The Old Blog in the Desert

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.”

He’s been at the same effing desk for forty damn years. Forty.

The same chair, creaking every time he settles in, mocking him—the ghost of countless deadlines and missed opportunities. A fluorescent light buzzes overhead, a monotonous hum, the soundtrack to his life.

They tell him that’s how things are—a steady paycheck, good benefits. As if it’s enough to fill the void of a soul slowly hollowed out by the daily grind of goddamn spreadsheets and calls that lead nowhere.

The writing? That’s the part he clings to. He tells himself it matters.
After the kids are in bed and the wife is either sleeping or pretending to care about something else, he pulls out the laptop or sits in front of the big computer, depending on the mood, and gets to work. Fiction, poetry. Whatever flows out. But it’s all the same.

He writes into the void and hopes for a miracle, but shit like that doesn’t come to guys like him. The mailbox is empty. The inbox is just junk. Rejection letters pile up like memento mori to how much of a joke he has become to the world.

His name? You can’t find it unless it’s under some crappy pen name. He doesn’t even bother submitting anymore. He knows it’s all just one big hustle for the people who have the right connections, the bullshit, the look. He’s never had that look. Hell, he doesn’t even know what the hell that is.

He writes in the dead hours, waiting for anything to pull him from his rut. He tells himself it’s not about fame. It’s about the craft, the words. But deep down, he knows. He knows if he were just a little younger, a little luckier, he’d be in some room right now, giving a reading to people who gave a damn. Instead, he’s sitting in his cramped bedroom office, pounding out another stupid-ass story few will ever read, hoping for the one thing he’ll never get: someone to tell him it mattered, he mattered.

At work, they don’t know about his writing. The son of a bitches would laugh if they did. They’d think he was a loser trying to hold on to a dream that never had a life, a chance. The assholes don’t see the scars, the long nights, the fingers sore from typing when they should have been sleeping. All they see is the guy who shows up, does his job, and gets a paycheck.

Some nights, he stares out the window and wonders if he missed it—whatever it is. That spark, that chance, the break. But that’s the hell of a thing to wonder about when you’re forty years in and no closer to fame than the day you started. So he sits there, another cigarette, and writes because that’s all he knows to do.

The world keeps turning, indifferent as ever, and he keeps typing, trying to write something that’ll make it all matter, the truth, his truth. But the silence in the room tells him all he needs to know.

The world’s already fucking forgotten him. And sixty-plus years hasn’t been long enough to leave a fucking mark.

U.S. Representative Steven Horsford has introduced legislation to reshape the compensation system for tipped workers, echoing former President Donald Trump’s idea of eliminating the taxation of tips.

Horsford’s Tipped Income Protection and Standards (TIPS) Act, unveiled last week in Washington, D.C., seeks to eliminate the federal sub-minimum wage for tipped workers and end federal income tax on tips altogether. The bill has garnered support from Nevada’s Culinary Union, which praised the legislation for addressing unfair treatment of tipped employees.

A union spokesperson noted the impact the TIPS Act would have on millions of workers, particularly those in Nevada.

“By eliminating federal income taxes on tips and ending the sub-minimum wage, this legislation that Congressman Horsford is championing will uplift millions of workers.”

Nevada has become a focal point for the national conversation surrounding tipped workers’ wages.

Horsford pointed to the state’s wage structure as a model for others, noting that Nevada’s elimination of the sub-minimum wage would increase productivity and employee retention in the restaurant industry.

“In Nevada, restaurants have seen increased productivity, employee retention, and customer satisfaction since eliminating the sub-minimum wage,” Horsford said.

Horsford’s approach contrasts with the national trend, particularly in states like Texas, Virginia, and Alabama, where tipped workers still earn as little as $2.13 an hour.

Former President Donald Trump brought the issue of taxes on tips to the national stage during his presidency, and the debate has gained traction ever since. Trump, along with Vice President Kamala Harris, has supported the idea of eliminating federal income taxes on tips, a proposal that resonates with both parties.

For Horsford, the TIPS Act is more than just wages and taxes—it is a matter of fairness and economic social justice.

“No one working full-time in America should live in poverty, yet millions of tipped workers do just that—many of whom are women and people of color,” he said.

The minimum wage for tipped workers in Nevada is $12, the fifth-highest, after Washington, California, Oregon, and Hawaii.

I was at the bar again, same damn place I always end up when the day has gone to shit and the night is too fucking quiet. The jukebox spat out some old blues track, probably the only thing left in this dump with any soul.

Tony, the kid behind the bar, was half-ass wiping down the counter, staring into nowhere like he had better shit to do, but we both knew he didn’t. None of us did.

I dragged myself onto the stool in the darkened corner, where the light flickers like some poor bastard’s getting fried out back in the electric chair. The stool was hard as hell, but I didn’t give a fuck anymore. My back’s already fucked up, so what’s another hour of pain?

“Whiskey. Straight,” I said. Just the hooch and me, and that’s all, no distractions.

“Life is short,” I thought. “No time for chasers or any of that fancy crap, straight up, no ice, no frills. The kind that stings as it goes down, reminding you you’re still here, whether you like it or not.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “How’s the wife?” he asked, barely glancing up as he poured.

I snorted, “Still fucking breathing, I guess.”

Tony didn’t laugh. He never does. Smart kid.

Linda left me six years ago. She said I was a fucking bastard, said I drank too much, was lazy, and she wasn’t wrong. She walked out like I didn’t matter, and I let her because what the hell could I say?

She tore a hole in me, one I could never fill, so I just kept drinking and kept showing up at my job and here. I kept doing what I do best: playing fuck it all.

I took a gulp of whiskey and let it burn its way down, let it sit in the pit of my gut where everything had gone rotten.

A couple in the booth caught my eye. The woman wore too much makeup, and the guy had too many tattoos. They laughed like idiots, but there was something off—like they were trying too hard. It made me wanna puke, tell them to shut the fuck up, get a room at the flop house across the street, but I didn’t. Who gives a shit?

The door opened, and some guy stumbled in. His face was all kinds of fucked up—black eye, busted lip. He looked like he just had his ass handed to him in a back alley. He dropped onto the stool next to me and tapped the bar. Tony poured him a drink, no questions asked. Nobody gives a fuck here, and why I like it here.

“Fight?” I asked because it seemed like the only thing worth saying.

He chuckled, low and bitter. “Yeah. With myself,” he said, taking a long swig like the whiskey was the only thing keeping him upright. “Guess I fucking lost.”

I nodded and took another drink. “We all fucking lose. But you keep going. That’s the game.”

He turned to me then and looked at me. His eyes were dark, hollow. Like he’d seen some serious shit like maybe he’d been in a war with himself for years and didn’t know how to get out.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

The couple in the booth started yelling, voices raised over some bullshit—maybe he grabbed her too hard, or she found lipstick on his shirt. It didn’t matter. Their fight was just as phony as their laughter. Tony dragged his feet around the bar like he was about to break it up, but we both knew he wasn’t trying. He didn’t give two shits. None of us did.

I drained my glass, slamming it on the counter. Tony looked over and nodded like he knew I’d be back tomorrow, or maybe he thought I wouldn’t even make it through the night. Neither of us cared either way.

I stepped outside, and the cold slapped me across the face like an insult. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking. The sound of my boots on the concrete was the only thing that made sense, a steady beat in a world filled with fucking noise.

The streets were empty except for a few drunks down the block, laughing and shouting at nothing. The flickering fluorescent lights at the entrance of another bar illuminated a group of drunks, their raucous laughter and off-key singing piercing through the night. But that’s all we got left, a city that’s is just as fucked as we are, and that’s the goddamn truth.

The streetlights cast that sick orange glow like the whole city was in some bullshit made-for-television nightmare it could not wake up from. The air stunk of piss and exhaust, a mix of cheap liquor and bad decisions.

I walked past another bar and heard the laughter, the clinking of glass, all that bullshit that comes with pretending life doesn’t suck. The stench of stale beer, and cigarette smoke, wafted toward me like a cheap cologne on an even cheaper whore, mingling with the sharp tang of the nearby sea.

But I knew the truth. No matter how far I walked, I’d always end up back at the bar because at least it was familiar, and at least it was real, the same shit, but different night. And that is the thing—no matter how fucked up it gets, you just keep going. And if you are lucky, maybe you’ll forget why.

And that’s all you can do. And that’s what I do.

The Storey County Sheriff’s Office (SCSO) confirmed that Virginia City High School was evacuated around 7:30 a.m. on Wednesday, September 18, following reports of a possible propane leak. However, after investigating the situation, authorities determined there was no active threat, and students and staff were safely allowed to return to class.

On Friday, September 20, The SCSO addressed a separate issue involving a potential threat made against the school weeks earlier but only recently reported. Following an investigation, one student was expelled from the school and will not be returning to Virginia City High School.

In a joint statement, the Storey County School District (SCSD) and the SCSO assured the community that they are taking the matter seriously and that the safety of students, staff, and visitors remains their top priority.

“The School District and Sheriff’s Office worked and continue to work closely to address the reported threat,” the statement said. “Safety is our top priority, and we will always act to the best of our abilities to protect our community.”

The SCSO office says there is no threat to the safety of students or staff, and the propane leak incident was unrelated to the threats against the school.

Sierra Nevada Realtors (SNR) released its September 2024 report on existing home sales across Lyon, Storey, Carson City, Douglas, Churchill, and Washoe Counties, revealing changes in sales and median prices.

In Lyon County, 112 existing single-family homes and manufactured properties sold, a 6.7 percent decrease from last month but a 47.4 percent increase from last year. The median sales price for these properties rose to $400,000, up 1.5 percent from last month and 2.8 percent from the previous year.

Storey County recorded two sales of existing single-family homes, doubling from the previous month and last year. The median sales price for these homes was $360,000, a 26.5 percent drop from last month and a 4 percent decrease from last year.

In Carson City, 59 existing single-family homes sold, an 18.1 percent decline from August but a slight increase of 1.7 percent compared to September 2023. The median sales price fell to $534,950, a 0.5 percent decrease from last month and 7 percent lower than last year. Active inventory in the city was 171, down 11.9 percent from last month and 7.6 percent from last year.

Douglas County reported 57 sales of existing single-family homes, a 1.8 percent increase from the previous month but a 6.6 percent decrease from last year. The median sales price dropped to $720,000, down 13.8 percent from last month and 5.2 percent from the previous year.

Churchill County saw 12 sales of existing single-family homes, a steep 53.8 percent decline from the previous month and a 20 percent drop from last year. The median sales price was $382,250, a 4.4 percent decrease from last month but 6.2 percent higher than last year.

Washoe County, excluding Incline Village, had 620 new listings and 496 closed sales in September. The median sales price was $587,500, a 3.7 percent decrease from the previous month but a 4.4 percent increase from last year. Active inventory was 1,760, a slight 0.5 percent decrease from last month but a 15 percent increase from the previous year.

Former Zulily employees in Storey County are among those joining a class-action lawsuit against the online retailer after it shut down its operations in December before being sold in March.

The lawsuit, filed in the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Washington, alleges that Regent, Zulily’s former parent company, violated the federal Worker Adjustment and Retraining Notification (WARN) Act by failing to provide the required 60-day notice to remote employees, including those in Nevada.

The suit claims that Zulily laid off 839 employees, including hundreds in Nevada and Ohio, without complying with the WARN Act. Although Zulily closed its headquarters in Seattle, remote workers assigned to physical locations like those in Storey County were not given proper notice or pay, according to the lawsuit.

Plaintiffs argue that Regent consulted with its legal team and exploited a loophole to avoid compensating these remote employees. In Storey County, where Zulily once employed a large workforce, employees who were part of the mass layoff are now seeking damages, attorney fees, and other costs through the lawsuit.

The WARN Act requires companies with 100 or more employees to provide a 60-day notice before a facility closure or large-scale layoff, giving employees time to find new employment. The lawsuit asserts that Zulily’s failure to comply with these provisions has left affected employees in Nevada and beyond without the protections they were entitled to under federal law.

Zulily, acquired by Los Angeles-based Regent in 2023, underwent multiple layoffs, resulting in the closure of the Storey County operations, and remains embroiled in legal battles, with former employees and vendors filing complaints.

I was at the bar again, same damn place I always end up when the day has gone to shit and the night is too fucking quiet. The jukebox spat out some old blues track, probably the only thing left in this dump with any soul.

Tony, the kid behind the bar, was half-ass wiping down the counter, staring into nowhere like he had better shit to do, but we both knew he didn’t. None of us did.

I dragged myself onto the stool in the darkened corner, where the light flickers like some poor bastard’s getting fried out back in the electric chair. The stool was hard as hell, but I didn’t give a fuck anymore. My back’s already fucked up, so what’s another hour of pain?

“Whiskey. Straight,” I said. Just the hooch and me, and that’s all, no distractions.

“Life is short,” I thought. “No time for chasers or any of that fancy crap, straight up, no ice, no frills. The kind that stings as it goes down, reminding you you’re still here, whether you like it or not.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “How’s the wife?” he asked, barely glancing up as he poured.

I snorted, “Still fucking breathing, I guess.”

Tony didn’t laugh. He never does. Smart kid.

Linda left me six years ago. She said I was a fucking bastard, said I drank too much, was lazy, and she wasn’t wrong. She walked out like I didn’t matter, and I let her because what the hell could I say?

She tore a hole in me, one I could never fill, so I just kept drinking and kept showing up at my job and here. I kept doing what I do best: playing fuck it all.

I took a gulp of whiskey and let it burn its way down, let it sit in the pit of my gut where everything had gone rotten.

A couple in the booth caught my eye. The woman wore too much makeup, and the guy had too many tattoos. They laughed like idiots, but there was something off—like they were trying too hard. It made me wanna puke, tell them to shut the fuck up, get a room at the flop house across the street, but I didn’t. Who gives a shit?

The door opened, and some guy stumbled in. His face was all kinds of fucked up—black eye, busted lip. He looked like he just had his ass handed to him in a back alley. He dropped onto the stool next to me and tapped the bar. Tony poured him a drink, no questions asked. Nobody gives a fuck here, and why I like it here.

“Fight?” I asked because it seemed like the only thing worth saying.

He chuckled, low and bitter. “Yeah. With myself,” he said, taking a long swig like the whiskey was the only thing keeping him upright. “Guess I fucking lost.”

I nodded and took another drink. “We all fucking lose. But you keep going. That’s the game.”

He turned to me then and looked at me. His eyes were dark, hollow. Like he’d seen some serious shit like maybe he’d been in a war with himself for years and didn’t know how to get out.

“I don’t know, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t fucking know anymore.”

The couple in the booth started yelling, voices raised over some bullshit—maybe he grabbed her too hard, or she found lipstick on his shirt. It didn’t matter. Their fight was just as phony as their laughter. Tony dragged his feet around the bar like he was about to break it up, but we both knew he wasn’t trying. He didn’t give two shits. None of us did.

I drained my glass, slamming it on the counter. Tony looked over and nodded like he knew I’d be back tomorrow, or maybe he thought I wouldn’t even make it through the night. Neither of us cared either way.

I stepped outside, and the cold slapped me across the face like an insult. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking. The sound of my boots on the concrete was the only thing that made sense, a steady beat in a world filled with fucking noise.

The streets were empty except for a few drunks down the block, laughing and shouting at nothing. The flickering fluorescent lights at the entrance of another bar illuminated a group of drunks, their raucous laughter and off-key singing piercing through the night. But that’s all we got left, a city that’s is just as fucked as we are, and that’s the goddamn truth.

The streetlights cast that sick orange glow like the whole city was in some bullshit made-for-television nightmare it could not wake up from. The air stunk of piss and exhaust, a mix of cheap liquor and bad decisions.

I walked past another bar and heard the laughter, the clinking of glass, all that bullshit that comes with pretending life doesn’t suck. The stench of stale beer, and cigarette smoke, wafted toward me like a cheap cologne on an even cheaper whore, mingling with the sharp tang of the nearby sea.

But I knew the truth. No matter how far I walked, I’d always end up back at the bar because at least it was familiar, and at least it was real, the same shit, but different night. And that is the thing—no matter how fucked up it gets, you just keep going. And if you are lucky, maybe you’ll forget why.

And that’s all you can do. And that’s what I do.

Douglas County has received a $50,000 grant from the Center for Technology and Civic Life (CTCL) to support election security and administration ahead of the general election in November.

The grant, part of CTCL’s Rural and Nonmetro Election Infrastructure Grant Program, was uncovered through an open-records request submitted by Silver State Times. The development follows widespread scrutiny of CTCL’s involvement in U.S. elections, particularly after the nonprofit directed approximately $400 million, commonly referred to as “Zuckerbucks,” into the 2020 election, primarily benefiting election offices in Democratic-leaning districts.

In response, 28 state legislatures have since banned accepting private, nonprofit money for election administration.

Douglas County’s Grants Administrator, Debbie Swickard, applied for the grant on August 19, citing the county’s need for additional election security measures and equipment.

“As a rural county with limited funding, a grant award will help us fill the gaps to purchase needed items for security,” Swickward stated in her application. “Being proactive to mitigate any possible threat, we would like to purchase transport carts for mail ballots and bulletproof glass for our election public counter. We are also in need of tables and shelving systems for our processing facility as well as tables for our vote centers. We are extremely grateful for any funding to help us maintain fair and safe elections for Douglas County.”

CTCL’s executive director, Tiana Epps-Johnson, approved the grant.

“I’m pleased to share that the Center for Tech and Civic Life has reviewed your application… and has approved a grant award totaling $50,000. Epps-Johnson wrote in an email to the county.

The acceptance of the grant is still pending approval by the Douglas County Board of Commissioners but was not on the agenda during a recent board meeting.

Critics of CTCL argue that the organization’s funding practices have political implications. A recent exposé by The Federalist has called attention to the organization’s alleged far-left affiliations and its involvement in election activism. The report highlights CTCL’s origins in left-wing movements and claims that its leadership is aligned with progressive causes, including critical race theory and the “defund the police” movement.

Despite the controversy surrounding CTCL, the grant agreement specifies that the funds be used “exclusively for the public purpose of planning and operationalizing reliable and secure election administration in Douglas County, Nevada, in 2024.”

With applications for CTCL grants available to election offices in 19 states, the debate over the influence of private money in public elections is likely to continue as the 2024 election approaches.

Former Pahrump Judge Michele Fiore was convicted on federal wire fraud charges on Thursday, October 3, stemming from allegations that Fiore misappropriated donations for a memorial statue honoring late Las Vegas police officer Alyn Beck, diverting the funds for personal expenses instead.

A jury found Fiore guilty of six wire fraud counts and one count of conspiracy. Each count carries a potential maximum sentence of 20 years in prison. U.S. District Court Judge Jennifer Dorsey scheduled her sentencing for Monday, January 6.

Fiore, a former Las Vegas City Councilwoman, was accused of raising funds for her political action committee and charity in honor of Officer Beck, killed in the line of duty in 2014. Prosecutors argued that instead of using the donations for the memorial, Fiore funneled the money into herself, covering expenses such as plastic surgery and rent.

The jury began deliberating on Thursday afternoon after the closing arguments from both sides. During the trial, several witnesses, including Nevada’s current, Governor Joe Lombardo, testified about the circumstances surrounding the fundraising and the intended purpose of the donations.