The Old Blog in the Desert

The Comstock Lode birthed Virginia City—where fortunes bloomed like desert wildflowers and faded just as quickly. Cutter, once a dreamer, now a cynic, patrolled the narrow alleys. His boots kicked up dust, each step a reminder of lost chances.

“Why do you linger?” The voice echoed in his mind—the same voice that had led him to the Old Washoe Club, its walls sagging under the weight of secrets.

Samuel had glimpsed the faded daguerreotypes—the miners, their eyes hollow, their laughter swallowed by the mines.

“Answers,” he muttered.

The town held them, buried in its veins like silver ore. He had read the Poe & Chollar Mine records—the tales of cave-ins, of men trapped in the dark, their screams swallowed by the earth. But there were gaps like the missing teeth of a gambler who bet it all.

The Silver Queen Hotel loomed ahead—a relic of opulence. Cutter pushed the heavy door, the brass knob cold against his palm. Inside, the air smelled of whiskey and stale beer. The bartender, a grizzled man with eyes like tarnished coins, poured him a shot.

“For luck,” he said.

Cutter stared into the glass. The amber liquid held memories—of a wife who left, of a daughter who died too young. He wondered if the ghosts of the Fourth Ward School whispered to her—their laughter echoing through empty classrooms.

“Cutter,” the voice returned. “You seek answers, but do you dare face the void?”

It was the same voice that had led him to the Savage Mansion, its gables like the claws of a forgotten beast. The mansion had secrets—rooms locked, corridors winding into darkness.

“I’m no fool,” Cutter replied.

But the itch remained—the itch to know. So, Cutter climbed Cemetery Hill, the gravestones like broken teeth. The wind carried whispers—names, dates, memories. Cutter wondered if the dead envied the living—their struggles, their choices.

At the summit, he stood before the Silver Terrace Cemetery gate. The wrought iron creaked, and he stepped inside. The tombstones leaned, their inscriptions fading. He traced a name—Evelyn Blake, 1863-1880. A girl lost too soon. He imagined her—pale, eyes wide, staring into the abyss.

“What lies beyond?” he asked.

The wind carried no answers, only the scent of sagebrush. Cutter’s heart raced. He thought of the Piper’s Opera House, its stage haunted by forgotten actors. They performed for miners, dreamers, and those who hoped to strike silver and find salvation.

“Cutter,” the voice whispered. “The veins run deep—the silver, the sorrow. Will you dig?”

His fingers brushed the soil. He imagined the tunnels—the darkness swallowing him, the walls closing in. But he came too far to turn back.
He dug—a desperate man seeking truth.

The earth yielded bones—miners, children, lovers. He wondered if they glimpsed the ancient ones who shaped the land, who murmured secrets into the veins. He touched the silver—cool, unforgiving.

And as he dug deeper, the earth trembled. The tombstones shifted, their inscriptions rewriting themselves. Samuel’s hands bled, but he kept digging. The void yawned—a cosmic maw hungry for answers.

“Cutter,” the voice boomed. “You found it—the heart of the Comstock. Will you listen?”

He hesitated. The wind carried Evelyn Blake’s laughter—the echo of a girl who had danced on the edge of the abyss.

“Tell me,” he said.

And the earth opened with a whisper.

“Damnable traffic,” I thought, gripping the wheel tighter as I tried to rush from two valleys over–to a store where I knew I could buy some honey. It was not just any honey, it was for Leggs.

After her show and at the after-party, I wanted to give it to her, a sweet offering to match her wild spirit. But as the minutes ticked by and the road clogged with cars, I knew there was no way I could make it.

“Damnable traffic,” I muttered again, frustration thick in my voice.

Finally, I was beginning to make some headway, creeping toward the traffic light. Just as it turned green, I heard the unmistakable pop of a tire blowing out. The truck lurched to the right, dropping with a sickening thud. My heart sank with it.

I cursed under my breath, guiding the truck across the oncoming lane and into a large pullout by the side of the road. Anger surged, but underneath it, there was a strange calm, a quiet resignation to how things unfold—like the universe was nudging me, reminding me I had no control. Not really.

As I wrestled with the jack and lug wrench, sweat dripping down my face, I promised to get the flat tire fixed first thing in the morning. I was breathing hard when I finished, my muscles sore from the effort. I sat down on the tailgate, wiped my hands, and closed my eyes, listening to the hum of traffic rushing past.

When I opened my eyes again, something caught my attention–just up the hillside, not twenty feet from where I parked, stood a small table. A hand-painted sign leaned against it: “HONEY.”

I blinked in surprise, sure that table was not there when I pulled over. A small SUV parked beside it, and jars of honey glistened in the afternoon sun.

I smiled, the irony not lost on me. I walked over, and a woman sitting in the SUV looked up, a warm smile crossing her face.

“What’s your favorite?” I asked, my voice soft, feeling like the moment wasn’t real.

Without hesitation, she picked up a jar labeled “Wildflowers.” And in that instant, I knew. Leggs had always been a wildflower—strong, vibrant, blossoming wherever life happened to plant her. She moved with the seasons, blooming when conditions were just right.

It was not a coincidence that brought me here. It was something else, something beyond—a divinity at play in the details.

I bought the honey, and as I walked back to my truck, I felt the rush of time fall away. There was no more hurry. Somehow, I would make it to the after-party in plenty of time.

And I did.

Nevada is one of ten states where Democrats are spending a portion of their $25 million voter outreach efforts.

As the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee (DSCC) ramps up its operations to defend its slim Senate majority, Nevada stands as a crucial battleground, particularly given its history as a closely contested state in recent elections. The investment comes just two months before Election Day, as Democrats face a tough Senate map.

They are defending 23 of the 33 Senate seats up for grabs in November, including seats in Republican-leaning states like Nevada. DSCC’s latest financial push to mobilize voters and shore up support for Democratic incumbents.

The funds from the DSCC will go towards on-the-ground organizing efforts in Nevada, including hiring additional field organizers, hosting in-person events, and launching digital campaigns targeting specific demographics like young voters and communities of color. Democrats hope these measures will help boost turnout and maintain their momentum in the state.

Michigan Senator Gary Peters, chair of the DSCC, says “a formidable ground game makes all the difference in close races,” and Nevada’s Senate seat will be a high priority in this cycle.

Although Nevada is just one of the ten states where Democrats are concentrating their resources, its role in determining the Senate majority is crucial. The DSCC’s broader strategy involves bolstering Democratic defenses in states like Montana and Ohio while targeting Republican incumbents in Florida and Texas.

As part of this outreach, Nevada’s Democratic Senate candidates are aligning their strategies with Vice President Kamala Harris’s presidential campaign. Harris’s fundraising success since taking over the Democratic ticket in July has further boosted the party’s down-ballot efforts, with $25 million distributed to various party committees.

Senate Democrats have received $10 million from this, with Nevada expected to benefit directly from the additional funds.

Early morning, dark, everything just crawling out of its filth. This asshole, out of nowhere, takes a cheap shot at Dog, just some half-wit kicking at anything that breathes. Dog jumps back, knowing better than to get tangled with human garbage.

The guy, though, puts all his weight into it like he is trying to punish the world for his miserable existence, misses Dog, loses his footing, and the idiot goes down hard, head bouncing off the sidewalk like a cracked egg. Blood oozing out slowly.

And Dog? It barely gives a fuck, sniffs him the asshole, thinking, “You ain’t worth the piss,” and trots off. No rush, no care. Dog is the smartest one in the whole mess.

Me? I just watched this useless meat sack of bones leak onto the pavement. I drove on as I did not feel like wasting my time on a waste of skin.

Sometimes, you fuck with life–it’ll fuck you right back, leaving you bleeding out on the street while the world moves on without you.

Nevada Copper Corp. has completed the sale of nearly all of its assets to Southwest Critical Materials LLC, an affiliate of Kinterra Capital Corp. The sale, previously outlined in an asset purchase agreement (APA), is part of the ongoing bankruptcy process under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy Code.

The sale, which amounts to $128 million in cash consideration, also includes the payment of cure costs for assumed contracts and the assumption of certain liabilities by the buyer. The transaction follows Nevada Copper’s voluntary petition for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection filed on Monday, June 10, in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the District of Nevada.

On Friday, September 27, the U.S. Bankruptcy Court approved the sale, allowing the assets to be transferred free of all encumbrances and interests. The court also authorized the assignment of specific contracts and leases. Following this, on Wednesday, October 2, the Superior Court of Justice of Ontario granted a Recognition and Vesting Order, recognizing the U.S. court’s decision across all Canadian provinces and territories.

With the completion of the sale, proceeds are expected to be distributed to certain creditors, as overseen by the bankruptcy court. However, Nevada Copper has indicated that the proceeds will not be sufficient to pay company shareholders of common stock.

The saloon was thick with the stench of stale beer, sweat, and tobacco smoke. The floor stuck to your boots, but nobody cared. Mexican Joh sat at the corner of the bar, closet to the front doors, face half-hidden beneath the brim of his hat, nursing whatever they called whiskey in this shitty place. His eyes were half-closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. No, he was watching.

Slim had been talking trash for a while, slurring every word. He was a half-wit but thought he had something to prove. He shuffled toward John, pushing past others at the bar like he was important. “You’re a pervert, Greaser,” he slurred. “Bet you’re one of those sick son-of-a-bitches, huh? Get your kicks fucking little girls.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You’re probably the kind that lures ’em with candy. Old man like you, bet you like’em young,” Slim’s voice got louder–like he was putting on a show for the few half-drunk idiots around the room.

Still, Mexican John didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. He just took another drink, his eyes down, his mind somewhere far away, maybe Mexico, maybe the desert. Didn’t matter. Slim was the problem here, not him.

Slim didn’t like being ignored. He slapped John hard on the back. Once, twice, three times. It echoed through the room like a warning shot. Still, John didn’t react.

The bartender, a wiry man and younger than John with more wrinkles than an old saddle, wiped the counter and muttered under his breath, “Ain’t ya gonna do nothin’?”

John slowly looked up at the bartender, eyes half closed and with a lazy grin. “I don’t carry a gun in town,” he said. “Never have, besides the kids a half-wit and unarmed.”

The bartender shrugged. Slim was a fool, and fools, well, they don’t last long around these parts. The kid staggered out the batwing doors, still running his mouth, and John was happy to see him go.

Outside, the sun was setting, painting the street orange and red. John stepped out of the saloon, slow and steady like always. He hadn’t been in a hurry in years. But then he saw Slim step off the boardwalk across the street, a shotgun in hand, shaking like a leaf.

“You’re dead, old man,” Slim yelled, his hands too shaky to hold the shotgun steady. The weapon was too big for him, but Slim didn’t care. He thought this was his moment. He thought he could do something.

Mexican John didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He just stared at Slim like he’d seen it all before.

“You gonna kill me, Slim? he asked, voice low. “You gonna do it?”

John reached under his duster, his fingers brushing the cold steel of his knife. Slim didn’t notice. Slim didn’t have the sense to know what was coming.

The knife was in the air before Slim thought of pulling the trigger. John’s wrist flicked, and the blade flew, cutting the distance between them. It sank deep into Slim’s chest, right between the ribs.

Slim’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t even gasp. He tried to raise the shotgun, but his hands wouldn’t work. The gun hit the ground with a thud, and Slim staggered back, blood spilling out of him like a river.

He didn’t last long.

Mexican John stood over him, wiping his knife clean on Slim’s shirt. He looked down at the kid, now just another dead fool in a long line headed to Boot Hill. John felt tears well up in his eyes, knowing it didn’t have to end this way, but for Slim’s actions.

The bartender came running out, short on breath, eyes wide like he’d seen a ghost. “I thought you said you weren’t armed,” he said, voice shaky.

“I never said I wasn’t armed,” Mexican John said. “I said I don’t carry a gun in town.”

The neon sign flickered, casting a sickly glow on the cracked linoleum floor. The bartender–a grizzled soul with nicotine-stained fingers, wiped down the counter. His name? Hell, nobody knew. They just called him “Barkeep.”

“Another round?” he grunted, sliding a glass toward me.

The whiskey tasted like remorse and gasoline. I nodded because what else was there to do?

The regulars huddled in their usual spots—lost souls nursing wounds that wouldn’t heal. There was Old Man Joe, his liver pickled by decades of cheap bourbon. He had fought in Korea, but nowadays, his battles are with the jukebox. He’d curse Sinatra and croon along to Hank Williams.

And then there was Sad-Eyed Sally. She wore too much eyeliner as if trying to hide the world’s disappointments. Her laugh? A rusty hinge. She’d lost a husband, a dog, and her faith in humanity. But she still believed in happy hour.

“You know,” she slurred, leaning across the bar, “life’s a shitshow. Might as well dance in the rain.”

Outside, the rain tapped on the window like a desperate lover. The alley cats yowled, and the city coughed up its secrets. Bukowski would’ve loved this place—the sticky floors, the broken jukebox, the smell of desperation.

“What’s your poison?” Barkeep asked, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days.

“Life,” I replied. “Pour me a double.”

He obliged, and I stared into the murky depths. The mirror behind the bar reflected my weariness—the lines etched by missed chances, the eyes haunted by lost loves.

“You’re a writer, ain’t ya?” Barkeep squinted at me.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Words are my whiskey.”

“Well, kid,” he said, “Bukowski once sat right where you’re sittin’. Wrote poems about broken hearts and broken bottles. Said life was a beautiful catastrophe.”

And so, I wrote. Scribbled on napkins, spilled ink on coasters. My muse? The jukebox, belting out Tom Waits. The patrons? My characters—flawed, desperate, and achingly real.

Sad-Eyed Sally swayed to the music, her mascara running. Old Man Joe hummed along, lost in memories of lost wars. And Barkeep? He poured another round because that’s what he did.

As the night wore on, I penned my Bukowski homage—a love letter to the damned, the dreamers, and the drunks. The rain outside? It wept for us all.

And when the clock struck closing time, I left the dive bar, my pockets lighter, my soul heavier. Bukowski would’ve approved.

“Keep writing,” Barkeep boomed. “Maybe one day, they’ll remember your name.”

And so, I stumbled into the rain, my words trailing behind me like cigarette smoke: “Remember, my friend: Life’s a shitshow. We might as well dance in the rain.”

The Sierra Nevada Realtors (SNR) released its August 2024 report on existing home sales across Storey, Lyon, Carson City, Douglas, Churchill, and Washoe counties. The report indicates that the median sales price for single-family homes across all six counties was $566,864 in August, reflecting a 1.4 percent decrease from the previous month.

However, the median sales price has increased over the past year in several counties, including Carson City, Washoe, Lyon, Churchill, Storey, and Douglas counties have seen year-over-year declines. Additionally, active inventory levels decreased from July in both Carson City and Washoe County, but there was an increase in available listings compared to August 2023.

In Storey County, only one existing single-family home sold in August, which remained unchanged from the previous month but marked a significant 66.7 percent decrease compared to last year. The median sales price for the month was $490,000, representing a 29.8 percent increase from July, though it was still 2.6 percent lower than the previous year.

Lyon County saw 86 sales of existing single-family homes and manufactured properties, an increase of 1.2 percent from the previous month, although this was 1.1 percent lower than August 2023. The median sales price for existing single-family and manufactured homes rose to $414,995, a 3.7 percent increase from the previous month and 9.2 percent higher than last year, signaling a strong housing market in the county.

In Carson City, 73 single-family homes were sold in August, a 3.9 percent decline from the previous month. Despite this, sales were up by 23.7 percent compared to last year. The median sales price rose 3.6 percent from July to $545,000, a 13.5 percent increase from August 2023. Active inventory in Carson City was at 164 homes, a slight decrease of 0.6 percent from July but an increase of 10.1 percent compared to last year.

Douglas County experienced 53 sales of existing single-family homes in August, a 7 percent drop from July and a 20.9 percent decline from last year. The median sales price in the county reached $819,900, which is 15.2 percent higher than in July but 2.4 percent lower than in August of the previous year, reflecting some variability in market conditions.

Churchill County recorded 26 home sales, a 36.8 percent increase from July but remaining unchanged year-over-year. The median sales price in Churchill County rose by 1.2 percent from July, reaching $399,890, which is 3.9 percent higher than the same period in 2023.

In Washoe County, excluding the Incline Village area, there were 378 closed sales and 511 new listings in August. The median sales price for an existing single-family residence remained stable at $610,000, showing no change from the previous month, reflecting a 6.1 percent increase from last year. Active inventory levels in Washoe County stood at 998, representing a 2.4 percent decline from July, but there was an 11.4 percent increase in available listings compared to August 2023.

Victra, the nationwide retailer of Verizon mobile devices and the business name of ABC Phones of North Carolina, is facing a federal lawsuit after allegedly denying an employee’s request for medical leave related to her pregnancy and rescinding her job offer.

The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) announced the lawsuit on Wednesday, October 9, charging Victra with violating federal laws designed to protect pregnant employees. The lawsuit stems from an incident at Victra’s Dayton store where a woman, hired as a sales consultant, was forced to withdraw from her new hire training.

Before her start date, the employee discovered she needed an immediate ultrasound and medical evaluation for her high-risk pregnancy. On the day of her first training session, she notified her district sales manager that she had a medical emergency involving her unborn child’s heart. Hours later, Victra withdrew the job offer, instructing her to reapply only when she could commit to attending training “100 percent.”

The EEOC alleges that other new hires got to adjust or reschedule their training for reasons unrelated to pregnancy. Allegedly, Victra did not extend the same flexibility to this worker, constituting discrimination under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA.) The laws prohibit discrimination based on pregnancy and pregnancy-related impairments.

Nancy Sienko, district director for the EEOC’s San Francisco District, emphasized the impact of the company’s actions.

“Workers should never be forced to choose between keeping their job or seeking urgent prenatal care to protect the health of both parent and child,” Sienko said. “Losing the ability to earn income at such a critical time is devastating, and the EEOC will vigorously defend the rights of pregnant applicants and employees against employment discrimination.”

EEOC Senior Trial Attorney Mariko Ashley added that federal law now provides further protections under the Pregnant Workers Fairness Act, which took effect on Tuesday, June 27, 2023, and requires employers to provide equal opportunities and flexibility to pregnant workers.

The EEOC filed the lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the District of Nevada after unsuccessful attempts to settle the case. The lawsuit seeks back pay, compensatory and punitive damages, and injunctive relief to prevent future discriminatory practices.

As I drove my creaky truck up the hill that drops down into the north end of Virginia City, I knew trouble was brewing. Trouble, like a stubborn mule, had taken up residence in the middle of my path. And it was not the kind of trouble you can shoo away with a stern look or a well-aimed pebble.

You see, there was a detour—one so convoluted that even a cat with a compass would get lost. It was for yet another motorsport event, so I had to figure out how to get around it, lest my newspapers remain undelivered and the good folks of Virginia City miss out on their weakly dose of gossip, scandal, and weather predictions.

First, I turned onto Carson Street, which was as wide as a river during the rainy season. But lo and behold, there was a blockade—a large pick of equipment squatting in the middle of the thoroughfare like a stubborn mule with a penchant for mischief.

So, I cut up to B Street, zigzagging like a drunken sailor trying to find his sea legs. A Street came into view, and I thought, “Ah, salvation,” but no, it was like trying to thread a needle with a sausage—impossible.

I turned down to B Street, and my wheels protested at each jolt.

Finally, I found myself on C Street, where the post office sat like a grumpy old fart guarding his stash of love letters and overdue bills. I had to ask permission to use the parking lot to load my vehicle.

The postmistress eyed me up and down as if I were a bandit trying to make off with a supply of stamps. But I sweet-talked her—I told the mistress my truck was just a humble steed, burdened with the weight of ink-stained truths.

Loaded up and ready to roll, I made all my deliveries, including those in Silver City and Dayton. Then, I decided to take Six Mile Canyon back to Virginia City. An act of faith, mind you, as I was not sure the canyon had suffered the same fate as C Street—a detour apocalypse.

But I figured, “What is life without a little adventure?”

So, I urged my truck onward, its wheels protesting like a choir of rusty hinges. And that is when I found myself in a pickle—a jar labeled “Off-Road Racers.”

There they were, lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery. I could not back out—the street had become narrower than a preacher’s smile. So, I did what any sensible man would do–I joined the line.

If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, they say.

As I inched forward, I noticed the lead mechanic doing qualifying checks on the vehicles. He was a grizzled fellow with oil stains on his overalls and a wrench tucked behind his ear.

I leaned out and hollered, “Hey there! Mind checking my truck’s oil and wiper fluid while you’re at it?”

Well, that did it. The dude scowled, kicked me out of line, and muttered something about “horseless carriages” and “city slickers.”

I did not qualify to race.

Perhaps I’ll grease my truck’s wheels and practice my pit stops for next year. Or maybe, I’ll stick to delivering newspapers—the only race where the finish line is a bar stool and a shot of whiskey. Because, you know, the newspaper business is where the real money is at. Ask any broke journalist—they’ll tell you, “We’re rolling in dough, one headline at a time.”