The Old Blog in the Desert

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.

By the time Michael Sonner shuffled off this mortal coil on April 23rd at High Desert State Prison near Indian Springs, the West had changed around him. But justice, though slow as a desert tortoise and twice as stubborn, hadn’t.

Sonner, age 57, wore the weight of a crime committed three decades past when he gunned down Trooper Carlos Borland, 25, of the Nevada Highway Patrol on a lonesome stretch near Lovelock back in ’93. Now, Trooper Borland wasn’t after gold or glory—just a tank of gas, unpaid and a duty to uphold.

He pulled Sonner over after a “gas-and-go,” not knowing he was facing a jailbird, an escapee from the Tar Heel State. What followed was not a shootout of legends but a cold, sudden murder, where Borland never stood a chance.

Sonner tried to outrun the noose, holing up until SWAT came calling. They took him alive. During his trial in ’94, he asked the jury not for mercy but for the death penalty.

They obliged.

But death is a lazy rider in Nevada some days. The state may keep capital punishment on the books, but the gallows—or whatever modern contraption they use these days—has been gathering dust since 2006. Sonner remained among the 59 marked for execution–his sentence etched more in ink than an outcome.

It wasn’t the executioner but nature, but nature claimed him. The Department of Corrections said he died in custody, an autopsy ordered and kin told.

The rest, as they say, is silence.

So passes a man who once asked to die quickly but instead waited thirty long years for the sun to set. There’s a lesson, but as with most Western tales, you’ll have to squint into the wind to find it.

If you’d been wandering the old silver trail through Mound House on the evening of March 28, you might’ve seen more than tumbleweeds and tail lights. According to the good folks over at the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office—who, bless’em, seem to work harder than a preacher on Sunday—you’d have witnessed a bit of law and disorder that could’ve come straight out of a dime novel.

A feller named Jimmy Keith II, aged 52 and hailing from Dayton–not the one in Ohio, mind you, but our very own dusty dot on the map–got hisself caught up in a situation. Around 10 at night, when decent folks are either sleeping or trying to, Mr. Keith came barreling down Highway 50 faster than a jackrabbit with its tail on fire, swerving like a man wrestling with invisible bees.

The Sheriff’s Traffic Enforcement Team—who don’t take kindly to reckless wheelmen—decided to have a word. They flagged him down near Winter Parkway, a stretch of road known more for coyotes than criminals.

But this wasn’t your average traffic chat. No sir.

Out comes K9 Kai, a four-legged officer of the law with a nose keener than a gossiping neighbor. And wouldn’t you know it, Kai signaled that something unholy was riding shotgun in that vehicle.

Deputies took one good look inside, and lo! There lay over five ounces of methamphetamine—enough to stir up trouble in every saloon from Dayton to Yerington.

Mr. Keith now finds himself in a heap of trouble, and methamphetamine being what it is—more poison than profit—the law ain’t likely to look upon him kindly. He’s locked up for now.

So let this be a lesson to all who think they can outrun the law on Highway 50–the road may be long, but the Sheriff’s shadow is longer.

By Yours Truly, Who Has Known Panic More Intimately Than Profit

Now don’t go imaginin’ you can twist the spigot of your skull and expect a torrent of fine ideas to come gushin’ out like a river bustin’ her britches in spring. That’s a fool’s notion, friend, and I say it plain, with no garnish.

Creativity, she’s a peculiar old gal—proud, temperamental, and ornery as a mule in a rainstorm. She don’t show up when you call or stay when you holler.

No, sir, she waits till you’re good and desperate—eyes wide as saucers, ink dry, deadlines cacklin’ like devils in the dark—and then, she waltzes in like she owns the place, full of spark and sass, wearin’ the perfume of catastrophe and inspiration all mixed together. It’s that late-night, sweat-drippin’, heart-palpitin’ kind of moment when the brain finally catches fire, not from wisdom, but fear.

Ain’t it curious?

It started like all great tragedies, with a desperate need for Wi-Fi. I wandered into this saloon—half dive, half mistake—because my phone had about two bars of signal and the ambition of a potato. I figured I’d grab a seat, mooch some Wi-Fi, maybe send a few emails, and escape before someone tried to sell me life insurance or Bitcoin.

I sit down. Casual-like. Nod to the bartender, who looks like he lost a staring contest with a buzzsaw.

“Hey,” I say, “what’s the Wi-Fi password?”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. He just wipes the bar with the enthusiasm of a depressed sloth and says, “You need to buy a drink first.”

Okay. Classic bait-and-sip. I play along.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll have a Coke.”

He squints at me. “Pepsi okay?”

It’s never okay, but I’m not here to start a war.

“Sure,” I nod. “How much?”

“Three bucks.”

I fork over the cash, and he slides over a warm-ish Pepsi in a glass that smells faintly of beer. I pretend to enjoy it, like someone pretending their online date looks like their profile picture.

“So,” I say again, “What’s the Wi-Fi password?”

He leans in like he’s about to share a state secret.

“You need to buy a drink first,” he says. “All lowercase. No spaces.”

I stare at him. Blink once. Maybe twice.

“You mean… that’s the password? Youneedtobuyadrinkfirst?”

He grins. The kind of grin that says he’s been waiting all day to do this to someone.

I type it in. And, of course—it connects instantly.

I sip my warm Pepsi and stare into the fluorescent lights, questioning all my life decisions, a reminder that the universe enjoys a good joke.

Senator Catherine Cortez Masto secured $2.5 million in taxpayer funding for the new Lockwood Senior Center, set to open in the twilight of 2025. Folks in Storey County will finally get something they’ve been lacking for far too long–a proper place for elders to gather, eat, and get help.

“I’m proud to have secured this funding,” said Cortez Masto, her words ringing like a dinner bell in a hungry town. “This center will be a cornerstone of the community.”

With meals on wheels, transportation, a pantry, mental health care, and even a health office, it’s the kind of investment rural Nevadans don’t often see, much less from the far-off marble halls of Washington. Storey County’s Donald Gilman and Storey County Director of Health and Community Services Stacy York stood beside the Senator–a sight as welcome as shade in the desert.

But just as the good news spread through the hills like wild sage in spring, along comes Senator Jacky Rosen with a letter in hand and a mouth full of trouble. Instead of joining the effort to build something, Rosen did something else entirely.

She fired off a letter to Secretary Robert Kennedy Jr. over at Health and Human Services, bemoaning recent cuts to IT and cybersecurity staff. Now, don’t mistake it as a defense of bureaucratic bungling, just more of the same old, same old.

But while Cortez Masto was cutting ribbons, Rosen got busy flinging paperwork like a clerk in a windstorm. Her concerns may be valid, but her timing feels more like an obstructionist trying to gum up the gears than a partner in progress.

Rather than help bring services to rural Nevadans, Rosen seems content to stand on the porch and holler about hypothetical hazards.

It breaks the heart just a little to see a newspaper go belly-up — even one where half the words read like Chinese to a fellow who never did get the hang of Spanish. You don’t have to read every line to know when something came with import. You could see it in how the ink smudged on folks’ fingers at the bus stop or how the readers at the market would argue over it like it was the Ten Commandments printed sideways.

So it is with El Mundo, which in English means The World — a fitting name for a thing that tried to gather up all the little joys and sorrows of Las Vegas’ Latino community and roll them up between two staples once a week. And now, like the world, it’s spinning in a new direction — leaving behind its paper skin for the bright, cold ether of the digital age.

Edmundo Escobedo Jr. and his late father — God rest his soul — started El Mundo in 1981, when the city was just a sparkle on a zoning map. It was a family affair–Dad wrote the stories, the Son laid’em out, and Mama ran the social column, which sounds just about right.

Like a good tamale, a good newspaper is best made by hand and with family.

For a spell, the thing was booming. One hundred pages a week, by some counts. Weddings, quinceañeras, soccer scores, protests, dances, baptisms — every line of it proved that something real was happening in the world, and someone was there to notice. And all of it for free.

The Escobedos didn’t just make a paper; they made a map of the lives around them.

But time, like taxes and toothaches, comes for us all. The pandemic hit, ads dried up, and one by one, pages thinned. And then, like a candle in the wind that Elton John probably sang about, El Mundo flickered out in March of this year — at least the printed kind.

Edmundo Jr. says his father’s likely up in Heaven shedding a tear–but understanding just the same. And I believe him. El Viejo, after all, was a veteran of both the Air Force and the free press — no stranger to battles or endings. He knew that spirit counted more than pieces of paper and that the press was never about pulp but people.

Now, Escobedo says he’ll bring El Mundo back in a new form–and it’ll fit in a pocket instead of on a doorstep, but still speaks from the same heart. And maybe that’s all we can hope for these days–to carry our old voices into new places without losing their warmth.

Still, it’s a bitter sip to swallow–because some folks in Las Vegas won’t work a smartphone and refuse to know the digital interface. These people waited every Friday for El Mundo like a letter from home, and now that house is abandoned.

But let the record show that El Mundo didn’t die because it was weak — it died because the world got louder and faster and forgot to listen. And maybe when the fever of progress dies down–folks’ll look and remember how a little Spanish newspaper gave a community its voice.

We should be so fortunate.

If there’s anything more American than planting a tree and giving a speech about it, I’ve yet to witness it. On a fine Friday in Carson City—where the wind is as persistent as a politician’s hot breath and the sun burns hotter than a Fourth of July pie contest—the good ladies of the Nevada State Society Daughters of the American Revolution gathered ’round the old Washington Elm for a ceremony that’d make even the stiffest Founding Father misty-eyed.

It wasn’t just any tree but a descendant of the very elm under which General George Washington first took command of the Continental Army in 1775. Whether or not he paused for shade or to scratch his chin and mutter about the British is now lost to history—but his spirit remains, and so do the branches.

The Battle Born and Nevada Sagebrush Chapters of DAR, aided by their Maryland sisters–who brought along their historian like a good-luck charm, rededicated the elm with all the pomp and pride one could hope for. Mona Crandell Hook, state regent and custodian of patriotism, explained it was the perfect marriage of historic preservation and tree-hugging.

“We’re nonpolitical,” she said, “which is a miracle these days, like finding a chicken with teeth or a politician with silence.”

Carson City’s Mayor Lori Bagwell read proclamations from Governor Joe Lombardo and the city, declaring April 25th as Arbor Day, a noble occasion to honor a tree with more historical lineage than many politicians have common sense.

Then came the young voices from Mark Twain Elementary School, who sang with the sincerity only children possess and politicians pretend to. Afterward, the crowd moved to City Hall, where the Rotary Club, not to be outdone, planted another tree and surrounded it with flags, forming a patriotic hedge row if ever there was one.

Debbie Carroll, Regent of the Battle Born Chapter, stated what many thought–the tree deserves a bit more affection than the average shrub.

“We need the community to love on that tree,” she said, clearly a woman not afraid to mix sentiment with soil.

Crandell Hook summed it up best with the motto, one so unsophisticated it would look good stitched on a sampler, “Heart is where the home is. Celebrate Nevada.”

So, nearly 250 years since Washington took command, and still planting his legacy into Nevada soil—proof that in the West–history ain’t just remembered, it’s rooted.

And if the elm ever does fall, Lord willing, there’ll be another sapling and another speech to take its place.