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Nevada Copper Corp. has provided an update regarding its ongoing sale process and bankruptcy proceedings.

The company has entered into an asset purchase agreement (APA) with Southwest Critical Minerals LLC, an affiliate of Kinterra Capital Corp, after filing Chapter 11 bankruptcy in June.

Under the agreement, Southwest Critical Minerals will acquire substantially all of Nevada Copper’s assets for $128 million in cash, along with assuming some contracts and liabilities. The APA was executed as a stalking horse bid following Section 363 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code after Nevada Copper’s voluntary bankruptcy filing.

The deadline for other binding offers to purchase the company’s assets expired on Friday, September 6. Although multiple bidders conducted due diligence, no alternative qualified bids were submitted, and after deliberation, Nevada Copper’s board of directors designated Southwest Critical Minerals as the successful bidder.

Final approval of the transaction is to be heard later this month by both the U.S. Bankruptcy Court in Nevada and the Superior Court of Justice in Ontario. The deal should close in October 2024, subject to customary closing conditions, court approvals, and satisfactory arrangements regarding the assumption of various contracts.

The proceeds from the sale will be distributed to creditors as part of Nevada Copper’s bankruptcy process, though there is no guarantee that the transaction will close as planned.

Maya Harris, sister of Vice President Kamala Harris, stressed the influence of Filipino American voters in Nevada during a phone banking event organized by SEIU Local 1107 in Las Vegas.

On September 28, Harris pointed out that the 2020 election win in Nevada came with a slim margin of just 35,000 votes, while the state is home to approximately 80,000 Filipino American voters. With only days remaining until the election, she encouraged volunteers to continue their work to ensure every vote gets counted.

Harris emphasized the importance of grassroots mobilization, especially within the Filipino American community.

“You all are key messengers for this,” she said, acknowledging the commitment of volunteers who have consistently shown up to rally voters. She added, “This is how we’re going to win—by showing up, putting in the work, and doing it together.”

Sharing personal reflections, Harris spoke about her sister’s journey, noting the values they grew up with, including the teachings of their mother, who emphasized the commonalities shared by all people. Harris also spoke of her sister’s vision for a more inclusive democracy, where equal opportunity is a priority for everyone, regardless of background.

The phone banking event coincided with the beginning of Filipino American History Month.

In the late summer of 2024, JoJo Leggs journeyed to the Black Rock Playa, armed with her camera, her dreams, and an unshakable sense that this year would be different.

Since childhood, she envisioned herself behind the lens, capturing the perfect shot propelling her into the spotlight. Vibrant and free-spirited, the chaos of Burning Man felt like the ideal setting for that one photograph—the image that would define her career and, perhaps, her life.

Over the week, Leggs took thousands of photos, her professional camera humming as she moved among the kaleidoscope of people and structures. She had captured everything from intricate art installations to wild-eyed revelers covered in the white powdered dust.

Her cell phone, too, was filled with spontaneous snapshots and short videos. By the time the event was winding down, she had amassed over twelve hundred images.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

On the last day, while packing her gear, Leggs fumbled with her cell phone. It slipped through her fingers and disappeared into the unforgiving and wind-whipped sand.

Hours of frantic searching led nowhere, and her heart sank. Without that phone, so much of her work—candid moments, the spur-of-the-moment magic—was gone.

The Black Rock Playa was now a barren stretch of desert, long removed from the days of Burning Man. The gathering had drawn thousands to its parched, cracked dirt for decades, but that was in the distant past.

By 2186, the Playa was an archaeological treasure trove, rich with remnants from a wild and eccentric past.

Bern McFadden and Rachelle Umber, researchers from the University of Nevada, Reno, had spent years digging through the layers of desert sediment, hoping to uncover artifacts from this curious slice of human history. Their latest excavation had proven fruitful: scattered among the debris were pieces of jewelry, old coins dating as far back as 1963, and—most puzzling—a small rectangular device encased in dust.

“A communication device,” Bern remarked as he brushed the sand from the object. “Late twentieth, early twenty-first century. Fascinating.”

The phone was carefully cataloged and stored alongside the other finds, its secrets still locked away. Though the researchers were unaware of its significance, the discovery would soon spark a chain of events reviving a long-forgotten name.

Marsha Redway, a senior fellow in technological archaeology, sat hunched over her workstation, peering through magnifiers at the ancient cellphone. Her task was daunting—extracting data from a device over a century old—but she relished the challenge.

After countless hours of tinkering, slowly but surely, she powered it up. A name appeared: JoJo Leggs.

Intrigued, Marsha delved deeper, finding a treasure trove of data. With the help of a pre-graduate assistant tasked with researching the name, she uncovered the story of a forgotten artist.

Once an aspiring photographer, Leggs had left behind a digital archive: photographs, messages, contacts, and journal entries chronicling her many experiences. Now, there was the SIM card.

Marsha called in Adam Randalson, a data-recovery expert, to help unlock its mysteries. Together, they retrieved a stunning collection of images untouched by time. The photographs told a vivid story of humanity at its most uninhibited, capturing moments that, while once fleeting, now became windows into a lost world.

Once buried for over a century, it shined brightly under the glare of modern attention, with photographs brimming with life and artistic vision becoming the subject of documentaries and articles that spanned Earth and beyond. Her work appeared in publications as far away as Ancient Explorer, based in New Vee Cee City, Mars.

Ironically, the fame Leggs had once sought in her lifetime came long after her death through a twist of fate that no one could have foreseen. Her images—discovered by accident, unlocked through perseverance—touched a new generation in a world vastly different.

The world marveled at her art, story, and the strange way time had granted her the recognition she had always dreamed of. And so, long after she had disappeared into obscurity, the name JoJo Leggs became celebrated across the two worlds.

Her photographs, once lost, had finally found their way into the light, and she to fame.

Comstock Inc., via its subsidiary Comstock Metals Corporation, has announced new revenue streams from contracts with two commercial companies for the decommissioning and disposal of end-of-life solar panels.

“We recognized our first in-take revenues from the receipt and processing of end-of-life solar panels and our first off-take revenues from reprocessed and shipped materials, such as recycled aluminum,” said Corrado De Gasperis, Executive Chairman and CEO of Comstock Inc. “Our team is now engaged with nationally recognized customers to decommission, transport, and process solar panels from their facilities.”

Operating from a commercial demonstration facility in Silver Springs, Comstock Metals recently expanded its services in response to customer demand. In addition to recycling, the company now offers de-installation, transportation, and storage of solar panels, allowing for a more comprehensive service package.

The expansion is supported by the company’s newly permitted capacity to store large volumes of solar panels, positioning Comstock Metals as a leader in reducing landfilled electronic waste while recovering valuable materials.

Dr. Fortunato Villamagna, President of Comstock Metals, highlighted the rapid growth of these new services.

“We quickly adapted to customer requests and have already completed several deinstallations, with more projects under negotiation.” Villamagna said.

Comstock Metals has received materials from several new, nationally recognized customers, coordinating the decommissioning of solar panels from various facilities and transporting them to Silver Springs for recycling.

“We are now expanding decommissioning services with additional, large-scale customers for long-term, revenue-generating supply commitments,” Villamagna added.

As the company expands its market presence, it is building long-term agreements and increasing its range of services to ensure that materials stay out of landfills and ecosystems.

Now, friends, plug your ears for a great clattering rolled into Virginia City–Street Vibrations Fall Rally—a thunderous cacophony of engines and music that could stir the bones of the long-buried.

Assuredly, it is a family affair suited for the innocent eyes of children and the weary gazes of the elder.

“We produce to the Disney standard,” a Ringmaster warned like that might soothe the ears blasted by roaring Harleys.

But there, you would not find princesses—unless they wore leather and came riding chrome horses through the dust. And while Disney dabbles in politics, we had our thrills: the FMX Rampage stunt show, where daredevils soared like caffeinated squirrels, pulling off acrobatics that would have made a drunken mule blush. But fear not, for they were wisely caged behind fences, lest some poor soul on the boardwalk become a participant in that aerial ballet and unwilling.

And oh, the boardwalk! Picture it, where the very air trembled with adventure and mischief.

Ladies—God bless ’em all—flashing their bosoms for glittering beads as if Mardi Gras had rolled into town on two wheels. A finer spectacle you would be hard-pressed to find, as even the stiffest old-timer cracked a grin at the joyous abandon.

Caught in the spirit myself, I had wondered if the pursuit of such trinkets did not have its charm after all. It had been a strange thing, indeed, that a bit of foolishness had brought so much merriment to a town that had seen its share of rough-and-tumble days.

But of course, when you invited a flood of bikes—some 35,000 of them, with 52,000 revelers tagging along—it would be best to keep safety at the top of the mind. Our vigilant lawmen and women were out, warning the four-wheeled folk to give those riders their space, for motorcycles are as elusive as a ghost at a séance. They had said to keep four to five seconds of distance–enough to prevent bones from knitting together in unfortunate ways.

Ah, and speed—those crafty bikers dart through traffic like needles through cloth, slicing lanes in a way that makes a seamstress proud. But let me tell you, friends, lane-splitting has been as illegal in Nevada as bringing a cat to a dog fight. Our deputies have not taken kindly to those who thought they could bend the rules like a cowboy shaping a new hat.

In the middle of the metallic carnival, a fellow rode in from the Sandwich Islands—now known as Hawaii, a secret of hermetic he refused to divulge.

“It’s a sight to see,” he had said, beaming like a lad with a fistful of candy. “With all these booths, rides, and the mountains in the background, this is the heart of biking.”

And who could argue? Virginia City has become the Mecca for those on two wheels.

With live shows, stunts, poker runs, and rides through landscapes that would have taken your breath away if the dust had not done it first, the rally had everything a soul could have asked for. Throw in some shopping, food, and drink, and you had a festival that could have made a commoner feel like a king.

As Virginia City shakes with the joyous noise of engines and laughter, I thought of when the town clamor was constant—rock-crushing machines hammering from dawn till dusk between 1860 and 1940. What had been a few days of raucous revelry compared to a lifetime of that?

Let the engines roar, I have said, for we embraced the noise as heartily as the following silence in this place.

Nevada is poised to become the 18th state to use Medicaid funds to provide broader access to abortion for lower-income women following a court ruling that became official last week.

The ruling determined that denying Medicaid coverage for abortions violated the equal rights protections adopted by Nevada voters in 2022, an act that is neither state nor federal law. The state government did not appeal the decision within 30 days of the release of the written opinion, paving the way for expanded access.

The timeline for when Medicaid coverage for abortion services will begin remains uncertain, but the presiding judge mandated that it should be no later than early November. This expansion marks a significant step for reproductive rights in Nevada, especially in the wake of the U.S. Supreme Court’s 2022 decision to overturn Roe v. Wade.

“Nevadans who have Medicaid as their health insurance will no longer need to fear that they will be forced to carry a pregnancy against their will,” said Rebecca Chan, a lawyer with the ACLU Reproductive Freedom Project, which played a role in the lawsuit.

The case is part of a broader legal and political battle over abortion access that has unfolded across the country since the Supreme Court’s decision.

Since the repeal of Roe v. Wade, many Republican-led states have implemented stricter abortion bans, including 14 states that bar abortion at all stages of pregnancy, with few exceptions. In contrast, Democratic-led states have moved to safeguard access to reproductive healthcare, including a Minnesota bill signed into law last year by the state Governor and Democratic vice-presidential candidate Tim Walz that removed a requirement to try to save the life of a baby born alive after an attempted abortion.

Nevada, with its Republican governor and Democratic-controlled legislature, has taken steps to protect abortion access. In November, voters will have the opportunity to further solidify these protections by voting on a constitutional amendment to enshrine the right to abortion. If approved, a second vote will take place in 2026.

A factor in abortion access is whether Medicaid covers the procedure. Federal law, established in 1977, prohibits the use of federal funds for abortion except in cases of rape, incest, or when the life of the pregnant person is in danger.

However, states have the discretion to use their own Medicaid funds to cover abortion under broader circumstances. Nevada’s recent court ruling places it among 17 other states that provide Medicaid funding for abortion without federal restrictions.

According to the Guttmacher Institute, which supports abortion rights, nine states provide abortion coverage under court orders, while eight do so voluntarily. As a result of Nevada’s decision, a significant portion of the state’s population—disproportionately low-income, Native American, and Black women—will soon have greater access to abortion through Medicaid.

Many a time, I find myself counting change from newspaper sales and discovering more than just coins. A trinket here, a foreign coin there—charms and oddities that seem to travel through time and space, landing in my cash bag like gifts from the universe.

It is the sort of thing that keeps the day interesting.

It is rare to return to my truck and find something perched upon it that is not a parking ticket or a stern warning from a deputy. Such was the case when I discovered a red, five-inch metal 1955 Chevy Stepside pickup, much like the one I used to own, sitting on my hood.

Who left it there remains a mystery, and why I have taken up my pen to write this. Maybe the kind soul will reveal themselves—or not—and that will be fine, too.

The simple mysteries of life are not for solving in haste, after all.

Pleased as punch with my newfound treasure, I placed the little truck in the coffee holder by the gear shift and resumed my delivery route. Down the hill I went, through Gold Hill, Silver City, and on toward Dayton, the tiny toy rattling along as I mused over the identity of my mysterious benefactor.

An hour later, I returned to Virginia City. I parked in front of the gas station, grabbed my latest bundle of papers, and stepped inside, where I met up with KC.

She had been gone for over a month, off to India with her husband to a wedding for her cousin. She greeted me warmly, and as she paid for the papers, she asked, “Do you want these presidential coins or paper money?”

“I’ll take the coins,” I said.

“Good,” she replied, “Because a woman came in, sold them to me, and told me to give them to you.”

Naturally, my curiosity piqued, “Who?” I asked.

KC shrugged, “A woman, about my height. I can’t remember her name, but she said you’d know. I’ll have to ask her next time and write it down for you.”

I thanked her, wished her well, and returned to my truck.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I dropped the coins into my cash bag, glanced at the toy truck, and thought, “There are no coincidences in life.”

And so, the mystery lingers like a wisp of fine smoke, just out of reach but not out of mind.

Former Las Vegas City Councilwoman and current suspended Pahrump Justice Court judge Michele Fiore was classified as a “domestic terrorist” by the federal government in 2020, her lawyer disclosed in recent court documents. The designation stems from Fiore’s public support for Nevada rancher Cliven Bundy, who was involved in an armed standoff with federal agents in 2014.

Fiore is facing federal charges, including wire fraud and conspiracy to commit wire fraud, following a July indictment by a federal grand jury. Prosecutors allege that Fiore misused more than $70,000 in charitable donations intended to fund memorial statues for a fallen Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department officer, using the money for personal expenses such as rent, travel, and her daughter’s wedding.

Fiore has pleaded not guilty to all charges, with her trial scheduled for later this year.

Fiore’s attorney, Michael Sanft, argued in court filings this week that her domestic terrorist designation has unfairly impacted her legal proceedings. Sanft claimed that during Fiore’s arraignment in July, her security threat level was heightened due to the designation, first applied in 2020 and later downgraded from Level I to Level II without explanation.

“The designation of Ms. Fiore as a Level I Domestic Terrorist, later modified to Level II, without any discovery or justification is disturbing,” Sanft wrote. He also called it “an unfathomable proposition” to label an elected official with over a decade of service to Nevada as a domestic terrorist.

Fiore’s designation is reminiscent of the treatment of former Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard, who was similarly labeled a terrorist after publicly criticizing the Democratic Party and the federal government. The connection between Fiore’s support for Bundy and her subsequent labeling by the government raises concerns about the use of such designations against political figures.

The charges, dating back to 2017 and 2022, accuse her of founding and mismanaging funds for the memorial statues, meant to honor a fallen police officer, and redirecting the money for personal use. Fiore has denied the accusations and maintains her innocence.

During a recent court session, attorneys indicated that the trial could last over two weeks. They also requested permission for out-of-state witnesses to testify remotely.

While U.S. District Judge Jennifer Dorsey confirmed the court’s ability to accommodate such requests, federal prosecutors sought a private discussion regarding the logistics of certain witnesses. Dorsey briefly closed the courtroom, questioning why the remainder of the hearing should be conducted privately, given the absence of a jury and the public interest in open judicial proceedings.

Paul was thinking of sleep—he had that glazed look in his eyes—and I suppose that is why he finally flicked off the overhead lights at the bar. It was his way of politely telling us to scram, even though he had not officially called “last call.”

Naturally, I muttered a few choice words as I tripped out the back door of the Tahoe House toward my truck parked on B Street. Once in the front seat, I found myself aimlessly cruising around town, making turns down Taylor and then C Street as if something interesting might leap out of the shadows.

I eventually pulled up in front of the Tahoe House, figuring the Washoe Club, a few doors down, might still have life, if not spirits, left in it.

Inside, I ordered a beer before things turned peculiar.

A man grumbled, “Don’t take my picture.”

Now, mind you, I did not have a camera on my person.

Before I could say anything, he added, “And stop eavesdropping!”

Well, that seemed like a cue to relocate. I grabbed my beer and retreated to a table, Wild Bill Hickok-style, keeping an eye on my new fan.

It seemed like the safest course of action. One can never be too careful around folks who accuse you of crimes you never dreamed of committing.

Minutes later, I drained my glass, tipped my hat to the lady behind the bar, and wandered down the boardwalk to the Ponderosa, where karaoke was in full swing. After a couple of brave souls had their moment in the spotlight, Alexia took the stage to belt out “Proud Mary.”

Just as she was hitting her stride, the too-tall stranger came peg-legging up the boardwalk like a man with boots full of lead. Before stepping inside, he bellowed, “And don’t take my picture!”

Rather than explain myself again, I decided discretion was the better part of valor, and I quietly slipped out the side door to my truck. As I climbed in, I heard the unmistakable sound of laughter echoing from the Firehouse Saloon.

Having never been there, it seemed like the perfect moment for a new experience. So, in the spirit of adventure, I unceremoniously jaywalked and stepped inside.

Pete spotted me and slid a beer down the bar—a dangerous habit I had acquired earlier that evening. It was my tenth beer, give or take, but I was no longer counting.

I sat at the far end of the bar, half listening to the conversations and half-watching Full Metal Jacket on the TV, not needing to hear the movie, as the visuals did all the talking.

Not long after the credits rolled, Niles and Bryce, the local fraternal twins, came in. Niles is an archaeologist digging up bones and history, while Bryce has a talent for growing and fermenting grapes while studying water use.

It was not long before the “last call” was announced. This time, I had the sense to leave before Pete turned the lights off.

After closing, the twins and I stood outside, chatting for over an hour about nothing in particular, until Niles and Bryce decided to head to the Ponderosa for karaoke. On the other hand, I had a more urgent desire.

I had to pee like a wild Mustang on a flat desert rock.

Climbing into my truck, it quickly became apparent that I could not make the public restrooms at the north end of town. By the time I had reached this conclusion, I was already rolling south, and that is when I spotted the VFW memorial.

I parked my truck, crossed the street, and hurried down the hill just far enough to be out of sight should any deputies roll by.

As I fumbled to get unbuttoned and relieve myself, a low growl rumbled through the darkness. I had forgotten about the four mountain lions prowling around town.

As that realization hit me, a large feline face emerged from the shadows, its eyes locked on me, and it let out a growl accompanied by a warning lunge. Forgetting why I had come down the hill in the first place, I zipped up faster than a politician changing his position.

I bolted up the hillside, running across C Street, diving into the front seat of my truck, where I finished what I had come to do.

The drive home was long, uncomfortable, and a little embarrassing, but in the grander scheme, it was better than becoming the next mountain lion snack and a headline for the newspaper.