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There’s always one in every class—the fella who fusses when the teacher tries to bring a little order to the room. In this case, the class clown is none other than Nevada’s Attorney General Aaron Ford, who, instead of thanking the Trump administration for finally putting reins on runaway ideological programs in our schools, decided to holler, stomp, and run off to court–again.

The Department of Education had the gall to say that if state and local agencies wanted federal dollars, they had to follow the law. Specifically, they had to drop so-called DEI programs that divide children by race and teach folks to see each other through the warped lens of grievance politics. The administration made it clear–either uphold the Civil Rights Act–equal treatment for all–or find another sugar daddy.

But Ford, bless his bureaucratic-dogmatic soul, wasn’t about to miss a chance to posture. He and 19 other like-minded attorneys general filed suit, bellyaching about “vague interpretations” and “legal incoherence,” as if asking states not to use public funds to peddle discrimination disguised as inclusion was a cryptic puzzle.

And, of course, Ford played the victim card like it was the last ace in the deck, claiming Nevada would be “forced” into lawsuits or have to abandon programs designed to “protect children.” Funny—many Nevadans voted precisely to end those programs, believing their children should learn reading and arithmetic, not grievance and groupthink.

Despite the left’s political concerns, the Trump administration is fulfilling its promises—restoring common sense to government, defending civil rights, and ensuring taxpayer money isn’t going to ideologues.

As for Ford, maybe someone needs to tie his hands with more red tape of his own making—just enough to keep him from signing any more lawsuits written in political theater and wrapped in moral panic. Because in the end, this ain’t about civil rights, but about whether the federal government gets to say, “If we’re footing the bill, we expect the rules to be followed.”

And that, as any farmer, blacksmith, or barber will tell you, is just plain fair.

Now, friends, I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen six grown men grin so wide for a photograph that wound up aging worse than a milk jug on a July windowsill. Back in the frost-bitten days of December 2020, six Republican gentlepersons from Nevada put on their Sunday best, marched themselves in like they’s starring in a school play, and cast electoral votes for Donald Trump–votes that, mind you, were about as official as a poker game in a church basement.

They mailed the votes to Washington like it was Christmas and the Capitol was Santa Claus. Trouble was, Washington already had all the votes it needed–and these six had no invite to the party. Thus, they earned themselves the moniker “fake electors,” the political equivalent of being called a counterfeit penny.

Enter Senator Skip Daly, who saw the spectacle and figured something needed to get done lest the great Silver State become a stage for political playacting. So he cooked up a bill to outlaw the showboatin’. The bill made it to the governor’s desk in 2023 — where it got vetoed by Governor Joe Lombardo, who said the whole thing smelled too much like government overreach and handed it back like an unwanted fruitcake.

“In his veto message, he said it was a terrible crime, it was a scheme,” Daly remarked–recalling it with all the warmth of a porcupine in a bedroll. But the governor also said the punishment was steeper than the one given to somebody peddling fentanyl, and that, folks, is a comparison that’ll knock the starch out of any argument.

So Daly returned to the kitchen, stirred the pot again, and out came Senate Bill 102, a slimmer, softer version of the original. No more 10-year sentences–now it’s just one to four years, with the possibility of probation if you pinky-promise to behave.

And while it won’t ban you from working for the city entirely, don’t expect to be running for mayor’s office if you’ve been playacting with the people’s votes. Daly says if you want to trim hedges for the Parks Department, be his guest–but don’t expect a crown.

The bill slid through the Senate 13 to eight, right down the usual party lines like a greasy biscuit. It now sits before the Assembly Legislative Operations and Elections Committee–a name that sounds more complicated than the work. Daly’s optimistic–but says the real nail-biter is whether Governor Lombardo’ll sign the thing in 2025–or toss it back again like a hot horseshoe.

Before anyone hollers about censorship or tyranny, let me be as crystal-clear as Lake Bigler–the Right to Free Speech still exists. You can say you believe in Sasquatch, space lizards, or landslides in Nevada elections–nobody’s stopping you. But when you start signing your name to things that ain’t official and mailing them to Congress like you’re a founding father, don’t be surprised when the law taps you on the shoulder.

It’s a story about the line between talking politics and doing politics — and Nevada, bless her silver heart, is still trying to sort out the difference between itself and the federal government.

Let me start by saying that I am, by most measurable standards, a relatively stable individual. I sort my recycling. I pay my taxes early–because fear is a powerful motivator–and I have never once licked a streetlamp in winter–despite several compelling dares.

But I also have PTSD, severe depression, manic depression.

It’s not loud—the sort that explodes into rooms like an action hero. Mine is sneakier. It waits until I’m asleep, comfortable, vulnerable, and then, wham—a night terror with all the subtlety of a heavy metal band playing the Hell March.

So, I’ve turned to microdosing.

A little pinch of psilocybin—nothing serious, just a chemically mediated truce with my subconscious. Think of it as diplomacy for the dreams. Just enough to keep the demons politely seated and sipping tea.

Only last night–well, I may have gotten the decimal point in the wrong place. Not by much. Just enough to go from “lucid dreamer exploring the inner landscape of his psyche” to “giant monkey hallucination stomping across the skyline with a woman in his palm.”

Yes. I dreamt I was King King. Not a typo. Not King Kong. That gorilla’s union. I was King King. Bigger. Hairier. Existentially more confused.

As dreams often do, the dream began with a foghorn and a growing suspicion that I had too hairy knuckles. I looked down and realized I was immense. Titanically, cosmically, impractically, a big making Godzilla look like a garden gnome.

And in my enormous, leathery paw?

A woman.

Beautiful. Dainty. In a dress that sparkled like someone had thrown glitter into a wind tunnel. And despite the precarious circumstances of being carried up a skyscraper by a primate with unresolved trauma, looking surprisingly calm.

She smiled up at me. “Oh, King King…you smell like observational apprehension and banana liqueur.”

I blinked. Or possibly, I thundered. It’s hard to tell with dream physics.

“I must climb the Empire State Building,” I declared because it seemed like the sort of thing one had to do. Gravity be damned. Therapy be damned. It was a narrative necessity.

And so up I went, Darla–of course her name was Darla; all dream blondes are–perched delicately in my hand, humming something that may have been Sinatra or possibly just the sound of the universe mocking me.

Then came the planes.

Tiny buzzing things with wings and flashing lights and—this is important—a distinct attitude. Like I’d parked in their space. I roared. Not out of anger but more out of sheer stress. I was still me, somewhere in there. A guy with a day job and a fear of uncontrolled anger who was now getting strafed by biplanes while holding a Barbie-sized blonde and wearing absolutely nothing.

At least, not in the dream.

Because when I fell—when the dream reached its inevitable cinematic climax, and I plummeted from the top of the world in slow-motion tragedy—I woke up.

On the grass. My front yard.

I was lying there, damp and dewy, in nothing but my briefs.

And in my hand?

A Barbie doll.

Not just any Barbie. This one had attitude, with that early-era judgmental Barbie expression, like she knew I hadn’t flossed. Her hair was matted.

But her dress sparkled, just like Darla’s.

For one heart-freezing moment, I wondered if I’d sleepwalked and reenacted King King using lawn chairs as buildings. There was a garden gnome nearby that looked slightly traumatized.

Then came the voice.

“Tom?”

It was Katie. My neighbor. The one with an unnerving amount of calm, well, because she has three teen boys.

I sat up slowly. “Morning.”

She sipped her coffee. “Dream again?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Bit more…cinematic this time.”

“You okay,” she said. “That was pretty dramatic fall you took.”

I looked at the edge of my roof.

“You’re holding Barbie.”

“I think she was Darla.”

Katie nodded like this made perfect sense. “You’re lucky. Last month the Wilson boy thought he was a velociraptor and tried to mate with my rose bush.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m thinking of switching to whiskey,” I said, brushing grass off my butt.

“Wise,” she said and went inside.

That evening, I put Barbie on my bookshelf next to ‘The Psychonaut Field Manual’ and a mug that says ‘World’s Okayest Dream Warrior.’ I brewed coffee. No mushrooms. No unquantified potatoes, peppers, or legumes.

I sat on my back porch that evening, watching the sun set behind mountains, half expecting to see a silhouette of myself—enormous and tragic—climbing the outline of a radio tower.

“Never again,” I whispered.

Barbie didn’t reply. But I swear, she looked a little smug about it.

Now, I’m no stranger to schemes dressed up as progress, nor am I blind to the kind of arithmetic that makes a man pay twice for the same stretch of dirt. Come May 7th at six o’clock sharp, over at the Spanish Springs Library, a gathering of fine folk—Washoe County officials and the Spanish Springs Citizens Advisory Board—will be hosting what they call a “meeting.”

That’s polite speak for giving the public a whiff of what’s already cooking behind the curtain.

Sparks Mayor Ed Lawson, a man of well-pressed shirts and well-rehearsed answers, will stand alongside the Regional Transportation Commission (RTC) to sing the praises of a proposed toll road stretching eastward to the Tahoe-Reno Industrial Center. Now, they’ll tell you it’s for convenience, progress, and the ever-noble cause of reducing congestion.

But mark my words: this ain’t no charitable cause.

The fine print—and there’s always fine print—reveals that this ribbon of pavement won’t be cheap. Drivers will pay to pass, not just once but thrice, as they’ll also have to pay the price tag and taxes.

Over time, what trickles from your pocket will amount to a gusher—far more than the cost of the asphalt itself. The toll road is less a thoroughfare and more a siphon, dressed in high-visibility vests and bureaucratic grins.

Ever eager to dazzle with maps and models, the RTC will trot out timelines, project charts, and plans so sweeping it’ll need a separate zip code. They’ll talk of “prioritization” and “next steps,” as if the future were a paint-by-numbers kit.

So, if you’ve a mind to keep your wallet from developing a permanent limp, best saddle up and ride down to the meeting. Progress may be inevitable—but paying more than a road is worth ought not to be.

They’ve finally brought down the old Reno Police Department headquarters on East 2nd Street, a building so long abandoned it might’ve qualified for sainthood had it stood much longer without plumbing.

The City Council, ever eager to swing a wrecking ball at anything with memories or masonry, gave the nod earlier this year to have the place torn down. They say the idea is to erect a shiny new headquarters for the Reno Fire Department, which has been wandering the desert since 2008 like a band of municipal Israelites.

The old cop shop, built in the ’40s, has spent its golden years being abused by the fire boys for training. By the end, it looked less like a public building and more like the set of a spaghetti Western shootout, with broken windows, smashed walls, and enough debris to make a raccoon blush.

But don’t think for a minute that this is just civic housekeeping. Nope.

It is the Reno City Council at its most industrious—kicking out the folks with badges from one address and calling it progress–while Reno’s homeless population keeps growing faster than City Hall’s excuses. You might say the Council’s got a taste for creating homelessness, whether you sleep on cardboard or carry a badge and sidearm.

Now, the boys in blue have moved to Kuenzli Street, and the fire folks are promised a new station by 2027—assuming the Council doesn’t get distracted by something shinier or costlier. Maybe a gold-plated roundabout or a “Zen garden” made entirely of recycled council agendas.

For now, East 2nd Street stands quiet, the rubble fresh and the promise bold. But if history is any teacher—and she usually is—it’s safe to say that in Reno, the only thing more certain than taxes is that the City Council will find a way to fix things until it’s broke.

Now, I ain’t saying the good people of Nevada ought to tether their dreams to the ground–but should your notion of celebration involve launching balloons skyward like miniature Hindenburgs, you might turn out the lights on 10,000 of your closest neighbors. It’s precisely what happened on Sunday, March 2, when a floating bit of merriment went rogue and knocked the juice out of downtown Las Vegas for over an hour.

The culprit? Not a saboteur or cosmic reckoning, but a plain ol’ balloon—according to one Mr. Anthony Ruiz, who holds the noble title of government relations manager at NV Energy, who delivered this revelation before the Nevada Legislature, with a straight face and tie neatly knotted.

Mr. Ruiz informed the lawmakers, “Just in the past five years alone, balloon-related incidents have caused over 400 outages impacting hundreds of thousands of customers.”

He said those outages hit some 600,000 folks in the wallet, the dark, or both. His figures ain’t independently verifiable and may, like a good fishing tale, grow with every telling.

Not content to pick on just the shiny foil kind, Ruiz turned his ire upon the rubber balloon, too—saying these can melt themselves into power lines like a marshmallow at a bonfire, leaving linemen to scrape and pry with tools better suited for Frankenstein’s laboratory.

Democratic Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui, with a face as serious as a hanging judge, called balloons a widespread safety hazard, pointing out that “When released, balloons frequently end up as litter in waterways or natural habitats where they harm wildlife and contribute to microplastic pollution.”

She added mylar balloons are particularly troublesome—they neither rot nor repent–and when they hit a wire, they throw sparks like the Fourth of July.

Her bill, Assembly Bill 194, proposes to slap a $250 fine on those caught releasing balloons into the sky. If your child lets one go on their birthday, you probably won’t find yourselves in irons.

“The goal of the bill isn’t to like find people and fine them,” Jauregui explained. “It’s more about prevention… about getting the education out there.”

I do hope the balloons are listening.

For the curious reader with an airship in the barn, fear not–hot-air balloons, weather balloons, and science experiments remain spared under the law. Likewise, the humble indoor release still enjoys liberty, floating harmlessly toward ceilings and chandeliers.

This bill rides tandem with last year’s AB321, which begins phasing in balloon restrictions by 2027, going full throttle by 2030. The law threatens a $50 fine per Mylar balloon, up to $2,500—a price that may inspire more folks to send their sentiments via email.

In conclusion, dear reader, if you must send your love into the sky, perhaps consider a prayer or a pigeon–at least they don’t trip the grid.

If ever there was a gal who could ride into a courtroom on a cloud of thunder, gripping a presidential pardon in one hand and a Bible in the other, it would’ve been Michele Fiore. And yet, Monday morning came, and nary a whisper of her heels on the marble nor a bang of her gavel on the bench.

The courtroom doors stayed shut, the bench cold. The press–bless their smug little hearts, wasted no time tapping out headlines with the glee of schoolchildren who just saw the teacher trip on her hemline.

Ms. Fiore, once a Las Vegas City Councilwoman and more recently a Pahrump judge on ice due to a federal conviction, was gifted a presidential pardon last week by President Trump himself—a gesture she took as divine intervention.

“Not because man permitted it, but because God ordained it,” she thundered like Moses coming down from Mount Trumpmore.

She told the world she’d be back in court Monday. But Monday came. She didn’t.

Instead of a return to righteous judgment, reporters got treated to the quiet shuffle of bailiffs, a docket that dragged on without her, and more than a few raised eyebrows. Following her story like flies on a honey jar, the media practically fell over themselves with delight, crowing that the judge-turned-defendant-turned-pardoned-mystic didn’t show.

“Where’s Michele?” was the question of the day, and the grin in every anchor’s voice answered it with a twist of satisfaction.

Now, Ms. Fiore’s fall from grace wasn’t a subtle affair. In October, after a jury mulled over the evidence for two hours, they handed down a tidy verdict–one count of conspiracy to commit wire fraud and six counts of wire fraud.

The charges, as wild as anything dreamed up in dime-store fiction, involved donations collected for police memorials—money meant for solemn statues, which prosecutors say detoured through Ms. Fiore’s purse. Governor Joe Lombardo and union boss Tommy White, among others, testified against her.

Meanwhile, legal experts are about as enchanted with the pardon as a banker is with counterfeit bills. “The presidential pardon relieves her of legal penalty,” said UNLV law professor Benjamin Edwards, “but it doesn’t undo reality.”

In other words–a jury said she did it, and a pardon pronounces she won’t pay for it—but neither can unring the bell.

As for Ms. Fiore, she’s been sending out dispatches like a general in exile, claiming political persecution, citing her support for Cliven Bundy during his standoff a decade ago, and accusing the government of labeling her a “domestic terrorist.” She’s taken to casting herself as a martyr in pumps, wronged by a crooked system, loved only by God and Donald J. Trump.

And now? She may still face state charges if anyone dares pick up the baton.

But local law officers seem to be playing a game of hot potato with her case. Clark County District Attorney Steve Wolfson, when asked, all but shrugged through the radio waves, “If someone brings it, we’ll look,” he said like a man hoping nobody does.

In the meantime, the Nye County Justice Court waits. Voters re-elected Fiore last June, even though she’s not an attorney—a fact that is treated like a punchline–but thank goodness she ain’t. And while Fiore insists her “full story” will only be told if she pens it herself, one suspects the opening chapter of that saga may well be titled “The Day I Didn’t Show Up.”

So the bench sits empty, the media snickers, and somewhere out on the high desert–Fiore remains–pardoned but not present.

Have you ever wondered what happens when higher education runs out of things to teach and decides to take a crack at your children’s minds instead? I present the grand spectacle unfolding at the University of Nevada, Reno, where Secretary of State Francisco Aguilar—has joined hands with a mighty outfit called the ALL-IN Campus Democracy Challenge.

That name alone ought to make a sensible man nervous. Anything with “Challenge” in the title–seems to be a dressed-up excuse for coaxing the young into line.

The idea, they say, is to empower the students. Now, I don’t know what brand of power they’re selling, but it seems to me the whole affair smells more like a sales pitch than a civics lesson.

Aguilar got up at the university and told a room full of eager minds, “We require a very systematic approach in teaching young voters…”

Systematic! That’s a word I’d usually expect from a dentist or a dog trainer.

They want to teach these children to vote—no harm in that, you might say—but not by letting them figure things out for themselves. Oh, no.

That would be dangerous. Instead, the outfit’s handing paper ballots out like party favors, drilling signatures like boot camp, and spoon-feeding the sacred act of registration like it’s oatmeal.

All in the name of nonpartisan engagement–of course—just a friendly, institutional nudge in whatever direction the university deems “informed.”

And then President Brian Sandoval, former Nevada Governor, stood up with all the pomp of a man unveiling a new steam engine and proudly declared, “We are proud to have one of the voting places right on campus.”

Not only that, but the students volunteered on campaigns, worked with registrars, and threw themselves into the “community.” Now, which community that is and who’s defining it is another matter altogether.

The university even received an award—for being particularly good at marching young people to the ballot box. They call it a “Seal of Recognition,” which sounds very noble but also brings to mind the circus variety, the kind that claps on command.

And what does this ALL-IN gang do? They “provide structure,” “offer support,” and “recognize excellence,” all without taking sides.

Naturally.

Because a group formed for “engaging the democratic process” would never dream of guiding the outcome. Nope, just a kindly shepherd driving every lamb into the preselected corral.

It ain’t about democracy—it’s about direction. It’s about higher education stretching its long arms into the voting booth and whispering sweet suggestions while calling it “learning.” It’s about making young minds feel valued for following instructions.

The real kicker? Nevada’s youth turnout was 57.2 percent, beating the national average by a mile. That ain’t accidental. It’s the result of a carefully oiled machine designed not to inspire thought but to produce voters by assembly line.

If you believe democracy should get exercised with care, not coached like a schoolyard sport, this should leave a sour taste in your mouth. When education becomes persuasion, and civic learning turns into civic herding, we no longer raise citizens—we manufacture them.

It seems that when a man goes to the trouble of discovering a whole continent—whether he didn’t or didn’t—he ought to get more than a cold shoulder and a government holiday traded off like a worn-out mule at the fair. But that’s just what’s happening in Nevada, where the legislature, led by a certain Miss Backus—who calls herself an “urban Indian,” though I’ve seen urban pigeons with more sense—is trying to peel Columbus Day off the calendar and patch in something called “Indigenous Peoples’ Day.”

Let’s be clear–it ain’t a story about kindness, understanding, or even true history. It’s about politics, that gray and slippery substance that oozes through the cracks in our republic and gums up everything that once worked fine.

President Trump, a man who—right or wrong—never met a punch he didn’t return with interest, declared that he was bringing Columbus Day back– not rebranding it, not apologizing for it, but raising it from the ashes like a Roman eagle. And good on him.

You see, the thing about Columbus is that he’s become a scapegoat, the nation’s historical punching bag. Was he perfect? No. He made navigational decisions that would make a cat laugh, but he did something—something great.

He opened the door. And for that, generations of Americans, including millions of proud Italian-Americans, remembered him as a symbol of courage and new beginnings.

Miss Backus and her colleagues in Carson City want to remove the old sailor from his pedestal and replace it with a sentiment known as Indigenous Peoples’ Day. Never mind that Nevada already has a day for that—August 9, to be precise.

It wasn’t enough. Now, it’s gotta occupy the same Monday as Columbus, like a tenant elbowing out the landlord.

They’ll tell you it’s not about erasure. “We’re not replacing Columbus Day,” they say, with the same tone you hear from a man explaining how he technically didn’t cheat at cards. But if it waddles like a duck and quacks like historical revisionism, I suppose we’re having pork for dinner.

Take Jill Douglass—God bless her gumption. She showed up in person, not hiding behind a phone line, to say, “We should not tear down another important part of our history.”

And she’s right. It isn’t just about Columbus. It’s about whether we still believe in honoring the messy, complicated men and women who made America or whether we sand down the rough edges of our past until it looks like a polished lie.

Meanwhile, the high priests of grievance—folks like Mr. Orosco, speaking in names few Americans could spell, much less pronounce—take to the podium to speak of “cultural genocide” and “Abya Yala,” as though changing the name of a Monday is going to right five centuries of wrongs.

It won’t. But it will divide, and that’s the point.

Let me end with this–history is not a menu. You don’t get to pick only the parts that agree with you and send the rest back to the kitchen. If you start removing every statue, story, and holiday that offends someone, you’ll soon get left with nothing but blank pages and confusion.

For all his brashness, Trump understands something vital–you don’t keep a nation strong by pretending it never stumbled. You keep it strong by remembering who dared to take the first step.

And on that count, Christopher Columbus still has his boots on.

Now, I’ve been witness to a good many absurdities in my time—boats that couldn’t float, politicians that couldn’t spell, and even a preacher who swore off lying but only on days ending in “y”—but I confess, few things tickle the ribs and wrinkle the brow like the doings of one Judge Erika Ballou of Las Vegas.

The esteemed servant of the law—whose robe is mink and conscience lined with rubber—has once again found herself staring down the business end of the Nevada Commission on Judicial Discipline’s gavel. Six new charges have been lobbed at her ladyship like rotten cabbages at a bad minstrel, and from the sounds of it, this ain’t her first performance.

The judge who once treated the internet to a soaking-wet glimpse of herself cavorting in a hot tub with public defenders–where the law was about as present as the moon at high noon under suspicion for ignoring not one–but two direct orders from the Nevada Supreme Court. That’s like telling your commanding officer, “I’ll get to it after my foot massage.”

But worse, because in this case, the Supreme Court didn’t take kindly to being treated like a valet.

The dust-up began with the case of one Mia Christman, who, after participating in a spree of villainy back in her salad days at eighteen, pled guilty to two felonies and was carted off to prison. That was in 2017.

But in 2021, Judge Ballou decided the state had seen enough of Ms. Christman and set her free, tossing out her conviction like last week’s fish.

The higher court hollered in protest—not once but twice—and like a mule wearing earplugs, Judge Ballou paid them no mind.

It prompted the Commission to accuse her of “total disregard for binding higher court authority,” which is a fancy way of saying she don’t care what the rules say, she’ll do what she pleases. Add to this her refusal to schedule a timely interview with the Commission–which had to subpoena her like a misbehaving nephew–and the stew gets thicker.

Let us not forget her previous run-in with the ethics watchdogs over social media posts—including one where she appeared to favor tossing out any case where the accused hadn’t yet warmed a jail cot and another where she invoked anatomy in such a way as to leave old ladies fanning themselves and judges reaching for the bourbon. District Attorney Steve Wolfson, who by now probably keeps a folder labeled “Ballou, Oh Lord Not Again,” has called her behavior “egregious,” and is urging the courts to pull her off all criminal cases before she turns jurisprudence into a comedy revue.

Judge Ballou, once a stalwart public defender for fifteen years, now stands at the edge of judicial ruin, with her fate dangling like a cat over a rain barrel. Her term doesn’t expire until 2027—but at the rate she’s collecting complaints, she may not make it to the end of 2025.

If the law is a solemn institution, Judge Ballou treats it like a springtime frolic. And if there’s any justice left in the dusty deserts of Nevada, perhaps someone will remind her that a robe is not a shield, a bench is not a throne, and a judge is not above the law—no matter how good the hot tub feels.