The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office has been downright giddy this past week. Between January 26 and February 2, they’ve managed to snag 31 fine specimens of humanity—31! That’s 31 people so invested in local government that they thought, “You know what this town needs? More me behind bars.”
Before you get all worried about Nevada’s criminal enterprise, the State of Nevada joined in with three arrests, which, I suppose, is their way of proving they’ve still got a pulse. They’re so good at it that they’ve reduced their police efforts to something of a meditative art form.
Meanwhile, the Yerington Police Department had a week so quiet that I imagine their officers were sitting around sipping coffee, wondering if they’d remember what an arrest even looked like. Zero bookings. Not one. It’s a level of calm most people would only dream of.
And the Tribal Police? Let’s say they took the week off from making headlines. Maybe they were busy or knew there was no point in trying to outdo the chaos on the other side of the county.
So there you have it, folks. A week of law and order, with a healthy dose of “we’re not as busy as we should be.”
After years of being left to the elements and the fine art of forgetting, the Black Springs Volunteer Firehouse has finally been handed a shiny gold star from the National Register of Historic Places. Now, instead of being just another neglected building in a community swallowed by warehouses, it can stand proudly as an officially neglected building with a plaque.
The old firehouse is no ordinary pile of bricks. Built-in 1970 by the Black Springs community—a tight-knit group of folks who, instead of waiting for the powers to toss them a few crumbs, rolled up their sleeves and did for themselves. It was the headquarters for Nevada’s first African American Fire Chief, William “Bill” Lobster, who, in a fairer world, would have been given the resources to fight fires instead of the privilege of improvising.
But make no mistake—Black Springs wasn’t just another name on a map. It was one of the few places in Nevada where Black families could buy property when Reno and Sparks were doing their best impression of a “No Vacancy” sign for anyone who wasn’t white.
In those days, Black Springs had no paved roads, running water, and no sewers—just a lot of grit and a shared determination to build something out of nothing. And build they did.
Of course, time marches on, and “progress” has a peculiar way of flattening history under the wheels of delivery trucks and bulldozers.
Black Springs is now a scenic view for Amazon warehouses. Reno even saw fit to rebrand it as “Grand View Terrace,” as nothing screams respect for history quite like replacing it with a name that sounds like a retirement home, and most newcomers have never heard of Black Springs.
Helen Townsell-Parker, whose family helped shape Black Springs, stumbled onto the past the way most history is uncovered—by accident. A pile of old documents in her grandparent’s shed told the real story, one of struggle and survival.
She’s been fighting ever since to make sure it isn’t erased. She even wrote a book, A Cry for Help, named after the letter her grandfather once read to the county commissioners, which got them to finally admit that, yes, running water was indeed a necessity.
And while the firehouse is now an official piece of history, the community center next door tells a different story. Once a gathering place for Black Springs residents, now it sits empty—because where people once walked in for free, they now need $500 and an hourly rate to unlock the door. There is nothing like a good old-fashioned paywall to keep a community out of reach.
So here we are, the Black Springs Firehouse preserved, and history has its footnote. But a plaque is not a neighborhood, nor is a museum a home. If history has taught us anything, while recognition is nice—keeping a community alive takes more than a firehouse closed for business.
Nothing Says Justice Like a Strongly Worded Letter
Well, folks, Nevada’s Attorney General, Aaron Ford, has mounted his high horse and galloped straight into the halls of justice—or at least into the business of writing indignant letters. This time, he and 19 of his fellow legal eagles have taken up their quills to demand that the Senate grill FBI Director nominee Kash Patel harder, lest the Bureau fall into the wrong hands (as if it ever strayed into the right ones).
With the noble determination of a man who just discovered his name misspelled on a coffee cup, Ford insists that the FBI must remain free from “political pressures or threats of retaliation.” It, of course, is a moving sentiment coming from a politician—an occupation not famous for its aversion to political maneuvering.
The letter from Ford and company expresses grave concern over rumors that Patel might be clearing house at the FBI. AHeads have already rolled, and the AGs suspect more might follow, perhaps with all the subtlety of a frontier saloon brawl.
They warn that firing thousands of FBI agents will have “disastrous effects on public safety” and leave America exposed to all manner of threats—fentanyl, cartels, terrorists, and, heaven forbid, crimes against American pocketbooks. One assumes this last concern arises from the recent national crisis of paying $12 for a fast-food combo meal.
Now, if you were to take all this at face value, you might believe the FBI to be a delicate institution, teetering on the brink of collapse, held together only by the unwavering courage of Aaron Ford and his merry band of AGs. But, as history suggests, the Bureau—an outfit known for surviving everything from Hoover’s secret files to the occasional overenthusiastic surveillance of about everyone—will probably endure.
Nonetheless, Ford and his colleagues from California to Vermont will not let that stop them from brandishing their legal swords to defend the agency. Because nothing reassures the American public quite like a group of attorneys demanding justice in the form of prolonged Senate hearings.
According to the latest scribblings from the Nevada Secretary of State’s Office, the fine citizens of the Silver State have ever so slightly tilted their collective hat toward the Republican Party—by a margin so slim it could fit between a prospector’s teeth.
The official tally stands at 618,539 Republicans, narrowly edging out the Democrats, who number 618,352. That’s a difference of precisely 187 souls, which in Nevada politics is about the same as a light breeze shifting the sand.
But before either party starts whooping and hollering, it’s worth noting that the true heavyweight in this political saloon remains the nonpartisan voter, who stands at a robust 696,319 strong. That’s right—the biggest group in the state consists of folks who’ve taken one hard look at both parties and declared, “No, thank you.”
Meanwhile, the remaining 157,000 voters remain scattered across various minor parties, including the Independent American Party, the Libertarians, and a few outfits so small they likely hold conventions in a corner booth at the local diner. So, while the two major parties squabble over who gets to wear the sheriff’s badge, the real power may rest with those who prefer to keep their six-shooters holstered and their options open.
If there’s one thing Nevada’s Attorney General Aaron Ford has mastered, it’s turning legal action into an art form—or at least a competitive sport.
Ford threw the legal gauntlet against then-President Donald Trump 33 times in his first two years. Thirty-three. That’s more battles than Nevada ghost towns, which is saying something.
While Trump was busy pitching border walls like they were limited-time offers on late-night infomercials, Ford was sharpening his lawyerly claws and making it his mission to clog federal courts with lawsuits with a higher word count than Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
Fast-forward to now, as Ford is gearing up for his next act: duking it out with a conservative Supreme Court while simultaneously moonlighting as a moral authority. He’s one of just two Democratic attorneys general working alongside Republican governors, which must make his office feel like Thanksgiving dinner where half the family insists on carving the turkey with a chainsaw.
But Ford is nothing if not bold. He’s willing to “collaborate” with Trump’s administration on issues like trafficking, though he’d probably still take the opportunity to staple a subpoena to Trump’s toupee for old time’s sake. “He has a penchant for violating the law,” Ford said of Trump, proving once again that the pot does love calling the kettle black.
Ford’s legal philosophy is simple: sue first, ask questions later.
Alongside his fellow Democratic attorneys general, he’s already gearing up for a potential Trump comeback as though the man were the political equivalent of Freddy Krueger—just with worse hair. The team’s current focus is on hot-button issues like abortion rights, immigration, and environmental regulations, so if Trump so much as jaywalks, you can bet Ford will have the paperwork ready before the ink dries on the sidewalk.
Take DACA, for example. Ford recently joined a motion to defend a Biden administration rule protecting Dreamers. Ford’s approach is straightforward: if you’re not dreaming Ford’s way, you’re probably getting a cease-and-desist letter in the mail.
In the end, Ford is less a defender of justice and more like that one neighbor who calls the HOA about your fence being an inch too high. Sure, he’s technically following the rules, but you can’t shake the feeling he’s just in it for the power trip.
Whether he’s suing Trump for his tweets, challenging the Supreme Court for existing, or crusading against policies that offend sensibilities, Ford is on a mission. And if that mission involves seeing his name in the headlines more often than the Nevada sun rises, that’s just a happy coincidence.
Having thrown my back out again, I was stuck in bed when my wife popped in with a snack—crackers with peanut butter and a classic mom move, “Don’t stay up too late!” she warned, pointing at me like the bedtime police.
I settled in, flicked on a movie about some giant, blood-sucking monster terrorizing a town, and immediately started regretting my life choices. My heart began racing faster than a caffeinated hamster when it started chomping on people.
Sensing my panic, my wife returned, shaking her head, turned off the TV, and tucked me in like I was five years old again. “No more scary stuff,” she said firmly before leaving the room.
A few hours later, I was deep in a dream about cookies–don’t judge–when I felt something biting my fingers. Not a nibble—actual biting.
My eyes snapped open, with my first thought being: the monster’s real.
I squeezed my eyes shut like that would somehow stop whatever was happening. But the biting didn’t stop. Instead, it started to feel a little slobbery.
Summoning all my courage, which isn’t much, I peeked under the bed. There, staring back at me with glowing, beady eyes, was a monster—but not the giant, terrifying kind.
Nope.
It was no bigger than a loaf of bread, with bat wings, pointy little fangs, and the most ridiculous overbite I’d ever seen. It was gnawing on my fingers like they were drumsticks at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Uh … hi?” I said.
The little thing froze mid-bite and looked at me like I was the weird one in this situation. Then, from somewhere in the darkness, a voice boomed:
“Hey! I told you no snacks before bedtime!”
The monster squeaked in terror, dropping my hand. It gave me one last guilty glance, then slunk back into the shadows under my bed, wings drooping like a kid caught breaking curfew.
I sat there, hand still slimy from the monster’s spit, wondering which was scarier: the fact a tiny vampire lives under my bed or the fact that it has a bedtime rule enforcer.
CARSON CITY – In a move both ambitious and ironic, Nevada lawmakers are pushing to teach students how to spot misinformation—while proving they might need a refresher course themselves.
Assemblymember Cecelia Gonzalez, championing the cause of news literacy, lamented that false information spreads like a Nevada brushfire, citing rumors of ICE raids that “aren’t actually happening.”
It would have been a good point—except for the small fact that ICE raids are happening, even in Reno. One might say the misinformation problem is closer to home than expected.
Gonzalez and fellow Assemblymember Erica Mosca are determined to work with the Nevada Department of Education to weave news literacy into the curriculum, though exactly how remains unclear. Will it be through legislation? Policy tweaks? Leaving teachers to figure it out in their spare time? The specifics are as hazy as a campaign promise.
This effort comes as Nevada grapples with its latest educational report card, which reveals that only 39% of Clark County School District students are proficient in English—just slightly ahead of a system where you hand them a book and hope for the best.
“In a time where misinformation rapidly spreads, this is something very critical to us,” Gonzalez stressed.
She was quick to assure that teachers—already overburdened—wouldn’t be tasked with yet another impossible job.
The News Literacy Project, a nonprofit with unshakable optimism, reports that only 20 percent of teens can correctly distinguish news from ads, opinions, and entertainment. There are some adults–mostly politicians–who struggle with that, as recent events suggest. Even more alarming, 80 percent of teens admit to seeing conspiracy theories on social media, and many actually believe them.
“News literacy is the ability to discern factual information from non-credible information,” explained Ebonee Otoo, a senior vice president at the News Literacy Project.
It’s a noble goal, assuming students can tear themselves away from viral cat videos long enough to learn it. Last year, the nonprofit armed nearly 600 Nevada educators with free news literacy resources, reaching 2,800 students—many of whom will no doubt put their skills to good use correcting their parents’ dubious Facebook posts.
If lawmakers succeed in making news literacy part of the curriculum, perhaps their next challenge will be even more pronounced: fact-checking themselves before making public statements.
In a move that shocked absolutely no one, U.S. Senator Jacky Rosen of Nevada declared the sky to be falling after former President Donald Trump—spurred on by policy adviser Elon Musk—announced plans to shutter USAID. According to Rosen, this act of bureaucratic demolition will result in nothing short of national security collapse, global chaos, and, quite possibly, locusts raining from the heavens.
“Make no mistake,” Rosen warned ominously, “ceding America’s global leadership is a gift to Vladimir Putin and the Chinese Communist Party.”
Because we all know, the only thing keeping world peace intact was a well-funded Washington agency handing out taxpayer dollars overseas. Forget the military, forget diplomacy—USAID is the lone force standing between America and the abyss.
Rosen also took issue with the legality of the move, insisting Trump can’t just go around dismantling agencies willy-nilly. She must have missed the last decade of political history, where presidents on both sides have treated constitutional limits like optional fine print.
But worry not—Rosen is ready to “work with her colleagues” (translation: send strongly worded letters) to stop this dastardly plot and ensure that USAID lives on to distribute funds and fight pandemics from its air-conditioned offices.
Meanwhile, Musk, seemingly delighted to be the puppet master of government policy, continues making announcements like a billionaire town crier as Trump revels in his favorite pastime—knocking over the carefully stacked Jenga tower of Washington bureaucracy to watch folks like Rosen panic.
As the 2025 Legislative Session kicks off, Governor Joe Lombardo has issued a noble call for bipartisanship—a time-honored tradition in American politics, wherein one side politely asks the other to stop fighting just long enough to pass the bills they like.
The 83rd session of the Nevada Legislature began on Feb. 3. It will last 120 days, during which lawmakers will argue, posture, make grand declarations about “the will of the people,” and, with any luck, actually govern. The Democrats have maintained their majority in both chambers but fell just short of the coveted “supermajority,” which would have allowed them to veto-proof their legislation and render Lombardo’s pen a mere decorative object.
Ever the optimist, Lombardo issued a statement urging legislators to abandon their partisan squabbling and focus on what unites us, a phrase that has had as much influence in politics as a librarian shushing a tornado.
“As the 2025 Legislative Session begins today, I’m hopeful that legislators will join me in setting aside partisan rhetoric,” Lombardo said, presumably while Democratic lawmakers chuckled under their breath. “Finding sensible solutions requires leadership, partnership, and bipartisanship.”
Indeed, the Governor has laid out a noble list of priorities, including lowering housing costs, expanding healthcare access, maximizing education investments, enforcing accountability, strengthening public safety, and building a stronger economy. It is a fine vision—that would be inspiring if not for the inconvenience of requiring Democrats and Republicans to work together without turning every minor disagreement into a dramatic showdown worthy of a courtroom drama.
As the session unfolds, Nevadans can look forward to plenty of spirited debates, a handful of actual compromises, and the annual spectacle of lawmakers congratulating themselves for doing what they were elected to do. Stay tuned.
Friends, neighbors, and sufferers of unexpected darkness gather close (if you can still read this by candlelight) for a tale of woe, wretchedness, and Wi-Fi withdrawal. More than 2,860 Lyon County residents have found themselves thrust back into the bygone days of yore—by which I mean the inconvenient era before Netflix.
The great calamity struck shortly after 11 a.m. on Monday when the first power outage hit unsuspecting residents in the 89043 and 89408 zip codes. Then, as if insult needed company, two more outages followed just after noon.
The cause of two of these blackouts remains a mystery, like the continued existence of reality television. NV Energy has determined that the culprits are downed poles or power lines.
Naturally, NV Energy’s best and brightest are working diligently to restore power, though they have remained coy about when that might happen. As of now, the official timeline for restoration ranges from “soon” to “someday” to “perhaps you should invest in a good book and a sturdy lantern.”
Rest assured, we will continue monitoring the situation, updating you as new information emerges—assuming, of course, that our power stays on long enough to do so. In the meantime, we advise residents to reflect upon simpler times when people entertained themselves by staring at walls and holding awkward conversations with family members.
The Old Blog in the Desert 