schedule of lawsuits, recently challenging Trump’s executive order on newborn citizenship and his attempt to freeze federal grants.

If he keeps it up, the man might have to start billing the state by the hour.

In the end, whether Ford and his lawsuit posse can rein in the wild stallion of Treasury access remains to be seen. But one thing’s for sure—when there’s a lawsuit, you can count on Aaron Ford to be first in line, pen in hand, and righteous indignation at the ready.

Three Years Later, WCSO Still Stonewalling on Murder of Anna Marie Scott

RENO, Nev.—The first thing to know is that the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office (WCSO) wants your help. Yes, you—the good people of Northern Nevada—are being called upon to solve a murder. But expect zero information from the authorities because, three years later, they refuse to tell you a goddamn thing.

What we know: On a frigid January morning in 2022, the scorched husk of a vehicle sat smoldering on the I-580 overpass, somewhere between the neon sins of Reno and the bureaucratic tedium of Carson City. Inside the trunk, firefighters found what remained of 23-year-old Anna Marie Scott, a Paiute mother of two. Bullet wound. Homicide.

And then? Silence.

The WCSO clamped its jaws shut like a rabid dog. Not one press conference, never a timeline or public details on Scott’s final days or how long her body roasted in the trunk before someone bothered to look. Hell, they didn’t even confirm the car was hers—not even after Scott’s tribe came forward with that fact in July 2024.

For days, family and friends cried her name into the social media void while WCSO sat on their hands. It took four days—four days—before they even admitted Scott was dead. It took a month before they confirmed what everyone already knew: It was murder.

And what has the WCSO offered since? Nothing. Just the same tired refrain, “It’s an active investigation.”

Things have gone stranger. While Scott’s name languished in police purgatory, 18-year-old Naomi Irion was abducted in a Walmart parking lot just a few miles away. A case that, mind you, received wall-to-wall press coverage, multiple press conferences, and an aggressive search. Within weeks–Churchill County Sheriff deputies found her remains and her alleged killer captured.

Meanwhile, Scott’s case barely made the news.

Why? Is it because she was Indigenous? A young mother? A woman whose life—like so many others—could be swept under the blood-soaked rug of Nevada’s missing and murdered?

Senator Catherine Cortez Masto thought so. She brought Scott’s name to Congress in 2022 as yet another example of America’s ongoing genocide against Native women.

The American Indian Movement (AIM) held a prayer circle outside WCSO’s administration building, demanding action. And how did a sheriff’s deputy respond?

“What murders?”

I shit you not.

Let’s talk about the only public lead WCSO ever acknowledged–Jacori Shaw.

Shaw was 23. Same age as Scott. A Black man from Reno who, according to police, might have known something about her case. Not a suspect, just someone who “might have information.”

We’ll never know what that information was because, just one month after Scott’s murder, Shaw died in a shooting by police.

Here’s how it went down: Sparks PD claimed Shaw raised a gun at them, so an officer shot him dead. But body cam footage never showed a weapon.

A dozen cops combed the scene. No gun.

Later, some officers admitted they never saw the weapon. The only person who did was the officer who pulled the trigger.

And just like that, the only lead in Scott’s murder vanished.

Since then, WCSO has done jack shit to bring Scott’s killers to justice. They refuse to say if her case is “cold,” though records show they haven’t updated their cold case list since 2009.

Maybe in another decade, Scott’s name will finally find the light. For now, all we have is an ever-growing reward—$5,000 for any information on who killed her.

But tell me this: how is anyone supposed to help when WCSO won’t even tell us what we’re looking for? What kind of car should we remember? What movements should we recall? What missing pieces could we fill in when they refuse to give us the shape of the puzzle?

Anna Marie Scott burned in the trunk of a car on a Nevada highway, and three years later, the only thing colder than her case is the silence surrounding it.

CARSON CITY, Nev.—Joe Lombardo sits in the governor’s chair in Nevada. The trouble is, you wouldn’t know it unless you checked the stationery. He’s there, alright—hollow-eyed, pen in hand, signing vetoes like a bored substitute teacher crossing out wrong answers on a multiple-choice test.

But governing? That’s a different matter entirely.

See, Lombardo’s got a problem–a gnawing existential dilemma unsolvable with a veto stamp and a tough-guy scowl. The problem is that he is hopelessly, irretrievably out of step with the current political moment.

A Republican governor in a state with a Democratic Legislature is one thing, but a Republican governor not knowing what to do about it. That’s a tragicomic farce.

Once upon a time, men like Lombardo ran things with an iron fist—sheriff, lawman, the guy who told you to shut up and do so, but now boxed in, rendered politically impotent, a cautionary tale of a man who won an election but lost the plot. The GOP wants action, blood, scorched-earth politics. Instead, they got a governor whose signature move is a defeated shrug.

He is the perfect inverse of Donald Trump. If Trump is the patron saint of belligerent executive power—”I’ll do whatever I want, and no one can stop me”—then Lombardo is the ghostly echo: “I can’t do anything, and no one can make me.”

His great triumph? Not becoming entirely irrelevant by a razor-thin margin—a single vote in each chamber prevented a Democratic supermajority from turning him into a figurehead. But let’s not pretend he emerged victorious from some great battle.

It wasn’t a war fought in the trenches. It was a bureaucratic coin flip, saving Lombardo’s career from immediate irrelevance.

And so, he sits, a governor with no signature achievement, no grand legislative wins, no defining purpose beyond not being a Democrat. His veto messages read like someone composing a breakup text while half-asleep—rambling, noncommittal, and entirely unconvincing.

If vetoing bills is the height of his ambition, the least he could do is put some flair into it. It is politics, damn it, not a county clerk’s office.

Oh, but he has tried to do things. Badly. Catastrophically. Do we all remember the school choice debacle? The “Opportunity Scholarships” grift, where a shadowy out-of-state nonprofit pocketed the cash, leaving students in the lurch? That was Lombardo’s moment to shine, his big play to demonstrate leadership—and instead, it collapsed, like a Vegas casino demo job.

Now, desperate to prove he’s doing something, he turns to the budget screw-up. Perhaps a minor arithmetic disaster, but revealing in its sheer carelessness. They balance the damn budget. That’s the job. It ain’t optional. Screwing that up is like a firefighter forgetting how to use a hose.

Now we enter Scene Two of Act One of this plodding, uninspired administration. The Trump campaign looms like an incoming hurricane, and Lombardo will find himself needing to navigate Medicaid battles, school funding nightmares, and a political machine that expects him to deliver something.

He’ll be on the ballot this fall, asking Nevada’s voters for another four years of–whatever this is. And the only real question left is: What is the point?

There’s a smell in the air, the stench of cheap lies and expensive cover-ups, the kind of bureaucratic rot that festers in the sun-blasted halls of power where men in medals and pressed uniforms wash their hands of another casualty. Another soldier chewed up and spit out, left to rot in a desert of indifference.

And here we are, still pissed off.

Allison Bailey. Sergeant First Class. Seventeen years of service. Dead at 33. A casualty not of war but of the war machine itself—the kind that promises loyalty and brotherhood until you become an inconvenience.

The facts are bleak, but the pattern is familiar: A woman in uniform reports a sexual assault. The system turns on her. They call her a liar. They call her difficult. They dig through her past, poke at her mistakes, and paint her as the problem.

They strip her of dignity, rank, and resources, and when she drinks herself to death in a spiral of untreated trauma, they sigh and say, “What a tragedy,” while sweeping the debris under the rug.

And then there’s Major General Ondra Berry, retired in October 2024, former commander of the Nevada National Guard, once a Reno cop with allegations of hot tub escapades with underage girls floating in his past like a dead fish in a stagnant pond. The media sidesteps it, of course.

The same way they sidestep the Nevada National Guard’s well-oiled retaliation machine. In the same way, they sidestep the number of women like Bailey who, after coming forward, find themselves buried under the weight of accusations, investigations, and career-ending bullshit.

Bailey said she was drugged and raped by a subordinate in 2020. The Guard’s response? Assign her to evaluate the same bastard. She asked for a transfer. Instead, they turned the microscope on her, digging up every possible complaint, every whisper of insubordination, every note of perceived misconduct.

They assembled an army of “witnesses” against her—fifteen soldiers suddenly coming forward to say she was a bully, drank too much, and had “inappropriate” relationships. The Guard’s internal investigation labeled her “an extremely intelligent manipulator of persons.” And what a neat little trick that is—when a man gets accused of sexual assault, he’s misunderstood. But when a woman fights back, she’s a manipulator.

Bailey’s discharge happened in January 2023. No medical retirement. No benefits, no safety net, no insurance. Just a notice in the mail and a one-way ticket to oblivion. She had been broken down, branded as a disgrace, and left to fend for herself.

Two months later, she was dead.

Her two sons found her on the floor in pain, refusing medical attention because she had no insurance. She died on March 4, 2023, just another statistic in the long, gruesome ledger of military sexual trauma and systemic neglect.

And now, as her mother files a wrongful death lawsuit, the Nevada National Guard stands by their decision, hiding behind bureaucratic jargon and the hollow rhetoric of “tough situations” and “tragic circumstances.” Captain Emerson Marcus, their spokesman, recites the usual lines—Bailey had “a year to rehabilitate her career.” The accusations were credible. Due process followed. She didn’t testify. She didn’t defend herself.

But let’s call it what it is. It wasn’t justice. It was a crucifixion.

They knew what they were doing. When the National Guard Bureau found in September 2021 that Bailey’s sexual assault happened in the line of duty, the Nevada National Guard ignored it. They focused instead on their report—the one written by Major Michelle Tucay, a woman conveniently friendly with Bailey’s accused rapist—declaring that Bailey was a menace, a manipulator, a drunk. They dragged her name through the dirt, docked her pay, demoted her, and shoved her toward the exit.

She appealed. Nobody listened.

And so the cycle repeats. The Nevada National Guard will defend its decision, wrap itself in the flag, and insist that Bailey was an anomaly—just another soldier who “couldn’t handle it.” They’ll deny, deflect, and distract. Meanwhile, the ranks will close in around the next woman who dares to report an assault, whispering the same threats, making the same promises, ensuring that the next Allison Bailey learns her lesson: Speak up, and we will destroy you.

The lawsuit won’t bring Bailey back. But maybe, just maybe, it will rip the mask off the machine long enough for people to see the truth because this isn’t just a ‘tough situation’–it’s a goddamn disgrace.