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Eighteen months ago, Alex Meruelo took the stage at his Grand Sierra Resort, flanked by cheerleaders, mascots, and a mayor ready to bask in the glow of grand promises. He spoke of a billion-dollar expansion, a $400 million arena, and the University of Nevada, Reno’s men’s basketball team, a new home—free of charge, no burden to the good taxpayers of Reno.

“Not one dollar!” he declared, presumably with his hand over his heart and his other in someone else’s pocket.

A year later, Meruelo’s got that pocket turned inside out, knocking on the city’s door, hat in hand, asking for $97 million in public money. The financing sleight-of-hand is called tax increment financing (TIF), a fancy way of saying, “We freeze the taxes, and any new revenue that would’ve gone to schools, roads, and public services now goes to me instead.”

It’s a classic case of corporate welfare dressed up in economic development’s Sunday best.

Naturally, Reno’s other casino operators—who have been fattening their pockets just fine without a government teat to suckle—are less than pleased. The owners of the Eldorado, Silver Legacy, Sparks Nugget, and Peppermill have banded together, claiming that TIF should go for reviving blighted areas, not cushioning the operational expenses of a man who already owns a fleet of casinos.

One lawyer for the coalition, Joshua Hicks, spelled it out in a letter to the city council: “[Grand Sierra Resort] is clearly willing and able to pay the up-front construction costs… This appears to be about covering operating costs, not redevelopment.”

Meruelo, feigning shock at the pushback, rattled off the usual playbook lines about how Reno has been doing this sort of thing for 30 years—pointing to the baseball stadium, bowling complex, and other taxpayer-funded boondoggles that have left the city with debt, but little else. Mayor Hillary Schieve, caught somewhere between political pragmatism and a genuine desire to see development, now wants an April 9 presentation before blessing the handout.

Meanwhile, Meruelo’s men are scratching their heads, wondering why anyone’s upset. Perhaps they should’ve led with that rather than the “not one dollar” routine from a year ago.

To sweeten the deal, state lawmakers are even considering extending the timeline for TIF funding, arguing that the pandemic slowed development and, well, why should a billionaire shoulder the burden alone when there are good tax dollars for redirection his way? Senator Edgar Flores is pushing a bill to extend TIF eligibility from 30 to 50 years, which, in a feat of irony, he says isn’t about state money helping Meruelo.

“We just want to give developers time to use the full breadth of the timeline,” he says–as if this were some cosmic justice for the trials and tribulations of resort owners.

Of course, this isn’t Meruelo’s first time at the public trough. Back in Arizona, his dream of a new hockey arena for the Arizona Coyotes ended in flames, with voters in Tempe rejecting his $2.1 billion entertainment district. The NHL finally gave up on him in 2024, forcing a sale and moving the team to Salt Lake City, leaving Meruelo to squabble over his $3.5 million security deposit like a gambler arguing over a bad beat.

With Reno staring down a $3.7 million shortfall in its annual budget, Meruelo’s request for $97 million in public financing is the kind of proposal that ought to come with a laugh track. Other casino operators aren’t buying it, as the state faces financial uncertainty. If taxpayers in Reno are paying attention, they might start questioning why their funds should support a billionaire’s dream project.

And so, as the city council weighs the request–when a rich man says he doesn’t need your money, check his other hand—it’s probably in your pocket already.

The Nevada Legislature, never one to let a sleeping homeowner lie, is presently toying with a scheme so bold, so ingenious in its audacity, that one must pause to admire the nerve. Assembly Joint Resolution 1 (AJR1), proposed by Assemblywoman Natha Anderson, seeks to reconfigure property taxes with all the gentle subtlety of a pickpocket in a crowd—only this time, the crowd is new homebuyers, and the pickpocket is the state.

Under the present system, Nevada acknowledges that houses, like men, do not improve with age but rather sag, crack, and depreciate, so the tax burden eases accordingly. It has long kept the peace between property owners and the revenue collectors.

But peace is fragile, and AJR1 aims to smash it to bits.

Should this amendment slither its way into law, the hapless soul who dares to purchase a home will have two new and delightful features–first, all depreciation benefits will be summarily abolished for the first year after purchase, and second, for every year thereafter, the home will get taxed as if built yesterday—never mind if the paint is peeling, the roof is sagging, or the pipes wheeze like an asthmatic mule.

An analysis of the measure suggests that homebuyers could see their tax bills inflate by 30-50 percent, a development that will no doubt leave them dazzled with the brilliance of legislative innovation. Identical homes may be subject to wildly different tax bills, all because one was unfortunate enough to have a “For Sale” sign in the yard.

The resolution’s defenders insist it will bring in more “consistent revenue,” which is legislative parlance for “it’s not about fairness, it’s about cash.” Meanwhile, a vague promise of tax relief for seniors and the challenged has been sprinkled in as a soothing balm—though, like most legislative promises, the specifics are as clear as mud.

Should the dubious proposal survive two consecutive legislative sessions, it will find itself on the ballot, where the public may either bless it with their approval or bury it six feet deep under a landslide of “no” votes. Given the nature of tax amendments—permanent, unyielding, and prone to causing regret—one would be wise to nip this one in the bud before it takes root and flourishes into a full-grown fiscal affliction.

In short, Nevada’s taxpayers are advised to keep a wary eye on their pockets, for the long arm of the law is reaching once again, and this time, it’s aiming for the deed to the family home.

Provided You Can Get There

It’s a grand and noble thing to talk about school choice, just as it is a grand and noble thing to talk about freedom, justice, and the pursuit of happiness—provided none of these things require a ride to get there.

Governor Joe Lombardo stood before the people of Nevada and, with great solemnity, declared that no child should stay shackled to a failing school simply because of their ZIP code. Lombardo’s grand plan hinges on what the learned folks call “open zoning,” which, boiled down, means that a child may attend a school other than the one assigned to them by bureaucratic decree.

It is a system that already exists in some form, much like the law against jaywalking—it is there, but who understands how it works?

The trouble, of course, lies not in choosing a school but in getting to it, as the plan does not necessarily include the minor detail of transportation. And so, children without the means to procure a carriage (or, in modern parlance, a ride from their beleaguered parents) are left precisely where they started—firmly rooted in the soil of their failing institution.

On the opposing side of this educational chess game stands Assemblywoman Selena Torres-Fossett, whose plan is to impose some manner of standardization on this business of open zoning. She proposes a more transparent process, ensuring that families know precisely why their child’s application was accepted or denied—though, in the absence of transportation solutions, such knowledge will be like knowing why one lost the lottery.

Lombardo’s bill, which remains shrouded in mystery, proposes that children from the most underperforming schools be granted passage to finer institutions, including private schools, through a program most assuredly titled to sound benevolent–the Nevada Integrity in Academic Funding Program. What remains unclear is whether such integrity extends to tuition, transportation, or any other trifling expenses that tend to arise when a child attempts to secure an education beyond his immediate vicinity.

The honorable senator Marilyn Dondero Loop, whose name alone suggests she has seen such policy debates circle back on themselves more than once, pointed out the inherent flaw in all this–in a town where there is one school, a student’s options are about as open as a saloon at high noon on the Sabbath.

Still, the debate rages on, with grand declarations and high ideals filling the air like fireworks on July Fourth —beautiful, dazzling, and of little consequence once the smoke clears. An education is a fine thing, a necessary thing, and a thing that depends on whether one can find a way to get to it.

Reno Ruffles Feathers at Musk

On Saturday, a small but spirited congregation of agitated citizens descended upon South Virginia Street near the Tesla dealership, hoisting signs and hollering grievances against one Mr. Elon Musk—a man who, if he harbored a dime for every controversy he stirred, could purchase the very moon itself and rent it out to tourists.

The gathering was part of a grander affair, a “global day of protest” against the billionaire’s rather creative approach to governance, which, in collaboration with President Donald Trump and a peculiar currency named DOGE, has involved the wholesale dismantling of federal departments and the brisk unemployment of tens of thousands.

Reports tell us that similar demonstrations sprouted in locales far and wide—from the rain-drenched streets of Seattle to the towering steel canyons of New York City, not to mention the hallowed grounds of London, where even the most prim and proper found cause to shake their fists.

In Reno, the protest received its share of digital drum-beating from Northern Nevada Veterans for Change, which sounded the call on Reddit—where young philosophers and irate citizens gather to decide the world’s fate from the comfort of their recliners. The result was a turnout of several dozen souls, who, perhaps not striking terror into the heart of Musk, at least managed to slow traffic.

Opponents of the protest, meanwhile, had no shortage of opinions, insisting that Musk’s unorthodox methods were nothing short of divine intervention for a government long plagued by the parasites of waste and fraud. After all, it was Musk who created the mighty Gigafactory in Storey County in 2014, providing employment and prosperity.

Had his Boring Company not tunneled beneath Las Vegas, solving the age-old problem of too much sunlight and too little subterranean travel? And had he not, in a fit of pique against Delaware’s judicial meddling, relocated Neuralink to Nevada, thereby blessing the state with the dubious honor of housing the headquarters for experimental brain chips?

In the end, the battle lines are drawn—on one side, those who see Musk as a modern-day Prometheus, bestowing the fires of technology upon the world; on the other, those who see him as a reckless tinkerer, unfastening the nuts and bolts of civilization with a Tesla-branded wrench. For now, the only certainty is that the protests will rage, Musk will tweet, and somewhere, deep within the neon glow of Nevada, a self-driving car will be utterly unimpressed by it all.

Sun Remains Unimpressed

In a bold stroke of legislative brilliance, Nevada lawmakers have set their sights on one of humanity’s most enduring adversaries–the movement of time itself. A bill to end the twice-yearly ritual of jostling clocks forward and back—an exercise responsible for lost sleep, general confusion, and an annual spike in coffee sales—has emerged from committee with bipartisan support and a name as catchy as a snake oil advertisement– the “Lock the Clock” Act.

Democratic Assemblywoman Selena La Rue Hatch of Reno, along with Republican Senator Robin Titus, have put aside political squabbles long enough to declare war on the ticking hands of time.

“This bill is not just about folks who are irked over losing an hour of sleep,” La Rue Hatch assured, presumably aware that being irked over lost sleep is a long-standing American tradition. “There are real health consequences tied to shifting the clocks twice a year.”

Indeed, advocates of the bill claim that the biannual time change causes upticks in strokes, heart attacks, car crashes, workplace blunders, and even schoolchildren nodding off in arithmetic class. In response to these dire consequences, the legislation proposes that Nevada will ‘fall back’ in November one last time before planting its boots firmly on standard time forevermore—no congressional approval required.

Supporters of the measure, including the Nevada Public Health Association, insist that ending the madness will lead to a healthier, more well-rested populace. However, not everyone is convinced.

A pediatrician testified that eliminating daylight saving time might lead to an increase in violent crime, a claim which, if true, suggests that Nevada’s criminals operate exclusively by the sundial and are merely waiting for the correct hour to strike.

Still, La Rue Hatch remains confident that the broader evidence supports the bill’s merits. The full Assembly may soon take a vote, with an April 22 deadline looming.

If the measure passes, Nevadans may finally get free of the tyranny of arbitrary clock changes—but whether they will know what time it is remains to be seen.

Now, friends, if you ever find yourself wanting to take a pleasant jaunt to the fair waters of Lake Tahoe, where the air is as crisp as an autumn apple and the scenery finer than any painting, here is a word of advice–bring a rowboat, a sturdy pair of boots, and a disposition prepared for sudden calamity. While the place is a wonder of nature, it is also a tinderbox, and the fools in charge seem bent on stuffing more people into it than a stagecoach on payday.

Take the matter of Fire Chief Gary Gerren, a man tasked with preventing his small alpine hamlet from becoming a grand bonfire. Gerren, a fellow of uncommon sense in a land sorely lacking it, spends his days imagining the worst—quite literally. He sets fires in his mind and watches them run amok on his fancy computing contraption, seeking a way to keep the thousands of sunburned tourists from perishing when—not if—the flames come calling.

The dilemma is simple–one road in and one out of Fallen Leaf Lake, a five-mile stretch of winding, bump-riddled passage. During the summer, the area becomes crowded with people who think they are impervious to disaster.

Should a fire spark up, these same folks will transform into a mass of panicked humanity, squeezing into that narrow road like hogs through a gate. And as history has taught–when fire and foolishness meet, the fire that wins.

The Angora Fire of 2007 should have been a lesson, but lessons get wasted on some. When it leaped over the granite walls that were supposed to hold it back, chaos reigned, roads jammed, and more than a few souls discovered that “forest living” meant something different than the real estate pamphlets had promised.

Then came the Caldor Fire in 2021, an inferno so grand it made a mockery of every assurance that such a thing “could never happen.” The flames barreled into South Lake Tahoe like an uninvited wedding guest, sending 50,000 people fleeing in a grand parade of honking horns and frayed nerves.

Gerren, ever the realist, knows what few will say aloud–if the fire comes to Fallen Leaf Lake, there will be no easy way out. His best plan is to herd the terrified masses onto boats and send them across the waters or direct them to scramble up into the rocky wilderness like so many bewildered goats.

“It’s all I’ve got,” he says.

Yet, in the face of this, the developers continue their industrious folly. Take, for instance, the plan to build a grand resort in Olympic Valley, complete with 850 condos and enough beds to house an army of summer visitors.

In a display of optimism so profound it borders on delusion, county officials approved the project, dismissing concerns about evacuating thousands of guests through a single two-lane road. If fire blocks their path, they will “shelter in place.”

It’s a first-rate plan if one enjoys the ambiance of a slow-roasting ham.

Fire experts, those weary prophets of doom, have warned that Lake Tahoe is a disaster waiting to happen. The forests are thick, the roads are few, and the cabins, many built when “fireproofing” meant having a bucket nearby, are as flammable as dry pine needles. Yet every year, more homes rise, more tourists flood in, and the illusion persists that disasters are manageable with a well-placed sign and a polite evacuation notice.

The truth, plain as a mule’s backside, is when the fire comes, it will not be impressed by grand plans or official assurances. It will move as it pleases, and all the clever men in suits will be left wringing their hands while the people on the ground make do with what little sense and preparation they have.

So, if you must visit Lake Tahoe, do so with your eyes wide open. Bring your boots, your boat, and a fair bit of luck.

And should you hear a fire is near, do not wait for the officials to sort themselves out—start running, and don’t stop ‘til you hit the water.

The Virginia City Muckers are proving last season’s struggles are as dead and buried as an old prospector’s claim. On Tuesday, they made short work of the Sierra Sage Academy/Right of Passage Rams, galloping off with a commanding 19-4 victory. It was no lucky break—when a team wins five games by more than seven runs, dominance isn’t an accident–it’s a habit.

Jordan Harold was as swift as a coyote on the basepaths, crossing the plate twice and swiping four bases while going 2-for-2 at the plate. Not to be outdone, Nanna Lopez matched him stride for stride, logging identical stats and keeping the Rams’ defense on its heels.

As a team, the Muckers swung the bats like they were mining for gold, posting a .600 batting average and keeping a six-game streak alive of hitting .412 or better. With the win, Virginia City advanced to 7-4-1 on the season, while Sierra Sage’s misfortunes continued, dropping them to 0-8 with 11 straight road losses dating back to last season.

The Muckers didn’t let their bats cool for long. Just days later, they strode into their showdown with Smith Valley and came off victorious again, thundering past the Bulldogs 23-15. The victory made it six straight wins for Virginia City, and like clockwork, they racked up another eight-run-or-more triumph—number seven of the season.

Nanna Lopez was a force, going 4-for-4, scoring three runs, and smashing three triples—a new career high. Meanwhile, Bity Lopez made her mark, crossing home plate four times and racking up four RBIs, two doubles, and a 3-for-5 performance. Virginia City didn’t just win—they overwhelmed, collecting 22 hits and keeping Smith Valley’s outfield running ragged.

The Muckers now stand at 9-4-1, riding a four-game road win streak and averaging 21.8 runs per game over that stretch. Meanwhile, Smith Valley’s struggles persist, with their 12th straight loss stretching back to last season, leaving them at 0-5.

With a well-earned break ahead, Virginia City will return to action on April 15, when they square off against Pyramid Lake. Meanwhile, Smith Valley will try to snap their losing streak against Mineral County, a team with a tendency to bleed runs—something the Bulldogs will be eager to exploit.

A seven-year-old girl who died after being struck by a falling boulder at Diamond Peak Ski Resort on Saturday is Adelyn Grimes of Reno, the Washoe County Regional Medical Examiner’s Office confirmed.

Grimes was pronounced dead at the scene after sustaining blunt force injuries to the neck and chest. Authorities are investigating the circumstances, including the location on the mountain where the boulder fell. Her death was an accident.

The incident occurred just before 3:40 p.m. on March 29, when emergency personnel responded to Diamond Peak. Ski patrol responded immediately and provided first aid while awaiting the arrival of the North Lake Tahoe Fire Protection District and the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office.

In a statement, Diamond Peak Ski Resort acknowledged the tragedy, extending condolences.

“The entire Diamond Peak Ski Resort family has been deeply affected by a tragedy that occurred Saturday,” the resort said. “We would like to extend our heartfelt condolences to the family of the child involved, to the members of the Sugar Bowl race team, and to the entire Lake Tahoe ski racing community, all of whom have been profoundly saddened by the accident.”

Counseling resources have been made available to resort staff affected by the tragedy. Sugar Bowl Resort declined to comment on the incident.

The Washoe County Sheriff’s Office is leading the law enforcement investigation.

An Amber Alert issued in Northern Nevada on Monday was canceled in the afternoon after authorities safely located 10-month-old Lyric Smithen and his mother, Chelsea Daniels.

The alert came after Daniels, 32, abducted her son in Fallon following a court order that removed the child from her care. According to the Churchill County Sheriff’s Office, Daniels was described as “upset and distraught” at the time of the abduction.

Authorities reported that Daniels had sent messages threatening to harm both herself and the child. She was armed with a handgun and traveling in a black 2006 Ford Explorer with Nevada license plate 714S57.

The search became more urgent after officials revealed that the child was to have open-heart surgery on Tuesday.

The Nevada Division of Emergency Management issued the Amber Alert early Monday, urging the public to be on the lookout for the suspect’s vehicle. Around 8:56 a.m., Daniels and her son were near the Walmart on Reno Highway in Fallon.

Lyric Smithen is described as a white infant with blonde hair and gray eyes, measuring about two feet tall and weighing 20 pounds. Daniels is 5’4”, weighing approximately 174 pounds, with brown hair and green eyes.

The Amber Alert was canceled by 3:45 p.m. after authorities confirmed both Daniels and the child had been found safe. The Nevada Division of Emergency Management confirmed the update at 3:49 p.m., though further details on Daniels’ custody status or potential charges were not immediately available.

Nervous—very dreadfully nervous I had been and remain. The obsession had sharpened my senses—not dulled them—not destroyed them. Above all was the sense of hearing. I heard all things in the notifications, the pings, the buzzes of the digital ether, the silent hum of a phone on “Do Not Disturb”—a lie, a mockery!

It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion was none. I loved the phone. It had never wronged me. It had never given me a thumbs-down emoji or left me in “airplane mode.”

I had no desire for Wi-Fi beyond 4G. No, it was the phone—that cursed, gleaming rectangle of torment! Whenever it buzzed in my gnarled hand, my blood ran cold–so by degrees—very gradually—I decided to rid myself of the thing and thus silence its incessant chatter forever.

Now, this is the point. You should have seen me. You should have seen how I proceeded—with caution, foresight–what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the thing than during the whole week before I plotted against it.

Every night, about midnight, I crept into my room—oh, so stealthily!—and peered through the crack in the door. There it sat, and then—oh, horror!—it would ring. Not a call, no, but a notification, perhaps a “like,” a “share,” a “your package has shipped.” The sound pierced me like a dagger, a tinny chime that echoed in my skull. But I was patient. I waited. I smiled. I drank my whiskey.

Upon the eighth night, I was more than cautious. I rumbled through the house–all sound drowned only by the faint bzzz-bzzz-bzzz of the phone on the nightstand. I opened the door—oh, so slowly!—and slipped inside. My hands trembled, not with fear, but with purpose. The phone lay there, face-up, its screen a black mirror until—ping!—it lit up. “Breaking News: Local Man Buys Socks.” I stifled a scream. The time had come.

With a motion swift and silent, I snatched the phone from its perch. I held it aloft, its weight a sin in my palm, and then—oh, glorious release!—I smashed it upon the floor. The screen cracked like a spider’s web, yet still, it buzzed defiant, a final ding of “Low Battery.” I stamped upon it—once, twice, thrice!—until it lay in pieces, a shattered relic of modernity. The silence was exquisite. I was free.

Into a corner, I swept it, where the fragments, in my haste, came a sound. A bzzz-bzzz-bzzz—but a vibration. Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. The phone, though dead, lived on. A phantom buzz, a ghostly ringtone, a notification from beyond the grave. Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. “Your update is ready to install!”

I paced my room, my nerves unraveling. The sound grew louder—how could he not hear it? Morning came, and so did the neighbors, summoned by some unspoken instinct. They knocked, inquired, and sipped my hastily brewed coffee.

“All is well,” I said, smiling.

But the sound—bzzz-bzzz-bzzz—it swelled, roared, mocked me!

“Do you not hear it?” I cried at last, tearing at my hair. “The buzzing, the ringing, the endless scroll of it all? I did it—I smashed his phone! I confess! See in the bottom of my wastebasket—silence it, I beg you!”

They stared, bewildered, then laughed. “It’s just your phone,” one said, pointing to my pocket.

And there it was—my device, alive, vibrating, a cascade of alerts: “Man Posts Selfie: ‘Lost My Phone, LOL.’”