The Old Blog in the Desert

I might be what the world calls a fucking drunk, but at least I know one thing—I would fucking die before I let my dog starve. He’s the only creature in this godforsaken universe who gives a shit about me.

I would rather rot in a ditch than see him go without. You don’t like that? Screw you. He loves me without conditions, without any of the bullshit humans put on love.

Can’t say the same for these assholes at the bar, sitting next to me, pretending like we’re all in this together in the same sinking ship. We ain’t.

“Yeah, fuckin’ right. You think you’re better ‘cause your shirt’s clean and you’ve got your mortgage? You’re as much of a walking corpse as I am, the only difference is I know it and you don’t.”

Another shot goes down, burning like fire, but it’s the only warmth I’ve felt in days. The bartender gives me that look—she knows the drill. Just keep pouring. I’ll stop when I’m dead or broke, whichever comes first. I light a cigarette and drag it deep, watching the smoke curl up like it’s trying to escape this shithole before it all goes up in flames. Too bad it’s stuck here with the rest of us.

A guy’s sitting next to me, yapping about his miserable life. His job, his wife, his kids. Like, I give a fuck. As if I’m supposed to feel sorry for him because he didn’t get the promotion. Guess what, pal? Nobody gives a shit. I nod and pretend to listen, but inside, I’m seething. I want to slam his face into the bar until he shuts the fuck up.

“Go home to your suburban hell, where your wife’s probably screwing the neighbor, and your kid’s already learning how to be more of a disappointment than you are. And here you are, thinking I’m the fuck-up. Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

I glance at my glass. Empty again. Of course, it is. Story of my life—empty. I motion for another, and the bartender is already moving. She doesn’t ask questions. She has seen enough of my kind to know we’re beyond help. Just keep the alcohol coming, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it through the night without doing something stupid.

But fuck that. I have done stupid. I have lived it. Hell, I invented it. So, you think you hit rock bottom? I am deep below the surface, encased in solid rock, and my faithful dog is the only thing keeping me from succumbing. That’s right. The only thing left that is real in this world is a damn dog. He’s waiting for me at home, probably wondering where I am and when I’ll come stumbling through the door, reeking of stale beer and bad decisions.

“At least he doesn’t judge me. At least he’s not full of shit like every person I’ve ever met. People? They take what they can get from you and leave you with nothing. Your dog? He sticks around, no matter how far you fall.”

I take another drink, feeling the whiskey sink in, dulling the edges of everything, making it easier to breathe, to exist. The guy by me is still rambling, trying to make his problems my problems, but I’m not listening. I don’t care. I’ve never cared. The world can burn for all I give a shit. I’ve got enough of my hell to deal with.

“And where the hell is God in all this? Up there, laughing his ass off while I scrape the bottom of the barrel. Or maybe he’s just ignoring me like everyone else. Either way, screw him. I don’t need a savior. I need a drink.”

I down what’s left in the glass and shove it back toward the bartender. She fills it without a word, her eyes glazed over like she’s watched a thousand guys just like me, and she’s probably right. The bar’s full of guys just like me—washed up, broken, bleeding out on the inside, but still too stupid to call it quits.

I glance at the clock. It’s late, or maybe it’s early. I don’t know, and I don’t care. My dog’s probably curled up by the door, waiting for me, still loyal even though I’m a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve it. I should go home, and feed it–but I’m stuck here, drinking myself into oblivion because it’s easier than facing the wreckage I’ve made of my life.

“I should’ve died long ago, turned to dust, but the world’s not that merciful. It keeps you around just to see how much more it can fuck with you.”

The guy by me stands up and pats me on the back like we’re buddies. I shrug him off, and he stumbles out into the night, back to his pathetic life. I stay planted on the barstool, staring at the empty glass in front of me, thinking about my dog, the only soul on this planet that hasn’t given up on me.

“He deserves better. I should be better. But who the hell am I kidding? I’ll keep feeding him and going through the motions, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

I throw back one last shot, slam the glass on the bar, and stagger to my feet. The bartender watches me with a tired look as if she knows how this will end. And maybe she has. But I’m standing, barely, and that’s more than I can say for most people.

I head for the door, lighting another cigarette, the night air slapping me in the face like a reminder that I’m still alive. Barely.

“Fuck it, fuck them and fuck me, I’ve got a dog to feed.”

A new Lake Tahoe Regional Evacuation Plan is open for public comment following efforts by local fire chiefs, law enforcement, and emergency management personnel across Nevada and California and five counties.

The 185-page document uses insights from previous experiences during future wildfire evacuations in the Lake Tahoe Basin. The plan provides critical evacuation information addressing areas surrounding Lake Tahoe, with seven annexes offering detailed evacuation procedures tailored to specific regions within the basin.

To review the plan, which is available online, and submit feedback during the 60-day comment period ending on Wednesday, November 20, email fireinfo@cityofslt.us., or visit laketahoeregionalevacuationplan.pdf. to review the document.

Here now, I find myself in a most peculiar predicament, having spent the weekend in Virginia City, and–odd as it may sound–nothing happened. That’s right, absolutely nothing. There was not a bit of excitement, no ruckus’, not even a tumbleweed rolling down C Stree to liven up the place. You might think that a newspaperman, a man whose livelihood depends on the constant churn of drama and spectacle, would find something–anything–of note to report. But I’ll be dogged if there’s a single scrap of real news to scribble down.

Now, I’ll admit I was more than a little disappointed. In a town like Virginia City, where the echoes of miners and gamblers still seem to drift like cigar smoke, you’d think something would shake loose, like an old ghost hankerin’ for trouble. But no. It was as if the whole place had decided to nap, and I, being the fool who’d arrived expecting a show, got to watch as the dust settled in the empty streets.

There were no shootouts, saloon brawls, or even a stray dog yapping. People walked about in the usual leisurely fashion, nodding politely to one another, and that was the extent of it. If you want to call that a “happening,” I suppose you can, but I prefer to think of it as a snooze fest with good whiskey.

So, I’m sitting in front of my keyboard, trying to find anything to write about. And then, like a bolt out of the blue, a little feathered fellow decides to make his grand entrance. I’m not one to make a big fuss over birds, but this one–this particular pigeon–was a sight to behold. Dave, I call him. No one told me his name, but I’m sure of it. I’ve seen him around enough now to know he’s a regular. Where he’s from or what he’s doing here–that’s a mystery to me. But I do have my theories.

Dave didn’t just flutter in like any ordinary bird, no sir. He arrived somewhere east of here–might’ve even been Como–might’ve been further still–and made his way down C Street. I’ve seen many a-creature brave the streets but none as Dave the Pigeon. The traffic’s wild here, mind you. Not the kind of horse-drawn buggies you’d expect from the old-time days, but folks in motorcars, zipping up and down like they’re racing at Daytona. And the foot traffic–Lord, save us, it’s a wonder anyone survives it. But not Dave. He sails through the madness unscathed like he’d been doing it his whole life. I have half a mind to follow him, just to see where he’d end up, but I don’t want myself mistaken as a bird watcher of ill repute.

The strange thing about Dave, aside from his impeccable street-crossing skills, is that he’s been here for days and says not one word. Sure, he coos, mind you, but not a single squawk or call that might suggest he’s a bird of grand ideas or ambition. He seems to be the picture of contentment, as though life here in Virginia City is the very definition of peace and satisfaction.

I tell you, I envy the fellow. Here I am, struggling to fill a column with some semblance of excitement, while Dave’s concern appears to be finding a cozy perch and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Perhaps he’s just that wise to know the best thing to do with one’s time–simply put, nothing. Or maybe he’s got some secret I’m missing–a magic formula for contentment and all the talk in the world can’t touch.

I’ll be honest with you. I’ve spent a good deal watching that pigeon. Not in any creepy, stalkerish way, mind you, but in a way, one might admire a man who knows how to live an easy life. Dave’s secret to life, I think, lies in his utter lack of concern. And maybe that’s the one thing Virginia City could use a little more these days.

So, what’s a newspaperman to do when nothing is happening? Perhaps it is time to put down the pen and learn from the pigeon. If nothing else, Dave the Pigeon has given me the most salient piece of wisdom I’ve had in a long while: sometimes, nothing is what you need.

Please excuse me, but I think I’ll sit on a bench, let my feet dangle, and see if I can’t coax a little coo myself from Dave.

He came to, face-down in the alley, a thick layer of vomit glued to his cheek. The world spun around him like some sick, twisted joke. His head pounded with a hangover so vicious it felt like someone had taken a bat to his skull.

He coughed, gagging as the taste of bile hit the back of his throat, the stink of his piss clinging to his pants. His ribs were on fire–felt like they had been kicked in–probably had been.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, struggling to roll over, his body shot.

His wallet was gone. His smokes were gone. Hell, whoever had rolled him had left him with nothing but the piss-stained clothes on his back.

“You there, God? You miserable son of a bitch,” he croaked, spitting blood onto the concrete. “Bet you got a front row seat to this shitshow, didn’t you? Laughing your holy ass off.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, his body screaming in protest. His lip split, nose bloody. They had worked him over. Real thorough. Some asshole probably got a nice laugh out of kicking the life out of a drunk in a back alley.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” he spat, wiping his face with a sleeve already covered in grime. “Me, choking on my puke while some prick walks off with my last twenty bucks?”

He finally sat up, leaning against the cold, unforgiving wall of the alley. The sun had not even bothered to rise yet, but there was just enough light creeping in to make the place look even more like a dump. Broken bottles, crumpled newspapers, and him—the human equivalent of garbage, left to rot.

“You gotta be some kinda sick bastard,” he muttered, cradling his ribs as he struggled to stand. His legs wobbled, almost giving out, but he was not about to lay back down in that mess. Not yet. “You like this, don’t you?” he growled, stumbling toward the alley exit. “Watching me crawl around like a goddamn rat. Is this your idea of fun, you twisted fuck?”

Every step felt like someone was driving nails into his sides, but he kept moving. He had to. Staying in that alley felt like admitting he was nothing like he had always been nothing.

“You don’t do shit for me, you never have,” he hissed, his breath ragged as he made his way into the street.

The early morning was dead quiet, just the occasional car rolling by, the world moving on without him. It didn’t matter. Nobody gave a damn about a drunk bleeding in the gutter.

“Where the fuck were you last night, huh? While they were kicking the shit outta me, where were you?” He shouted at the sky, his voice cracking. “You just sitting up there, jerking off while I get my teeth kicked in?”

A couple of early risers glanced his way, then quickly turned their heads, pretending not to see. He was not surprised. He would avoid himself, too.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he muttered, “look away. Don’t wanna dirty your eyes with the likes of me.”

He stopped, bracing himself against a light pole, his legs ready to buckle. His chest felt like it was on fire, and the hangover wasn’t letting up. It was the kind that made you want to tear your skull open just to let the pain out.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” he growled, his voice rough, raw. “Kicking a man when he’s down. That’s your thing, isn’t it? Make us suffer, and then sit back and watch. Real funny, you prick.”

He forced himself back upright, every bone in his body aching. His ribs throbbed with each shallow breath. He’d probably be pissing blood later, but that was a problem for the future. Right now, he needed a drink.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he continued, staggering forward, his voice a low snarl. “Born into this shit, and you’ve been watching me drown in it ever since. You never gave me a chance. Not one. And I’m supposed to pray to you? Beg you for mercy? Fuck you.”

He spat again, tasting blood.

“Mercy’s for suckers. You’re just up there, laughing, waiting to see how long it takes for me to finally go under. And the worst part? I keep talking to you like you’re gonna answer. Like you give a shit.”

The streets were coming alive now, people heading to work, eyes straight ahead, never straying toward the wreckage on the sidewalk. He kept moving, his legs barely carrying him, but he was used to it by now. He knew how to shuffle along, battered and beaten, just another piece of human debris.

“I shoulda known better,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Should have known from the start. You don’t save people like me. You just watch us burn out, laugh while we go down in flames.”

He leaned against a storefront window, catching his breath, looking at his reflection. What a joke. Bloody, bruised, the shadow of a man. He looked like something that crawled out from under a rock. But that was fitting, wasn’t it? Just another one of God’s little fuck-ups, crawling through the dirt.

“You wanna see how far I can fall?” he whispered, glaring at the sky. “I’ll give you a show, you bastard. I’ll keep dragging myself through this hell you call life, and I’ll do it with a middle finger in the air. You wanna see me break? Not yet, you motherfucker. Not yet.”

He pushed off the window, forcing his legs to move again, even though each step felt like it might be the last.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he growled. “Bottle in hand, head full of nothing, and I’ll still be here, cursing your name. You won’t get rid of me that easy.”

He turned the corner, disappearing into the crowd, just another broken man stumbling through the city. And God? He wasn’t saying a damn thing.

Nevada Democratic Party-endorsed candidate for the open seat in Assembly District 4, Ryan Hampton has positioned himself as a “fierce bipartisan advocate,” vowing to end “toxic politics” and pursue solutions for Nevada’s middle class.

However, his recent appearance on a podcast hosted by Lincoln Project co-founder Rick Wilson has raised concerns about his claims of bipartisanship. During the interview, Hampton unleashed a barrage of attacks against Republicans, including Governor Joe Lombardo, despite the possibility that he may need to work with them to pass bipartisan legislation.

Hampton criticized Lombardo’s criminal justice reform efforts, calling him and his team “grifters” and accusing them of “abandoning humanity.”

While Hampton champions bipartisan ideals, his choice of the Lincoln Project—a group criticized for its financial dealings and scandals—has led some to question his commitment to bridging the political divide. The Lincoln Project, once celebrated for its anti-Trump stance, has faced scrutiny for funneling millions into consulting firms owned by its founders and ignoring allegations of sexual misconduct against one of its co-founders, John Weaver.

Hampton, a recovering opioid addict and career activist, has a history of supporting controversial policies like Oregon’s Ballot Measure 110, which decriminalized drug possession. Although Hampton has since distanced himself from the policy after being repealed in 2024, critics remain skeptical of his approach to criminal justice reform.

With Lombardo backing attorney Lisa Cole in the AD-4 race, Hampton’s ability to appeal to Republicans and independents will be critical in a district that could determine the balance of power in Nevada’s legislature. Whether his sharp rhetoric will help or hinder his campaign remains to be seen.

The old lighthouse stood sentinel on the jagged cliffs, its single eye piercing the fog. Its keeper, Elias Thorne, had inherited the duty—a legacy of madness passed down through generations. The villagers spoke of Thorne’s ancestors in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the sea.

Elias had studied the ancient texts—the ones hidden in the darkest corners of the library. The forbidden knowledge whispered to him, promising answers to questions no sane mind should ask. The leather-bound tomes smelled of mildew and decay, their pages brittle as ancient skin. Elias traced the symbols etched into the lighthouse walls, their meaning unraveling like spider silk. Glyphs older than time itself, carved by hands long turned to dust.

The sea below roared, hungry. Its waves clawed at the cliffs, insatiable. Elias knew its secrets—the drowned city, the cyclopean spires, the forgotten gods who slumbered beneath the waves. He had glimpsed their eyes—an iridescent madness that transcended time. They watched, waiting for the stars to align—a gaze, both ancient and hungry.

On moonless nights, Elias climbed the spiral staircase, lantern in hand. The light pierced the darkness, illuminating the mosaics—depicting beings with numerous limbs and eyes. Their forms defied geometry, mocking reason. Elias wondered if they laughed at his futile attempts to understand their purpose. Were they guardians or jailers? Or something far more sinister?

At the top, he gazed out into the void. The stars blinked like distant memories, and the constellations shifted—an eldritch dance choreographed by unseen hands. Elias whispered incantations—the syllables ancient and guttural borrowed from forgotten tongues. He called to the void, seeking communion with the nameless horrors that slumbered beyond the veil—their existence woven into the fabric of reality like a tapestry of madness.

And they answered.

Their voices echoed in his mind—a chorus of forgotten tongues. They spoke of aeons before humanity, when Earth was a cosmic afterthought—a mere speck in the cosmic abyss. Elias listened, his sanity fraying like old rope. They revealed truths—the insignificance of humanity, the futility of its existence. He wept, for he understood that mortal minds were grains of sand on the shore of infinity.

The lighthouse trembled. The sea surged, its waves crashing against the cliffs with primal fury. Elias glimpsed the abyss—the maw that hungered for souls, its hunger insatiable. He wondered if the gods were hungry too—if they craved mortal minds like desperate lovers crave forbidden kisses.

In that moment, Elias Thorne became a vessel—a conduit for forbidden wisdom. He saw the city beneath the waves—the spires rising from cyclopean depths, their architecture defying reason. The gods stirred, their eyes opening like black holes, swallowing light and reason alike. They hungered for revelation, for sacrifice—the currency of forbidden knowledge.

Elias stepped to the edge, lantern raised. The wind howled, tearing at his sanity, threatening to pull him into the cosmic maelstrom. He recited the final incantation—the syllables clawing out of his throat like desperate birds seeking escape. The lighthouse beacon flared, illuminating the abyss. And Elias leaped—not into the sea, but into the gaping maw of the gods themselves.

As he fell, he glimpsed the gods—their eyes like galaxies, their laughter like collapsing stars. They devoured him, and he became part of their cosmic tapestry—a footnote in the annals of his madness. His mind unraveled, memories dissolving into stardust.

The villagers found the lighthouse empty, its light extinguished. They whispered of Elias Thorne—the mad keeper who danced with the void. And when storms raged, they heard his voice—the echoes of forbidden knowledge carried by the wind. The lighthouse remained, its single eye still watching, waiting for the next keeper—a willing sacrifice to the eldritch gods that hungered beyond the veil.

A recent CBS News report revealed that a nonprofit from the Bay Area, Seed the Vote, has been sending activists to Nevada to canvass on behalf of Nevada Democrats and the Harris-Walz campaign.

Seed the Vote, a project of the Everyday People PAC, has over 1,000 volunteers with plans to increase that number to 3,000 as they campaign in Nevada, Arizona, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Michigan. According to Emily Lee, executive director of Seed the Vote, their mission is to combat misinformation by knocking on 70 to 80 doors daily in battleground states.

However, digging deeper into the origins of Seed the Vote has raised questions about its connections. Influence Watch reports that Seed the Vote and Everyday People PAC share leadership with the Chinese Progressive Association, a San Francisco-based group historically linked to revolutionary communist organizations and aligned with the Chinese Communist Party.

Seed the Vote’s efforts to canvass for the Harris-Walz campaign and reelect Senator Jacky Rosen in Nevada have come under the spotlight, as their donors include prominent figures with ties to Marxist and social justice movements. These high-profile donors include Amy Mandel, a former member of the Marxist-Leninist Party, and Emunaha Yuka Edinburgh, a custom furniture maker who previously founded a nonprofit advocating for social justice causes.

Seed the Vote’s campaign to “fight the right and build the left” is part of a broader effort to influence elections using funding from wealthy donors, including George Soros. Their efforts in Nevada have already made an impact, as activists recently canvassed in Reno, working out of the Nevada Democratic Party headquarters in Washoe County.

He sat at the bar, glaring into his glass as if it were a half-assed debt he couldn’t shake. A cocktail—some pretentiously dark mix of bitters and citrus—something he would never order. But it was free, courtesy of some poor bastard lost to the grip of pretense. The ice, round, floated there, a lump of frozen regret, cracking under the relentless assault of the whiskey, a reminder of how the world crumbles when faced with warmth.

The whiskey burned his throat like the unholy fires of damnation, but he was past caring. He let the alcohol seep into his thoughts, dragging him down into a murky abyss, a festering pit where hope went to die. This place in his mind was raw and dark, a hellish fusion of gutter grime and eldritch horror.

Sanity was a fleeting whisper, and the stench of despair clung to him like a cheap perfume in a whorehouse. As the ice fractured, so did his tenuous grip on reality. The bar around him twisted into a cyclopean nightmare, the faces morphing into grotesque masks, mouths agape in silent screams. The air grew thick with the stench of stale sweat and spilled liquor, a miasma of lost souls and failed dreams.

Suddenly, he was yanked from the bar and thrust into a hellish dive where the walls pulsed with shadowy forms, and monstrous figures lurked just out of sight. The bartender, a writhing abomination with too many eyes and tentacles that undulated like the very fabric of the cosmos, slid a grimy glass across the counter. The liquid inside churned as if alive, whispering ancient secrets of madness long forgotten.

He hesitated, a flicker of caution sparking in the depths of his despair, but desperation took hold. He downed the drink in a single gulp. It hit him like a fist to the gut, electric and brutal, igniting visions of chaos and cosmic ruin in his mind. He saw the slow decay of everything, the universe collapsing in on itself, reality fraying like an old rope, unraveling into a nameless void.

Back at the bar, the publican’s voice cut through the thick fog of his intoxication, asking if he was alright. He jerked back to reality, drenched in sweat, hands trembling like leaves in a storm. The ice was nearly gone now, a mere sliver of its former self, and he knew he was teetering on the fucking edge, staring into the abyss where sanity and madness danced a playful waltz.

The two women arrived in Virginia City like a pair of misplaced aces in a rigged poker game. Their attire? Let’s just say they’d raided the clearance rack at the Devil’s Dress Emporium. Red and black, their dresses clung to them like desperate lovers—nylons twisted, corsets protesting, and lacy pantaloons threatening to reveal secrets best left unshared.

Around each of their necks hung cheap, white boas—the kind that exfoliate more dignity than a cat sheds fur. These weren’t your elegant swan feathers; no, these were the remnants of a pillow fight gone wrong.

From saloon to saloon to the boardwalk, they drifted like tumbleweeds in search of a purpose. The locals stared, their eyes wide as moon pies. Undeterred, the women giggled like schoolgirls who had just discovered the anatomy of a whiskey bottle.

And then they stumbled upon the Tahoe House—a place where dignity checked its coat at the door and hung out with the moth-eaten ghosts. They took rooms, then drained the life from the party—the soiree now a mere husk of its former self.

And there I was, a spectator in this circus of chaos. I’d sidled to the bar, swilling a beer between the two women. They bit me a goodnight, their teeth sharp as broken promises. Beneath and to the side of me lay piles of white feathers, making me look like a molting Gauloise.

Paul, the owner, surveyed the wreckage. His eyes held the wisdom of a man who’d seen it all—the drunks, the dreamers, and now, the feathered fiends.

“Two days,” he muttered, grabbing a broom. “It’ll take me two days to sweep up these damn feathers.”

And sweep he did, muttering curses as each downy tuft floated through the air like tiny, misguided angels. On the other hand, I found evidence of the women along the boardwalk for the following five days–a stray feather here, a forgotten feather there.

As for the women? They vanished, leaving a trail of charm and a lingering scent of contrition–not to mention angel feathers.

Just days after paying Washoe County $106 thousand for fines from litigation in a fight for government accountability and fair elections, Nevada businessman and political activist Robert Beadles has seen his case reach the U.S. Supreme Court.

On Friday, September 27, the Court officially docketed Beadles’ case, number 24-346, marking a potential turning point for election-related legal battles in the state. The case stems from Beadles’ allegations that Nevada courts failed to uphold constitutional standards related to elections and filed after earlier attempts to seek justice within the state court system were unsuccessful.

The Supreme Court has ordered the respondents — represented by the Washoe County District Attorney’s office — to respond to Beadles’ writ of certiorari by Monday, October 28. The request for a response suggests that at least one of the nine Justices has reviewed the writ and found it compelling enough to seek further information.

While the odds of the case being fully heard are slim — the Court typically grants hearings to less than two percent of petitions submitted annually — this is an important step forward. The initial request for a response indicates that the case contains legal questions worthy of further examination.

If four Justices agree to take up the case, it could move into a new phase, potentially leading to oral arguments before the Supreme Court. A ruling could have far-reaching implications for Nevada’s election laws and similar cases in the U.S.

Beadles argues that Nevada courts ignored significant constitutional issues, and now, he hopes the Supreme Court will address those concerns. If the Justices grant certiorari, both sides will file briefs on the merits, followed by oral arguments. Afterward, the Court would deliberate privately before issuing a final decision.