The Old Blog in the Desert

It came to pass on a fine Saturday, the kind of day when the sun shines just enough to remind a man he ought to be doing something useful, that a citizen of mysterious intention took it upon himself to challenge the authority of law and custom by sprinting away from a deputy of the Carson City Sheriff’s Office.

This grand ballet of boot leather began near the civilized bounds of Winnie Lane, where a deputy, likely minding his peacekeeping business and perhaps hoping for a quiet afternoon, encountered the fellow. Instead of exchanging pleasantries or offering up the usual excuses, the man sprang like a startled jackrabbit, bolting, prompting the deputy to give chase—a chase that would wind through alleys, leap over fences, and crash through the serene domain of a storage unit facility, where one imagines more than a few rubberneckers got their day’s entertainment.

The man ran with the determination one only sees in gospel preachers or those who’ve just remembered they left the stove burning at home. Persistent as a Sunday sermon, the deputy pursued him, calling for backup when it became clear the suspect wanted to see more of Carson City on foot than most folks do by carriage.

Somewhere near Northgate Lane–amidst a flurry of shouts and badge-bearing folk, the pursuit wound down. The fugitive was finally apprehended near the Ron Wood Center, proving at last that no matter how fast a man may run, he cannot outrun his choices—or the long legs of the law.

No injuries beyond the pride of a man who mistook flight for freedom and ended up with neither. As for the reason behind his exodus, it remains a mystery, though one victim has expressed a desire to press charges.

Curious–and one that proves a man ought to stay still when told—unless he’s aiming to see the inside of the county jail.

Heads for Prison Instead of Podium

Now, I ain’t one to gossip, much, but if ever there was a tale worth telling twice, it’s the one about John Jessup — a feller from Shirley County, Indiana, who mistook politics for privilege and whiskey for wisdom. At the tender age of fifty, Mr. Jessup, a Republican of some former standing and even less sense, found hisself shackled in the warm embrace of the Clark County Detention Center last June on account of some “after-hours misbehavior.”

The charges weren’t a hiccup like public nuisance or dopey dancing. The man got booked on a felony count of sexual assault after what police say was an uninvited and most ungentlemanly act upon a lady he knew, following a lively evening at what’s politely called a gentleman’s club–though there’s little gentility found in such places beyond the door sign.

When questioned by the law, Jessup claimed he hadn’t done anything criminal, just endured what he described as a “f***ed up, drunk night.” That excuse might pass muster in a barroom brawl or poker table tiff, but it don’t sit well with judges.

Come fall, Mr. Jessup took a deal and pleaded guilty to attempted sexual assault — still a felony, but one that carried a slimmer chance of leniency. The court could’ve handed him a couple of years or even a warning, but Judge Joe Hardy wasn’t in the mood for mercy. He sentenced Jessup to six to fifteen years in prison and told him he’d be carrying the title of sex offender for life — a label heavier than any badge he ever wore in office.

Here’s where the story turns from pitiful to peculiar. While Jessup was trading suits for stripes and awaiting his day in court, the good people of Shirley County went and elected the man to their county council — gave him over 15,000 votes, they did, like tossing keys to the henhouse back to the fox.

Indiana law says felons can’t hold office, but no law can stop folks from making poor choices at the ballot box. One might say it was a triumph of party over principle or proof that not everybody reads the newspaper these days.

So now Mr. Jessup’s got himself a fresh prison sentence, a lifetime registry as a sex offender, and a seat he can’t legally warm — unless they move the county council chambers to a correctional facility.

Ain’t democracy grand?

It may surprise the casual observer of the great Silver State, with its noble mountains and ignoble tax base, that the mood in Carson City is less celebratory than a cat in a rainstorm. The reason? A solemn convocation of economists—five in number, each more learned than the last, and all of them employed in that curious profession where one can be wrong with confidence and still be considered a prophet—has gathered to deliver a most inconvenient truth: the money pot is shrinking, or at least not growing as vigorously as the politicians had hoped.

This band of soothsayers, known as the Economic Forum, is tasked with foretelling how many doubloons shall pour into the state’s coffers over the next two years. Due May 1st, their findings will dictate how much brass the Legislature has to play with and whether pet projects like expanding film tax credits or doling out hundreds of millions for the Governor’s priorities, will live to see another committee hearing.

While I ain’t one to accuse a man of misdeeds without a trial, the recent clamor around these budget woes has taken a curious turn, wherein several well-groomed and well-rehearsed politicians have set their sights on a scapegoat so familiar he ought to have his own parking space at the Capitol: one Donald J. Trump. I hold no brief for Mr. Trump, being neither kin nor creditor, but I reckon it’s worth pointing out a simple truth that seems to have fled the minds of these honorable men and women–you can’t blame the last fellow who stirred the pot for the fact that the stew’s been burning for years.

Let us travel back—not in theory, but in fact—to a time before Mr. Trump was anything more than a New York curiosity and television nuisance. Bless her heart, Nevada was already engaged in a delicate dance with fiscal misfortune.

Tourism, that ever-wavering mistress, has flirted and floundered for decades. The budget’s dependence on gaming, sales tax, and the comings and goings of tourists with pockets full of dreams and nickels was always a gamble—and not the kind you win often.

The pandemic put a stopper in every bottle. When folks finally staggered out from under their stay-at-home orders and began spending like drunken sailors, they mistook a temporary sugar high for sustainable growth. Now, the crash is arriving, not because of a tariff here or a grumble about Canada there, but because no economic party lasts forever when built on hope and roulette.

It’s a rare form of nonsense to claim tariffs from four years past are to blame for a downturn rooted in decades of lopsided revenue strategies, misaligned priorities, and an over-reliance on tourism—a fickle friend if ever there was one. But it makes a fine campaign line. And that’s what many of these proclamations are–not economic insight, but political ventriloquism, where the dummy says “Trump” whenever the heat gets too close to home.

Listening to these modern-day Cassandras, one would think that no tourist had ever skipped Las Vegas until the 47th president started spouting off about trade. Yet Harry Reid Airport has seen its fair share of empty seats long before that man ever came down his golden escalator.

If there’s any truth to be gleaned from Mr. Aguero’s observation—that what we don’t know outweighs what we do—we should proceed with humility, not hubris. Blaming a man for the wind when the roof’s leaked for decades is a logic that only passes muster in legislative chambers and lunatic asylums.

The good people of Nevada deserve a sober accounting, not scapegoats. Fix the revenue structure. Diversify the economy. Stop pretending the problem came with a red tie and a loud voice when it arrived decades ago wearing a smile and promising prosperity through slot machines and sales tax alone.

And if you find yourself tempted to believe that one man—love or loathe him—could single-handedly upend the vast machinery of this state’s budget, I’ve got a silver mine outside Vya to sell you. Cheap.

My wife, Mary, left a 30-roll pack of toilet paper by our indoor trash bins last night.

Dawn hadn’t broken. The air was cold and sharp. I started the truck, engine grumbling, and headed out.

Realizing I had forgotten my briefcase, I went back inside. Coming out, I saw the toilet paper was gone.

It vanished in a minute.

“Mary,” I called, stepping into the kitchen. “You move that toilet paper?”

She looked up, eyes narrowing. “No. It’s still out there.”

“It’s not.”

She picked up her phone to dial 9-1-1, “Someone took it?”

“Hold on,” I said.

Grabbing my keys, I went back to the truck. I pulled out of the driveway slowly, scanning the street.

To the east, a figure jogged, a bulky white package in his arms. It was our toilet paper. I gunned the engine, closed the gap, and rolled down the window.

“Hey,” I said, voice flat.

He tripped, almost fell, eyes wide, caught. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he heaved the toilet paper into my truck’s open bed and bolted, cutting into the neighborhood where steel posts blocked my way.

I let him go. Drove home. Carried the rolls inside.

Mary stood at the door, arms crossed. “You got it!”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not leaving stuff in our garage again.”

“No,” I said. “We’re not.”

you ask advice.
sure.
you light a cigarette with the wrong end of a match and expect the smoke to spell salvation.

you come to me, of all people—
elbows scraped raw from the gutters of last week,
with two dollars in your sock and
a poem in your head you’re too afraid to write.

“what should I do with my life?”
you say it like it’s a bar tab you forgot to pay.
like I’ve got answers folded in my coat pocket
next to lint, a broken pen, and a ticket to nowhere.

let me tell you something:
any man who tells you what to do with your life
is either trying to fuck you, rob you,
or sell you Jesus in a can.

I once took advice from a man who wore corduroy in July.
he told me to get a job at the post office.
I lasted two months.
sorting mail for dead people and love letters that came back unopened.
that was enough advice for ten lifetimes.

what you want is a map,
but I’ve only got burnt toast and a hangover.
you want meaning,
but all I’ve got is this aching tooth and
a neighbor who screams the same name every night
into the wallpaper.

you think there’s a RIGHT direction?
you think there’s some glowing exit sign in the sky
saying “this way to purpose”?

listen.
you’re gonna take your soft little dreams
and set them down on a barstool
next to a guy with one eye and a story about his fourth wife.
you’ll think:
“maybe this is it.”
and it won’t be.
but it’ll be something.

you’ll try to be a good man.
you’ll fail.
you’ll try to be a bad man.
you’ll fail at that too.
eventually you’ll learn to just be a man.
or something like one.

so don’t ask me what to do with your life.
dig a hole.
write a song.
scream into a coffee can and bury it.
fall in love with someone who laughs like they mean it.
or don’t.

but whatever you do,
don’t look to guys like me
to point the way.

my compass is busted.
my maps are drawn in crayon.
and the only direction I trust
is down.

but you’ll go your own way anyhow.
you will.
that’s the beautiful, stupid, dangerous thing about being alive.

you’re gonna find your own goddamn disaster.
and if you’re lucky—
it’ll be worth the mess.

Having climbed so high, civilization is again a’flounder in the mud. On the afternoon of Friday, the twenty-fifth of April, at 4:48 p.m., an uproar befell the Taco Bell situated on East Prater Way in the proud township of Sparks.

According to the city’s constabulary — a noble body of men who labor daily to keep the peace and who sometimes almost succeed — a female citizen did engage in violent discourse and then unseemly fisticuffs with a humble cashier, all on account of a disagreement over some small coin. Change, that ancient enemy of reason, was the tinder for this blaze.

The Sparks Police Department, steady in their purpose, said that the woman did commit battery — a term which, in these times, is more legal than literal — and then made her getaway in a silver chariot believed to be a 2017 Kia Sportage, proving that even the most villainous may still ride in some comfort.

Though the constables have identified and cited the lady for misdemeanor battery, in their infinite wisdom or perhaps just a heavy nod to the mysteries of the law–are keeping her name from print. The cashier, a brave soul, suffered a slight injury but, it is said, lives to ring the register another day.

Now, in a twist of civic spirit, Secret Witness did offer a bounty — five hundred dollars in gold–or what passes for it nowadays—for any scrap of information leading to the apprehension and judicial satisfaction of the suspect. Though the Taco Bell mayhem is retired, those who wish to assist justice may contact the Sparks Police Department at (775) 353-2225.

If a person prefers the honor of remaining cloaked in secrecy — which is often the wisest course when women, change, and combat are involved — they may submit the intelligence to Secret Witness by telephone at (775) 322-4900, by the internet at secretwitness.com, or by conjuring it through the modern wizardry of the mobile application known as P3Tips.

Thus concludes the latest chapter in the never-ending struggle to manage change, temper, and dignity all at once.

The Washoe County Sheriff’s Office, having poked, prodded, and puzzled over every splinter and skid mark, has seen fit to declare Highland Ranch Parkway fit for travel once more.

“Thank you all for your patience and cooperation,” they said in a social media post, sounding much like a preacher thanking the congregation for not bolting during a long sermon. “Stay safe, Washoe,” they added as if that were easy in these lively parts.

Early Saturday morning, just as the sun was yawning over Sun Valley, trouble struck on Highland Ranch Parkway. In a stretch between Midnight Drive and Pyramid Highway — a place with names that could spook a man without trying — two vehicles collided with all the finality of a pair of runaway trains.

Deputy Cade Goodman, who doubtless has seen more than his share of calamities, reported that one driver was pronounced dead at the scene by the medical folk, who arrived but not swift enough to beat fate. The other driver, luckier by a hair, sustained only minor injuries and was carted off to the hospital to be patched up.

Mercifully, no passengers were aboard either contraption, sparing the undertaker from more work. The cause of this miserable event — whether demon liquor, sleepy eyes, or some other mischief — remains a mystery, wrapped up tight for now.

It appears that the wise heads down at Storey County Emergency Management, along with the fire-eaters at the Fire Protection District and the badge-wearers at the Sheriff’s Office, have come together in rare harmony to put on a wildfire evacuation drill up yonder in the Virginia City Highlands. This grand spectacle’s goin’ to take place Saturday, June 14th — provided the wind don’t blow the whole county into next week beforehand.

Before the stampede begins, they’re holding an Informational Town Hall meeting on Tuesday, May 6th, from six o’clock sharp to six forty-five — not a minute more, mind you — at the Virginia City Highlands Community Center, at 2610 Cartwright Road. That’s where they’ll lay out the evacuation routes, the emergency squawk-box alerts, and what a body needs to do besides wringing their hands and hollerin’ at the dog when trouble comes knocking.

“This drill is an important part of keeping our community safe,” quoth Adam Wilson, the Emergency Management Director, with all the solemnity of a man warning folks off thin ice.

He reckons wildfire season’s stretching out longer than a preacher’s Sunday sermon these days and that practice might save a heap of misery later on. He says he wants every soul in the Highlands to feel “confident and informed” before the hills light up like a Fourth of July sky.

Good folks are heartily encouraged to drag themselves down to the Town Hall, show up bright and early for the June 14th drill, and make sure their kinfolk, critters, and valuables are ready for whatever Nature throws at them. Not that the regular Virginia City weekly will tell you a blessed thing about it.

Joins Merry Band of AGs to Protect DOE Handouts

Out here in the wild and woolly territory of Nevada — where a man is supposed to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow and not by the trembling of his pen — our very own Attorney General, Mr. Ford, has once again hitched his wagon to the fancy parade of spendthrifts known as the Coalition of 19 Attorneys General. Their latest spectacle? Filing suit against the Department of Education (DOE), like a posse of fortune hunters suing the sun for setting too soon.

Now, the Department of Education — never known for its towering wisdom — sent word down the line that states must bow and scrape before the administration’s new reading of Title VI of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or else watch their federal coffers dry up faster than a waterhole in Death Valley. In plain speech, if the states don’t snip away at any notion of equal access to education the way Washington dictates, they can kiss their dollars goodbye.

Nevada, poor soul, stands to lose almost a billion dollars a year — most of it thrown into the noble causes of special education, low-income aid, non-native speaker programs, and heaven knows what else. One could feed every horse, cow, and politician from here to Reno on that much coin and still have silver left for the gambling tables.

And who stands on the front lines of this noble fight to keep the gravy train running? Why, none other than Mr. Ford — the man who has wasted more Nevada taxpayer dollars chasing lawsuits, ghost causes, and political pipe dreams than any politician who ever daydreamed about being Governor.

Ford proudly joins hands with his fellow letter writers from California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, Oregon, Rhode Island, Vermont, Washington, and Wisconsin — a regular map of states where taxes grow faster than tumbleweeds in a storm. Mr. Ford, if given a choice between righting wrongs and riding the gravy train, would not only buy a first-class ticket but demand a private car and a brass band to announce his arrival.

Whether the lawsuit saves the day or sinks like a stone, one thing is as sure as sunrise–Ford will have spent more of Nevada’s hard-earned money making noise than he ever will saving it.

In the capital of the Silver State, where one might hope civilization had taken root a bit deeper than the sagebrush, deputies found themselves busier than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs this past week.

First, there’s a fellow named Perry Adams, age forty-six. He figured a quarrel with his girlfriend about his flirtations on Instagram would best be resolved not with words–but with a stick.

Deputies were called to a modest home on Dori Way after reports of a disturbance. They found the victim—shaky, whispering, and nodding her head in a fashion that suggested she wasn’t so much answering questions as warning them without words.

Invited into the house, a rare courtesy in these parts when tempers are up, they found Adams, who looked as innocent as a schoolboy caught with a slingshot. The woman told deputies that Adams had gotten hisself worked up over accusations of conversing with a minor online, then suffering righteous indignation, deleted the app, no doubt to spare himself the aggravation and the possibility of the burden of evidence.

Despite claiming no harm had come of it, the woman bore the badge of battle—a red, raised welt upon her arm—and further confessed, once her fear loosened her tongue, that Adams had struck her across the face with his hand and then walloped her with a stick held in both hands like a man splitting kindling. There was choking involved as Adams had pressed his forearm against her throat in the manner of a man attempting to hush an unpleasant truth.

The beating, for good measure, was delivered while a child slept elsewhere in the house, blissfully unaware of the foolishness of grown folk. Deputies, not being entirely born yesterday, arrested Adams on the charge of felony domestic battery with a deadly weapon and confiscated both the sticks and the phone, which Adams pretended he could no longer access.

No sooner had the dust settled from that escapade than the deputies got summoned to Como Street, where a 22-year-old woman decided that if love couldn’t find restoration by persuasion, it might get revived through violence.

The young lady, suspecting her former sweetheart of infidelity with a man—a curious complaint for an ex-girlfriend to make—barged into the woman’s bedroom and delivered a punch to the face hard enough to leave a cut and the early bloom of a black eye. She was thoughtful enough to keep her sister on speakerphone during the assault, a detail which proved about as helpful to her case as a screen door on a submarine.

In her defense—stitched together with the kind of care usually reserved for secondhand quilts—the ex-girlfriend claimed she got smacked first, though she could not recall which hand had done the deed. Deputies, using the effective method of common sense, determined that the victim, not the aggressor, had summoned the law and that the injuries spoke louder than the accused. Thus, the ex-girlfriend got herself arrested for domestic battery.

In Carson City as elsewhere, while love may lift some to the stars, it just as often drops us flat on our faces.