The Old Blog in the Desert

In a video taken on Monday, November 4, by an 11-year-old student at Lied STEM Academy, an English Language Arts teacher was filmed delivering an anti-Trump monologue to her sixth-grade class. The video, recorded on a district-issued laptop, shows teacher Courtney Lichtenwalner discussing her political opinions in a class meant for language arts, engaging students in a debate on policies and news sources.

Lichtenwalner used the class period to encourage her students to fact-check former President Donald Trump’s economic policies, particularly “trickle-down” tax policies, using Google and the White House website. She reportedly warned students about Fox News, calling it a biased source.

When a student mentioned her mother as a source, Lichtenwalner responded, “I would never lie to you. I would never not give you facts,” which the student’s parents felt implicitly questioned the mother’s credibility.

The video shows Lichtenwalner making several inflammatory claims, including an assertion that Trump suggested violence toward former Rep. Liz Cheney and accusations that he holds extreme views on abortion. She also criticized Trump’s economic policies, favorably comparing them to those of former President Barack Obama and President Joe Biden and omitting references to Biden administration policies impacting inflation and the national debt.

Parent Marty Enz, whose daughter filmed the video, was disturbed by Lichtenwalner’s behavior. Enz said he called the school on Tuesday, November 5. to report the incident and left a message with a counselor but did not receive a return call.

In a statement to The Nevada Globe, Enz expressed concern over the teacher’s focus on politics, saying, “Why is a teacher so concerned with an 11-year-old’s politics and beliefs? They’re 6th graders. They should be learning how to read and write properly, not be berated and taunted by adults.”

Enz praised his daughter for recognizing the inappropriateness of the conversation, adding, “We are fortunate that CCSD gave my daughter a laptop with a camera so we could all see teachers trying to program our children instead of teach them.”

The Clark County School District has not responded to the incident.

Keep bellied up to the bar, his hat tipped low, the dust of a long day trailing him like a shadow. He nodded to Billy, the barkeep, and asked for a hot cup of coffee.

Billy disappeared to the back and returned with a steaming mug, setting it down in front of Keep without a word. Keep gave a quiet thanks and wrapped his hands around the mug, savoring the warmth.

Down the bar, a youngster leaned back, grinning, and let out a chuckle that carried more edge than humor. Keep didn’t pay him any mind. He’d crossed enough trails to know that silence was a man’s best friend, especially when trouble was stirring.

A minute passed, and the kid loosed a remark about men who drank coffee instead of whiskey. Still, Keep said nothing, his focus on the black liquid in his mug.

But the kid wasn’t ready to quit. A few breaths later, he prodded again, something about “old men and liquor,” tossing his words like rocks in a pond to see what ripples he could raise. Keep finally looked his way, then to his coffee, his eyes calm as a prairie sky.

“Ain’t gonna say nothing, old man?” the kid jeered, leaning in.

“Nope,” Keep replied without looking up.

“Not got the guts, huh?” the young one taunted, his voice slipping into a sneer.

“Yup.”

“You gettin’ smart with me, old man?” the kid asked, his tone sharpening.

Keep let a small, knowing smile play across his face and took another sip, his grip easy on the mug.

And that is when the kid reached out to grab Keep by the shoulder, trying to spin him around. But as he did, his breath caught, feeling something solid and cold pressed right under his ribs.

Keep was looking him dead in the eye now, and his voice dropped low.

“See, son,” he started, his voice smooth as the roll of a tumbleweed, “I don’t drink no more ’cause it makes me mean. And these days, I’m too damn old and too damn tired to wrassle a young coyote like you. I’d just as soon be done with it.”

The kid gulped, his bravado slipping like sand through his fingers. Catching the look, Billy went ahead and poured a double shot of whiskey and set a bar towel next to it.

“Now,” Keep said, keeping his tone steady, “you’re gonna take this drink on my coin, and you’re gonna keep that yap of yours shut. You follow?”

The kid nodded, eyes wide as he slowly let go of Keep.

Keep eased his revolver back, slipping it into his belt, but the kid’s nerves got the better of him, and his hand flicked to a knife. Before he knew what hit him, Keep’s Texas .44 came down square on the top of his head, dropping him like a sack of flour.

Keep crouched down, pried the knife from the kid’s limp hand, and placed it on the bar. “Billy, stash this behind the counter, and you might want to keep that scattergun close. This pup here’s got a learning curve.”

He hauled the kid up by his collar, keeping his tone calm, almost fatherly. “You’re gonna drink that whiskey and keep this rag on your head so you don’t bleed all over Billy’s nice counter. That clear?”

Too dazed to argue, the kid nodded as best he could, clutching the bar towel to his scalp. Keep polished off the rest of his coffee, dropped a couple of twenties on the counter, and turned to Billy.

“That’s for the coffee, the kid’s whiskey, and the rag he’s leaking on,” he said, straightening his hat. He glanced once more at the young man, his voice as even as a gun’s barrel. “You’ll get your knife back in thirty minutes. And if you so much as think about coming after me, Billy here’s got my leave to put both barrels in your backside.”

Billy nodded, a glint in his eye. Keep clapped his hat back on and gave a nod to the barkeep. “Sorry, you had to be pulled into this mess, Billy. I’ll make it right.”

And with that, Keep strode out, calm as a Sunday morning. He climbed into his truck, gunned it, and left for his ranch, a dust cloud marking his passage.

Inside, the kid sat still as a stone, obeying every word Keep had laid out.

Discrepancies in Washoe County’s data are raising eyebrows and deserve immediate attention. According to the latest data, 1,441,490 people voted in the presidential race, with 1,442,838 votes counted in the Senate race.

It suggests either 18,652 ballots, with only presidential votes, or that 18,652 ballots disappeared entirely. Which is it? Only a thorough hand count can verify if these ballots are accurate or if something went amiss.

The difference between the “None of the Above Candidates” (NOTAC) votes for the Senate and presidential races also demands explanation. In the Senate race, 41,740 voters chose NOTAC, while in the presidential race, only 19,072 voters made the same choice—a staggering gap of 22,668 on the ballots.

Are these differences legitimate voter preferences, or is there manipulation at play? It, too, would be cleared up with a hand count.

The vote gap between Trump and Brown is another area of concern. While Harris and Rosen’s votes were separated by a mere 3,083—Rosen received 680,968 votes to Harris’s 684,051—there is a gap of 70,436-vote difference between Trump’s 729,822 and Brown’s 659,386 votes.

Why such a dramatic discrepancy? This variation is puzzling and raises questions about possible tabulation issues versus voter choice, which only a thorough investigation can resolve.

Visualizations of reported vote data deepen these suspicions. The patterns in the data seem improbably synchronized without some form of manipulation. Brown led until a significant bump appeared on November 7, which seems difficult to explain if not manipulated.

Could these patterns possibly be authentic? Again, a hand count is essential to determine the validity of these results.

The information, drawn from current county data, should be a clear signal for the GOP-RNC and relevant legal teams to take swift action. Emergency court injunctions and a federal inspection of all ballot types are essential to ensure accuracy.

If the election is fair, a review will confirm it; if compromised, it will expose it. A thorough investigation is needed before this election can be certified.

Now is the time to act—the voters demand it.

In the wake of an anonymous wave of racist texts targeting Nevada residents, Attorney General Aaron Ford has voiced outrage, swiftly calling for investigations and urging victims to report the messages.

While essential to condemn so-called hate speech and harassment, Nevada residents are questioning whether Ford’s priorities are unaligned with the state’s pressing concerns. The time, resources, and public attention poured into this investigation could go toward issues many Nevadans feel are more urgent.

Ford’s handling of the incident raises an uncomfortable question: is his office doing enough to address the broader, more immediate needs of Nevada citizens? Rising crime rates, economic uncertainties, and unresolved voter concerns weigh heavily on residents, and they are looking for proactive leadership on these fronts.

Instead, Ford’s actions appear to echo figures like Al Sharpton, focusing on attention-grabbing cases while neglecting the fundamentals of day-to-day governance. Consider Ford’s recent refusal to support Governor Joe Lombardo’s election reform initiatives—measures designed to increase transparency and efficiency in Nevada’s voting process.

Despite calls for tighter voter rolls and procedures, Ford declined to back the reforms, further fueling public frustration. Rather than expending significant resources on text incidents, Ford’s office could prioritize initiatives with immediate impact, from tackling Nevada’s climbing crime rates to addressing economic security concerns.

Addressing hate speech matters, but keeping Nevadans safe and creating a climate of integrity should be at the heart of the attorney general’s mission. It is time for Ford to refocus on the core responsibilities that most affect Nevadans rather than expending precious resources on the moral outrage of the moment.

The cadence of memory and the dust of ages weigh heavy and thick on our shelves, in brittle spines and crumbling pages that our parental generation clutched like lifelines. They clung to Kerouac, his essence pouring over highways and neon nights, and to Hemingway, captivated by his tales of bullet-riddled afternoons and salt-stained horizons.

Those stories bled; they smelled of whiskey, of the scarred American dirt, that heavy thud of life lived without filter. Words not crafted to keep readers comfortable–but meant to pierce–drag you into the heat of the streets or the sear of a tropical sun to leave you marred.

By the time it reached me, the weight had lightened somehow, as though softened by all the handling. We got Jonathan Livingston Seagull, clipped-winged and untroubled, and Love Story, that delicate ache, deep enough to soothe our hearts but never quite enough to draw blood like we wanted the shape of pain without the mess, a cleanse without the callouses. Our books were gilded, perhaps, with empathy, but empathy contained and neatly folded back between safe covers.

And now, my son’s generation has been handed the pale gleam of vampires, the sanitized fantasy of perpetual youth under the fluorescence of high-school gyms and rain-soaked parking lots. The monsters became prettier, polished, and politely edited. He grew up with, but never knew, “Why We Love Dogs, Eat Pigs, and Wear Cows”—morality parceled into bite-sized facts, virtues aligned in rows on a plate and all packaged, easy to consume, with no trace of the grit and sorrow and fire that once crackled at the heart of every great story.

Maybe it’s true what they say: stories reflect the age they’re born into, and perhaps we’re here in an age of pixels and politeness, where stories are pixelated versions of their former selves, each generation a little dimmer, a little more diffuse. It’s as if the high horse we once barreled down on has died, leaving us exposed to the elements—only, it is not the thrill of the wind whipping against us but the gradual erasure of the road itself, each layer of meaning eroding just enough to smooth the ride, to keep us from noticing the decline.

And where do we go from here? From bloody knuckles and sun-burnt prose to safe cages with padded walls, as if all that once made us alive has been sanded smooth, softened for the market? Ain’t that the way? Downhill, in a slow descent, smiling on the way down, oblivious, in this rusted-out handbasket—no hardtop, no spine.

Handsome, ain’t he? Reckon there’s no beast ‘round here to beat him.
Ain’t that right, Blue? Ol’ boy, you shine like silver straight from the mountain.
Easy now, steady. Feel that muscle—solid like ore but smooth as silk.
Go on, Buck, lead him out let< folks get a look at a Comstock stallion.
Nevada-bred, sure as dust in the mines—papersright here in my pocket.
Sired by Silver King, and he’s worth every ounce of a thousand.

You know old Tom Driscoll?that claim near Virginia City?
Made his fortune in a blink, then lost it in a game down in Carson,
Left it all behind in the dark, like a miner chasin’ ghosts.
Gone now, but stories like his—well, they linger like gold fever.

Blue’s got spirit, pure grit; folks don’t know a real hoss ‘til they ride one.
Ever see that road up Six Mile Canyon? Steep as sin, slick with shale?
No easy ridin’—even on a calm day, you’re watchin’ every step.
But two months back, me and the sheriff, chasin’ them bandits by moonlight,

Found ourselves on that slope with rain pourin’ like hell’s own flood.
Ol’ Blue here didn’t falter, took the lead on that steep pitch,
Rocks rattlin’ underfoot, water rushin’ wild through the canyon.
He held his line like he had somethin’ to prove, never so much as slipped.

Branches snap like dry bones, and we hit the river, ragin’ high.
Without askin’, he plunged, chest-deep in the black, holdin’ the current,
While I gripped tight, breathin’ hard, thinkin’ it might be my last ride.
But Blue? He was steady as stone, bringin’ me through, straight and sure.

That’s what I call a hoss! Ain’t another like him on the whole Comstock.
Folks talk silver and gold, but Ol’ Blue? He’s somethin’ finer.
The sheriff? Well, he didn’t make it—got lost in the night.
But hosses like Blue? They don’t give up, even when the world says so.

We come from a goddamn different world. Back when people didn’t just sit around, waiting for life to toss‘em a bone. We worked hard as hell. Some of us had blisters before we knew what a dollar was. Started young ‘cause it was the only way the family could keep food on the table. Some of us did it ‘cause our parents got up at dawn and expected us to do the same. Or we came up on land where you worked, or you starved. And some of us just needed a buck or two to rub together ‘cause our folks couldn’t afford so much as an allowance.

We didn’t sit inside staring at screens all day. We were out there in the dirt, snow, the kind of rain that slapped you across the face. You stayed out ‘til you were blue in the damn lips, ‘til the streetlights buzzed on like a warning shot. And respect? Hell, we didn’t ask for it, didn’t expect it—not unless we’d sweated, bled or broke our asses for it.

We’ve seen some shit. The Summer of Love. Vietnam. Tricky Dick screwing it all up. We were there, every bit of it, but too busy to think it’d be history someday. Life didn’t hand us anything easy. It grabbed us by the balls and squeezed, like wringing a chicken’s neck before supper. We had to be double-tough, tougher than the shit that came at us, ‘cause if we weren’t, it’d chew us up.

Now our bodies are shot, yeah. Our effing brains aren’t much better, forgetting half the damn things they’re supposed to remember. But we’re still here. We’ve seen enough, done enough, and still, tough as nails under all the rust.

In Washoe County, allegations of election mismanagement have surfaced, with concerns about security practices, signature verification speeds, and potential errors in voter data processing.

Whistleblowers and community members have voiced concerns over procedures within the county’s Registrar of Voters office, suggesting that certain practices may compromise the integrity of election results. According to reports, up to 19 staff members in Washoe County have taken county-issued laptops home.

These devices reportedly have access to essential voting and signature verification systems. Critics argue that this practice could introduce security vulnerabilities, as any changes made offline could be injected into the system upon reconnection, leaving the process open to tampering risks.

Whistleblowers also allege that some staff members verify signatures at unusually high speeds, far faster than the recommended one-to-two-minute review per signature. Reports indicate that, in some cases, employees verified signatures at a rate of one per second, raising concerns about the accuracy and thoroughness of the signature verification process. At such speeds, an individual employee could theoretically approve thousands of ballots in a single shift, which may compromise the validity of the results.

Other reports indicate potential red flags within Washoe County’s network, with claims of suspicious connections where data is reportedly being received and transmitted under questionable circumstances. It has raised concerns about the potential for unauthorized data access and breaches of election security protocols.

Further fueling the controversy, statements from Washoe County’s former Registrar of Voters suggest potential violations of federal and state election laws, specifically around ballot distribution. It includes the possibility of ballots sent to incorrect addresses or individuals other than intended recipients, which could affect the accuracy of vote totals.

With vote totals from Washoe County potentially impacting statewide outcomes, these allegations have sparked demands for a comprehensive review. Local and national leaders are now pressing for action, with some calling on the Republican National Committee (RNC) to investigate.

With potentially tens of thousands of ballots in question, the impact on several candidates, including Senate hopeful Sam Brown, may be significant. The RNC and state election officials have yet to respond to requests for comment on the situation in Washoe County.

waking underneath the weight of the city,
neon signs flicker, and the cats scream
like banshees in the alley.
the bourbon is gone,
the ashtray is full,
my head is heavy with regrets
and half-remembered dreams.

another day stumbling through the grind,
another night chasing shadows,
running from ghosts.
the rent is due,
the fridge is empty,
and the cockroaches,
my loyal companions,
scuttle across the linoleum,
indifferent.

she left last night,
with a suitcase full of promises
we both knew would never be kept.
i watched her walk away,
her silhouette swallowed by the darkness.

i sit at my typewriter,
keys clacking like the last breath of a dying man,
spitting out lines,
trying to capture the fleeting moments of beauty in this decay.

the streets whisper tales of lost souls and broken hearts,
and the moon, hanging low,
watches over us all with a knowing smile.
we are all prisoners here,
chained to our dreams and vices,
searching for meaning
in the cigarette smoke and empty bottles.

but sometimes,
just sometimes,
we find a spark in the darkness,
a fleeting glimpse of something more.
and that’s enough to keep us going,
one more day, one more night,
against the world and everything in it.

The street through Virginia City was wildly quiet.
No tourists, no visitors, few locals.
It felt right.
It felt like I felt.
Then I saw you, one more time.
Standing on the boardwalk, looking at me
With that ‘come hither to me’ twinkle in your eye.
Then you stepped inside the Union.
You disappeared.
And you disappeared again
by the time I reached the door.
And you did it permanently.