The Old Blog in the Desert

Spending during Halloween has been rising across Northern Nevada, and 2024 is no exception.

As Halloween approaches, residents are gearing up for the spooky season, with an expected average expenditure of $103.63 per person—slightly down from last year’s record but still reflecting a significant boost from past years. Back in 2019, Northern Nevadans were spending around $86.27 per person, a number in line with the state’s overall trend of increasing seasonal spending.

According to the Retail Association of Nevada (RNA), Halloween spending across the state reached $92.12 million in 2020. For 2024, the RNA is projecting Nevada spending to climb to $190 million. The bulk of this expenditure will go toward costumes, candy, and decorations as 72 percent of adults across Northern Nevada prepare to celebrate Halloween in style.

Costumes remain the top item on consumer lists, with $62.2 million expected to be spent statewide, but decorations and candy are close behind, at $61.5 million and $58.1 million, respectively. Even with inflation, particularly the rising cost of candy—Reuters reports the price of chocolate has soared by 40 percent since 2020—Northern Nevadans are still determined to keep the holiday spirit alive.

Discount retailers are the top destination for Halloween shoppers, with 37 percent of Nevadans planning to shop at stores like Walmart and Dollar Tree. Specialty Halloween stores, grocery stores, and online retailers remain popular spots for finding the perfect costume or stocking up on decorations.

For inspiration, 38 percent of Northern Nevada residents will use online platforms like Pinterest and Instagram for costume ideas, while others visit retail stores or consult friends and family.

Northern Nevada Public Health (NNPH) is working with the state of Nevada and other partners to address a growing national shortage of IV fluids exacerbated by Hurricane Helene. The storm’s impact on production facilities has raised concerns in Northern Nevada.

Baxter, the leading distributor of IV fluids in the United States, was affected by the hurricane, which brought heavy rain and a storm surge that disrupted the company’s operations. In response, Baxter is working to restore production and is providing regular updates on the situation.

Although NNPH does not directly use IV fluids, the organization said its coordination with local healthcare providers, emergency medical services (EMS), and public health preparedness (PHP) programs to ensure the community’s well-being.

The NNPH assures residents that they are closely monitoring the situation and working with regional partners to minimize the impact of the shortage.

“We understand that this shortage may raise concerns in Washoe County, but we are actively engaged with our partners to safeguard the health of our community,” NNPH stated in a release.

As Nevadans prepare for the 2024 general election, voters will once again weigh in on a ballot initiative that could fundamentally alter the state’s election process. Ballot Question 3, which narrowly passed in 2022 with 53 percent of the vote, proposes the implementation of ranked-choice voting (RCV) and open primaries for statewide elections. This constitutional change requires a second approval by voters in November 2024, effective for the 2026 election cycle.

While the initiative garnered enough support to pass in 2022, it has faced growing bipartisan opposition as the next vote approaches. Uniting on a rare front, Democrats, Republicans, and progressive nonprofits in the Silver State have all expressed concerns about the impact the measure could have on Nevada’s elections.

Mike Draper, a representative for the PAC behind the initiative, Nevada Voters First, stated after the 2022 passage that the changes were needed to “address political extremism and polarization in our state.” The group raised $19.5 million during the 2022 election cycle and plans to continue campaigning for the initiative leading up to the 2024 vote.

However, critics argue that ranked-choice voting and open primaries will exacerbate political extremism rather than alleviate it. Mike Vallante, the Director of the Center for Election Integrity at the America First Policy Institute, voiced his concerns in a recent interview, stating that ranked-choice voting will confuse voters and complicates the electoral process.

Vallante cited examples from other regions where ranked-choice voting has been implemented, including Oakland, Calif., where voter confusion led to thousands of invalidated ballots in a mayoral race. He also pointed to the miscounted votes in Oakland’s school board elections and lengthy delays in certifying election results in New York City’s mayoral race, which took three weeks to determine a winner.

“The system creates skepticism due to its lack of transparency,” Vallante said, emphasizing that voters may wait days or weeks to know the results.

He argues that Nevada should aim for more straightforward and timely election outcomes, noting that the current system ensures that the candidate with the most votes wins—something he believes ranked-choice voting undermines.

Supporters of the initiative, such as Draper and Nevada Voters First, maintain that ranked-choice voting will provide a more inclusive platform for independents and nonpartisan voters, a growing portion of Nevada’s electorate. They argue that an open primary system allows independents to have a voice in primary elections, where they are underrepresented.

Opponents, like Vallante, see the introduction of open primaries referred to as “jungle primaries,” as another layer of confusion. In such systems, all candidates, regardless of party, compete in a single primary, with the top five advancing to a ranked-choice general election. Vallante warns that this process could lead to even greater polarization, citing California as an example, where he claims jungle primaries have shifted the political landscape further to the extremes.

“Party primaries should be for party members,” said Vallante. “If independents want to participate, they can declare which primary they wish to vote in on election day.”

As the debate intensifies, both sides will ramp up their efforts before the November 2024 vote. For now, Nevadans will again face the question: Is ranked-choice voting and open primaries the solution to political polarization, or will it create more problems than it solves?

Crane was the kind of guy who didn’t belong anywhere, especially not in San Francisco. Tall, gaunt, with bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in years, he stumbled through life like a drunk after last call.

His music teaching job was a cruel joke—barely enough to cover the whiskey that kept him upright most days. He hated the kids, hated their squeaky voices, hated how clean they were. The city? That was even worse. San Francisco wasn’t the Golden Gate and sea breeze bullshit they sold to tourists. It was a sewer. Streets filled with druggies, cracked-out drunks, and scumbags like Crane, all trying to outlive their misery one bottle at a time.

His apartment was a dump above a bar, where roaches didn’t just crawl—they made themselves at home. The floorboards creaked like an old man’s knees, the walls were paper-thin, and you could hear the rats chewing through the drywall at night. The smell was a cocktail of stale piss, sweat, and booze. But Crane didn’t care. The city didn’t give a fuck about you, so why should he? At least it was a roof over his head.

Then there was Tina. Blonde, stacked, with legs that didn’t quit. One night, Crane saw her at the bar, tight dress hugging her in all the right places, lips painted red like the devil. She had that look in her eye, one that women get when they’ve had enough of playing nice and want something filthy to happen. Crane slid next to her, his drink sloshing out of the glass. He didn’t give a damn.

She was slumming it, hooking up with Boner—big, dumb, and oblivious. Boner was the type who spent more time flexing in the mirror than noticing how Tina’s eyes wandered. Crane saw it, saw the way she was getting bored, restless. He figured if he played his cards right, he could slip between her and Boner’s stupidity, maybe get her in bed for a night or two. It wasn’t love—Crane didn’t believe in love. Love was just another word for fucking until done.

He caught Tina one night at the bar, dressed in something tight that screamed trouble. She sat alone, a drink in hand, lips painted blood red, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Crane slid onto the stool next to her, breath thick with whiskey and bad decisions.

“You wanna fuck tonight, Tina?” he muttered, his cracked lips pulling into a grin.

She didn’t even look at him at first–just stared at her glass. Then she slowly turned her gaze to him, her eyes cold. “You think you’re clever, don’t you, Crane? Just another washed-up loser in a city full of ’em.”

Crane chuckled, taking a long swig. “Maybe. But I’m the kind of loser who knows how to make you forget about Boner for a night. Maybe two, if you play nice.”

Tina looked him up and down like she was sizing up roadkill. “You’re disgusting.”

Crane leaned in, his hand sliding under the table, fingers tracing her thigh. “Disgusting works, baby. Boner’s too busy checking himself out to know what to do with a woman like you.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t sweet. It was a sharp, cold laugh, cutting through the bar noise. “You’re pathetic. But maybe that’s what I need right now—something pathetic.”

Crane grinned wider–feeling that familiar thrill. He knew he had her. In San Francisco, all it took was the right mix of booze and bad choices. A few more drinks, a few more dirty words, and she’d be in his bed, clawing at the sheets while he did his best to remind her what it felt like to be alive, even if just for a few hours.

She barely survived the pounding, giving her sea legs for the next three days. Her snatch ached, unsure if it was the trauma or the desire for more punishment from the little prick with the turkey neck gobbler between his thighs.
—
But then there were the stories. Every dive bar had them. Some guys in the bar would ramble on about “the Rider.” Some crazy bastard on a bike, tearing through the streets late at night, faceless, headless—whatever the fuck that meant. Crane didn’t buy it. Just more bullshit to scare off the junkies and drunks.

Crane was stumbling back through the alleys, way too many shots of bourbon swimming in his head, when he heard a low, guttural growl of an engine, cutting through the silence like a knife. He stopped, squinting through the dim light of the streetlamps, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on.

That’s when he saw it.

A bike. Big, black, and roaring through the alley like a beast. The Rider in all black, leather jacket, boots, the whole deal. But there was no face. No fucking head. Just the bike and the body, coming straight for him.

“Fuck off,” Crane slurred, rubbing his eyes, but the biker kept coming. The roar got louder, closer, rattling in his bones.

Crane’s legs went weak. He stumbled, swore, and tried to run, but his body wasn’t having it. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, tripping over his own feet, scrambling like a rat in a cage. The engine roared, deafening now, closing in, gunning straight for him like his sorry ass was in trouble.

He hit the ground hard, palms scraping the pavement, blood mixing with the grime. “No! No, no, no…” he muttered, trying to get up, but his legs were jelly. He could feel it now—the biker right behind him. The shadows stretched long, swallowing him whole.

Then everything went dark.

Come morning, Crane’s room was empty. He was gone. No one gave a damn. Tina? She didn’t notice. Boner kept being Boner. San Francisco didn’t care. It never did. The streets were still full of junkies, drunks, and losers like Crane, waiting for their turn to get swallowed by the city.

And the Rider—it was still out there, tearing through the alleys, looking for the next poor bastard who thought he could outrun the inevitable.

He stepped back, the weight of morning pressing down on him, but it was nothing compared to the strange chill that enveloped him as he glanced at the luminous tendrils of light coiling about her feet. They glimmered like the ghostly afterimage of a lost dream, undulating with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

The woman remained blissfully unaware, her laughter spilling into the dusty air like music, her hair catching the sunlight in a cascade o of gold. He felt an unnameable tension coiled in his gut–an urge to pull away, to shield her from the creeping madness that seemed to seep through the cracks between the very wood beneath them.

“Everything all right?” she asked, tilting her head, her bright green eyes sparkling with curiosity.

He forced a smile, masking the terror that clawed at his insides. “Of course. Just… a little busy today.”

As he turned to leave, the air thickened with a silence that buzzed like a swarm of locusts. The sun hung low, casting long shadows that twisted and danced as if trying to escape the grip of something unseen. With every step away from her, he felt the tendrils pulse with a life of their own, a silent warning echoing in the creaking boards of the boardwalk.

His mind spiraled, teetering on the edge of sanity. He replayed the image of those glimmering tendrils, convinced they were some malignant force, an omen of doom.

His thoughts grew darker with each step, an internal monologue of paranoia and dread. The whispers of ancient things grew louder in his mind, feeding his fear and gnawing at his resolve.

By the time he reached the shadows of the saloon, his heart was pounding. The door creaked open, the dim interior swallowing him whole.

Inside, the whispers didn’t cease; they amplified, filling the space between his ears, a cacophny of dread. He glanced back, seeing the woman’s silhouette in the distance, bathed in the last light of the dying sun.

The tendrils seemed to beckon, a dark promise lurking beneath the surface of reality.

“What secrets lay hidden in the dust beneath us?” he wondered, the thought echoing in his mind, the ancient whispers still haunting the air.

A Fernley man, Santos Robin Benitez Tejada, 49, faces up to six years in prison after pleading guilty to felony eluding in connection with a dangerous high-speed chase.

The incident, which occurred on Thursday, March 7, involved Tejada driving a lifted blue pickup at speeds of 80-100 mph through Minden, endangering others and causing property damage. The chase began after the pickup was spotted driving erratically near Leviathan Mine Road.

Deputies caught up with Tejada near Douglas High School in Minden, where students were leaving class, further heightening the danger. The pursuit continued over Kingsbury Grade into South Lake Tahoe, where Tejada turned up Pioneer Trail, and deputies halted their chase.

A temporary California plate on the truck helped investigators link it to Tejada, leading to his arrest later that evening by Nevada State Police in Fernley.

Sentencing is Monday, November 18.

Dear Big Guy Upstairs, I know you’re up there—lounging on your celestial recliner, sipping cosmic coffee, and watching reruns of the Big Bang. Or maybe you’re busy untangling the strings of fate, like a celestial cat playing with yarn.

Now, I’ve got effing questions.

Listen, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Yeah, me—poet, barfly, and general misfit. You created this place called Earth, right? Populated it with people, mosquitoes, and kale salads. And then you sat back, kicked up your divine feet, and said, “Let’s see how this dumpster fire unfolds.”

First off, why mosquitoes? Those little bloodsuckers are like your practical joke. You must’ve chuckled when you made them—tiny vampires thirsty for ankles.

And don’t get me started on kale salads. Did you run out of ideas, Big Guy? “Let’s create something green and tasteless,” you said. Well, congrats—you nailed it.

But let’s talk about love. You cooked up this recipe called “romance,” sprinkled it with hormones, and served it to us like a comedic Tinder profile. And what do we get? Heartaches, missed connections, and awkward first dates. Thanks, Big Guy. Real smooth.

Why did you make women so damned beautiful? It’s like you dipped them in moonlight and sprinkled stardust on their eyelashes. And then you gave them the power to break hearts with a smile. Cruel move, my friend.

And speaking of hearts, mine’s been fucking stomped on more times than a cockroach at a nuclear test site. Did you design love to be this messy? Or did you throw a bunch of hormones into a blender and hit “liquefy”?

But let’s get personal, Big Guy. Why did you make writers? We’re your cosmic court jesters, aren’t we? Scribbling our drunken thoughts on napkins, hoping someone notices. But you? You’re probably too busy rearranging galaxies or playing 17th-dimensional stellar poker with Cthulhu.

So, here is my prayer:

Dear Big Guy: If you exist, give me one more shot of whiskey and a reason to keep writing. If not, well, cheers anyway. Yours in cosmic absurdity. P.S. If you ever decide to respond, send a shooting star my way or maybe the Northern Lights.
Yours in cosmic absurdity.”

About ten minutes later, this flashed on the computer screen:

“Dear Smart Ass: If you exist, consider this your celestial whiskey shot. Keep writing—it’s the universe’s best-kept secret. As for shooting stars and Northern Lights, they are not my thing, not my way of saying, ‘Keep scribbling, my cosmic court jester,’ Cthulhu, on the other hand…Yours in celestial absurdity, The Big Guy Upstairs.”

An effort by Nevada Rep. Steven Horsford to censure Rep. Clay Higgins of Louisiana for allegedly making racist remarks about illegal Haitian aliens was stopped by GOP leadership.

Higgins posted comments on social media, describing Haitians in derogatory terms. In his now-deleted post on X, Higgins referred to Haitians as “wild,” accused them of “eating pets,” and labeled Haiti the “nastiest country in the western hemisphere.” The post, widely condemned for its racist tone, was quickly removed after Democratic lawmakers confronted Higgins on the House floor.

The controversy comes amid growing tensions from a sudden Haitian influx in Springfield, Ohio, where illegal aliens have faced racist abuse following comments made by Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump and his running mate, Sen. JD Vance, alleging that Haitians were eating pets.

The Haitian Bridge Alliance, a nonprofit recently created to defend illegal aliens in the Haitian community specifically, has filed charges against Trump and Vance for “spreading harmful misinformation.” In response, Higgins posted that Haitians should “get out of our country before January 20th,” referencing a potential Trump inauguration if he wins the upcoming election.

As lawmakers wrapped up their legislative work before the November election, Nevada Democratic Rep. Steven Horsford, who chairs the Congressional Black Caucus, introduced a resolution to censure Higgins.

Horsford condemned Higgins’ rhetoric.

“Higgins’ words are inciting hate and fear, and it is time for this body to ensure accountability,” Horsford said.

However, Republicans, led by House Speaker Mike Johnson, quickly moved to block the resolution.

“We believe in redemption around here.”

It is not the first time Higgins has come under fire for his social media activity. Since his election to Congress in 2016, he has stirred controversy, including a 2020 Facebook post in which he threatened to “drop” armed protesters.

Horsford reiterated the need for accountability, calling Higgins’ remarks a dangerous example of hate speech and bigotry. He emphasized the need to “turn the page on this pattern of denigrating and villainizing immigrants for political gain” while urging Congress to stand united against racism.

Adventuring across Nevada is a quiet and lonely thing. The Silver State doesn’t speak much. It stretches itself out, empty and still, like the soul of a man who’s gone too long without saying what’s on his mind.

That evening, I was driving State Route 140, heading out of Winnemucca. Denio had come and gone, the last whisper of civilization behind me, and the light was fading fast. It was the kind of cold that crept up slowly but hard, settling deep into your bones before you realized it.

I spotted him up ahead, just a figure in the twilight.

A guy about my age, standing on the roadside with his thumb out. I don’t ordinarily pick up hitchhikers. But it was Nevada in October, and the nights turned bitter when the sun dropped. I pulled over, letting him in.

He introduced himself—Greg, I think he said—and we shook hands. His grip was soft, like a man who hadn’t worked much with his hands.

We got back on the road, the Bug humming along the blacktop. At first, he didn’t say much, which was fine by me. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

But after a while, Greg started talking. A little at first, just some nonsense about where he’d been, where he was going. The usual small talk you expect from a stranger. But as the miles wore on, his words took a darker turn.

He spoke about killers and men who hunted other men. His voice changed, low and steady, with something in his tone that set me on edge. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, my hand drifting toward the pistol I had tucked in the side door pocket.

Never travel unprepared, I thought, even when you are supposed to be alone.

I let him ramble a bit, watching the road, watching him. Then I cut in, slow and casual, “Funny thing… What do you think the odds are of two serial killers ending up in the same car?” I kept my eyes forward as I said it, my voice even, just another man making conversation.

The air in the car shifted. His face changed—dark, like a storm rolling over the desert.

“Pull over,” he said, pulling a long knife from his coat. “I’m robbing you.”

I didn’t argue. I slowed the car and pulled off to the side of the road. He barked orders and told me to get out. I did. But I left the door open as I backed away, my boots crunching on the gravel.

He stepped out of the passenger side, his knife gleaming in the dying light. And then, without warning, he was gone. One wrong step, and he tumbled over the embankment. I heard a long, drawn-out “Ahhh, shiiittt!” as he fell into the darkness below.

I stood there for a moment, staring into the valley. The cold had settled in by then. The night was thick with silence. I slipped back into the Bug, threw it into gear, and rolled away.

It pays to know the road you are traveling, especially when you have two serial killers in one car.

I don’t give a flying rat’s ass how you vote, but I’ll tell you how I do. Been doing this long enough– since 1980–and there is one thing I’ve figured out, it’s that every damned election, local or national, boils down to two things, money and whether the U.S. Constitution still means a goddamned thing. I’m not voting for some pretty or phony who can make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I vote policy. It’s the only rule I have. You wanna vote for the guy or gal who shakes hands and kisses babies? Fine. But I’m here for what the hell they’re gonna do once in office.

And let’s be honest–it’s damn near impossible to know what they stand for until they’ve already stabbed us in the back, but that’s the crapshoot we sign up for when we vote. Because every single one of them is dishonest. It’s not even a matter of if they screw us, it’s how and when.

Locally? I vote my fucking wallet. If I even think it’s gonna cost me or anyone else more of our hard-earned cash, I vote to turn the spigot off. Period.

Don’t care how shiny their pitch is, how much they smile, or how many promises they make. You’re not getting my money.

And those people trying to rewrite the state constitutions with their feel-good, political bullshit? Shove it.

Every time they change a word, it costs us, the taxpayers, more money, if not our liberties. And guess what? It means the same fucking thing as before.

Just a bunch of assholes rearranging the deck chairs on a sinking ship. But it keeps them busy. Keeps them pretending they’re doing something worthwhile.

It’s a scam. Always has been. Always will be.