The Old Blog in the Desert

Now, friends, if you’ve ever tried to keep a roof over your head and four walls around your supper table, you know the housing market is as unpredictable as a goose in a thunderstorm. The well-meaning folks over at the Sierra Nevada Realtors released their March 2025 ledger on the comings and goings of homes in Carson City and the counties of Churchill, Douglas, Lyon, and Washoe—though Incline Village, with all its lakefront pomposity, was left to fend for itself.

The report offers a glimpse into the real estate shenanigans of the Silver State. And what it shows is something between a boom and a bustle–the median price across all five counties for single-family homes, condominiums, and townhouses now sits pretty at $525,000. That’s a hop, skip, and a 0.8 percent jump from February. Meanwhile, the total number of homes sold is up a hearty 15.3 percent—enough to make a banker grin and a carpenter curse his luck for not charging more.

In Carson City, 61 brave souls traded property deeds in March—a tiny drop of 1.6 percent from February and a 3.2 percent tumble from last year. The median price was $517,000, just a shade lower than February but 4.4 percent higher than last year. The number of homes just sitting there, hoping for a buyer, was down to 107, 13 percent fewer than last month and a full 25.2 percent fewer than last spring, meaning supply is tighter than a miser’s purse.

Churchill County—where the sagebrush outnumbers the people ten to one—had 22 sales in March, which is quite the climb from February’s 29.4 percent but still down 12 percent from last year’s tally. Folks there fetched a median of $400,000 per sale–a respectable gain monthly and annually.

Douglas County, nestled between the mountains and the meadows, 50 homes changed hands—down two percent from February and 7.4 percent from last year. Still, the median price jumped to $730,000, which will buy you a fine view and maybe a marmot in the backyard. That’s up 6.1 percent from the month prior, though down 5.7 percent from the same month in 2024.

Over in Lyon County, including manufactured homes and stick-built dwellings, saw a whopping 111 sales in March—up 54.2 percent from February, though just a tick of 0.9 percent below last year. The median price was $409,000, marking steady climbs month-over-month and year-over-year. Folks there evidently still appreciate a bargain and a good patch of dirt.

Then there’s Washoe County, a sprawling domain that skips over Incline Village but includes Reno and all its ambition. Washoe saw 668 new listings and 465 homes sold in March. The median sale price was $544,900, up 1.9 percent from February and 1.7 percent over last year. The inventory of homes stood at 1,077, which is a touch better than February’s 1.6 percent and a lot better than last March, with 36.3 percent more to choose from.

All in all–prices are inching up, sales are moving briskly, and inventory is playing a curious game of hide and seek, depending on where you hang your hat.

By a Disbelieving Observer of Man’s Gall and His Corporate Appetite

We find ourselves in a fix as fine as molasses in mid-July. The mercury’s climbing in Nevada, and just as sure as the Devil sets his rocking chair out in the Great Basin this time of year, NV Energy is once again rattling the tin cup at our windows.

Only this time, it ain’t just about the heat—it’s about who’s getting burned.

See, while the people of Nevada, sunburned and broke, were busy wringing pennies from dishwater to keep the air conditioning whirring, the utility company was out there admitting—barely—that they overcharged some folk. Not a few, not once, not by accident, but systematically–and for years.

And for their trouble?

A partial refund, no interest, and not a whisper of apology. One poor soul, Miss Carlin Dinola, was stiffed more than a thousand dollars and got a $96 rebate for her trouble. That’s not a refund—that’s dumb money.

And what sayeth NV Energy?

Why, they dusted off some rule from 1980—back when folks still thought disco was the future—and claimed they only had to return six months’ worth of ill-gotten gains. Now, I ain’t no lawyer, but if I borrow your wheelbarrow and use it for six years, then tell you I owe you for just the last six weeks, you’d call me a cheat—and you’d be right.

Enter Assembly Bill 452, now wending its way through the hallowed halls of Carson City, a modest proposal that says, “Hey, if you overcharge somebody, you pay’em back—all of it—and with interest too.”

Revolutionary, I know.

Pastor Marlon Anderson, who spoke before the Assembly Committee, said it plain and simple, “Come on, man!”

And when a preacher pleads like that, you know the devil’s been in the accounting ledgers.

NV Energy, of course, sent their vice president to the hearing—Ms. Janet Wells—who danced around the numbers like they were hornets. She didn’t know how many people got overcharged, how much it added up to, or anything except that everything’s fine and the rules’re workin’ as they should.

Now, there’s a question worth asking–If the rules are working as designed, and folks are still getting fleeced, then who made the rules and whose pockets are gettin’ lined in the process?

But AB 452 wouldn’t just aim to fix refunds—it would stop NV Energy from tossing every spike in fuel costs onto the backs of the very customers trying to survive a desert summer. The way it stands–if war breaks out overseas or a snowstorm clogs the pipelines–customers pay the difference while NV Energy keeps the profits flowing like chilled sangria at a country club picnic.

Again, Ms. Wells testified all’s fair ’cause they “don’t mark up” fuel. And maybe that’s true—but passing 100 percent of the cost to customers while the company’s shareholders remain as safe and snug as a possum in a house don’t sound much like “sharing the burden.”

So here we are, watching the Assembly swing at justice with a bill that says–Pay what you owe, take your fair share of risk, and stop hiding behind century-old rulebooks while folks pawn their air conditioners to cover the light bill.

And I ask again, in the plainest language a still free man can muster–whose pockets are getting lined? ‘Cause it ain’t mine.

By a Citizen Who’s Seen a Mule Pull a Plow Quicker Than This Bunch Can Pass a Law

It appears that Congress—God bless it and save it from itself—is once again proving that when it comes to helping regular folks chase the American dream, it’s all hat and no cattle. A fresh report from the National Federation of Independent Business (NFIB) lays bare what every hardworking Nevadan already knows deep in their bones–if those stuffed shirts in Washington don’t make the 20 percent Small Business Tax Deduction permanent, it’ll be small businesses—and the communities they serve—that get left holding the bag.

Nevada ain’t asking for charity. They’re asking for fairness.

Over 333,000 small businesses across the Silver State will get clobbered if this deduction sunsets. Without it, small shops from Reno to Ely will be paying a top tax rate of 39.6 percent, while big corporations—who’ve got lobbyists slicker than a greased weasel—keep sailing along at 21 percent.

That ain’t a level playing field; that’s a rigged game where the deck’s stacked against the little guy.

And yet, what do we hear from Congress? Crickets.

Worse than crickets—we hear a chorus of excuses from RINOs and Democrats alike, who’d sooner hold hands across the aisle to pass a meaningless resolution than lift a finger for the folks who keep our towns humming and our main streets alive.

It ain’t just about taxes. It’s about jobs—12,000 a year, to be exact.

It’s about growing our economy by $659 million yearly for the next decade and a whopping $1.36 billion annually after 2035. It’s about letting small business owners keep hiring, paying decent wages, and the lights on.

Tray Abney, NFIB’s Nevada State Director, put it plain–“If Congress allows the 20 percent Small Business Deduction to expire, a massive tax hike on small businesses will take effect, stifling growth, putting the brakes on hiring, and endangering countless small businesses.”

That’s the rub–ain’t it?

Small businesses don’t have time to wait for the next election or the next partisan squabble. They’ve got payroll due Friday and rent due the first. They’re not asking for the moon—just the chance to work, grow, and pass something better to their kids.

But unless Congress pulls its boot out of its backside and acts now, that dream gets dimmer for bunches of Nevadans. And every RINO and Democrat who let the tax break die ought to be made to explain to every butcher, baker, and candlestick maker why they’re now paying more while Wall Street gets a pass.

So here’s a thought, dear Congressfolk–less talkin’, more doin’–and pass the dang deduction and let Nevada thrive.

300 Acres, No Comment, and a Whole Heap of Dirt to Move

Honest, I don’t pretend to know what sort of cipherin’ they do up there in Redmond, Wash., but it appears that Microsoft, a kingpin in computer contraptions, has quietly bought itself a nice, wide patch of Northern Nevada sagebrush—300.7 acres of it, to be precise—at a place called Victory Logistics District in the humble outpost of Fernley.

They paid a princely sum too–$70.5 million, no buildings, no bricks, not even a painted sign—just dust and promise—to look at it and say, “Ours.”

If you ask’em what they’re fixin’ to do with that great expanse of nothing, you’d best prepare for disappointment. Microsoft ain’t talking. They wagged a finger at their website and made a polite noise about “supporting local business growth” and “working with the community.”

That’s the kind of answer you give when your boots’re in wet cement, and you don’t want to say you’ve got no idea where the sidewalk’s going.

Still, those in the know—namely Evan Slavik, the head honcho of Mark IV Capital, which owns the land—said the purchase means Fernley might soon be home to more humming servers than prairie dogs. Slavik practically popped his suspenders in pride, calling it “a major step toward data center developments,” which, translated from Real Estate Speak, means: “Boys, we’re about to get rich.”

Victory Logistics District—which sounds like a place where Julius Caesar would’ve stored his chariots—already has one tech tenant—Redwood Materials, a battery recycler with more square footage than a small kingdom. But Microsoft’s entry, if they do go the data center route, would make them the first digital titan to break ground there, and that kind of thing tends to stir up a whole mess of attention.

You might recall the “Tesla Effect of 2015″—when Elon Musk rolled into town and triggered a silver rush of tech outfits stampeding toward Storey County like a herd of caffeinated buffalo.

Mark IV is spending $120 million to flatten 600 acres of dirt and lay down roads, pipes, power lines, and other subterranean spaghetti to get ahead of the presumed frenzy. Rick Nelson, Mark IV’s Northern Nevada boss man, says they’ll be laying fiber, building roads, and preparing the land like a hopeful farmer expecting rain. The only difference is that their rain is server racks and server farms, and the crops are billion-dollar tech companies hungry for cheap power and elbow room.

They won’t be touching Microsoft’s land–oh no, that parcel’s sacred now—but they will set up the neighborhood with a road network that connects everything like a spiderweb for high-speed dreams. They’re even planning a new residential community—because what good is a digital utopia without a few humans nearby to plug it in and argue over where to put the coffee machine?

So, what does it mean for Nevada? If history’s any guide, it means more jobs, noise, and folks who say “cloud computing” with a straight face. It also means that Fernley—once a place where the most exciting thing was the wind changing directions—is fixin’ to be a hub of the future, whatever that turns out to be.

As for Microsoft, they may not be talking now—but when you plunk down seventy million for a pile of dirt, you ain’t just buying silence. You’re buying the next chapter.

And I reckon it’s going to be a loud one.

Don’t go gettin’ me wrong, I ain’t one to cast stones at a feller’s faith, but there’s a mighty peculiar thing about some churchgoin’ folks, ‘cludin’ me.

They’ll traipse into the pews every Sunday, singin’ hymns loud enough to wake a hibernatin’ bear and quotin’ Scripture like they’re auditionin’ for St. Peter. They’ve got the prayer book dog-eared, the preacher’s hand shook, and the collection plate polished with their generosity. But deep down, where the soul whispers truths the heart done ignored, there’s a gnawin’ emptiness—a suspicion that all their pious doin’s might be no more’n a well-dressed sham.

In its plainspoken way, the Good Book tells of a day when folks’ll stand before the Almighty, hollerin’, “Lord, Lord, didn’t we prophesy in Your name? Didn’t we cast out demons and work miracles?”

And the Master, with a look that’d pierce a man’s soul like a Pacific coast foghorn’ll say, “I never knew you, you actor.”

That’s the rub–ain’t it? The fear that all your churchly strut and sermonizin’ might’ve been a grand performance for a theater with no audience. It ain’t about religion, mind you, with its starched collars and polished customs.

It’s about repentance, the bone-deep, life-turnin’ repentance that costs a man somethin’. The kind that makes you leave your nets like Peter or climb down from your sycamore like Zacchaeus.

If a man’s soul is worth a plug nickel–he’d do well to ponder this dread before the curtain falls. For what’s worse than a life spent prayin’ to a God you ain’t never met?

Millions Vanish, and Powers That Be Are Scare’t

Now I reckon there ain’t a soul west of the Rockies who hasn’t heard tell of them new-fangled fiber wires–meant to zip words and pictures through the air like greased lightning, or so they say. But in the fine town of Lovelock–where tumbleweeds roll straighter than the books kept by some contractors–a highfalutin broadband project got sold to the public like a ticket to the future, and now folks are wonderin’ where the money went, along with their promised internet.

Interim U.S. Attorney Sigal Chattah, a woman who seems to believe laws ain’t just for the little folks, pulled back the curtain Friday and announced a federal probe into a fiber optic boondoggle that’s gone belly-up with a mighty splash. It seems Uncle Sam and the Nevada Department of Transportation gave out wheelbarrows full of dollars–$27 million from the feds and $9 million from the state–to string lines and light up the desert with sweet connectivity. Instead, they got lawsuits, broken promises, and the sort of bookkeeping that’d make a gambler blush.

“This month,” Miss Chattah declared, with all the calm of a gunslinger at a church social, “the United States Attorney’s Office was brought a case and has now opened an investigation into allegations that misappropriation may have occurred…”

I’ll stop her there–because anyone with a dictionary knows what that means–somebody ran off with the money.

Uprise Fiber was supposed to bring high-speed salvation to Lovelock. But not long after the first shovel hit the dirt–if it did at all–bank records showed its head honcho, one Stephen Kromer, emptied the coffers like a fox in a henhouse. His family, quick as a sneeze, distanced themselves faster than a Baptist from a gambling den. The USDA, not known for hasty decisions unless slaughtering chickens–hauled out the audit book in March of 2025 and discovered Uprise’s paperwork had more holes than a miner’s sock.

Matching funds? Nope. Construction costs? Inflated like a carnival balloon. Equipment? Let’s say the receipts looked more like wish lists to Santa than anything else.

But here’s the kicker–the Nevada state legislature, in its infinite wisdom–and apparent fear of mirrors–decided there’s no need to investigate themselves. Senator Melanie Scheible, chairwoman of not-rocking-the-boat, stated they’d let the feds handle it–thank you kindly.

Ain’t that just convenient?

Now, you might ask yourself–why would anyone have a bone to pick with Chattah for doing her job? I’ll tell you–because the last thing the powerful want is a woman who don’t scare easy, sniffin’ around their gold-plated follies. She’s rattlin’ the cages of comfortable people in high places, and that sort of thing don’t make you many friends in Carson City or D.C.

So next time you hear someone high up bad-mouthin’ Sigal Chattah, remember it might not be ‘cause she’s wrong–it might be ‘cause she’s right. And Lord, help the scoundrel who bets she’ll back down.

In the meantime, the good people of Lovelock are left with no broadband, no answers, and no sign of their missing millions–just the desert wind and a promise broken wide open.

I am young, sixty-something, who keeps count?—yet I have seen the horrors of the green frontier. We mow, not yet broken, because the grass grows relentlessly, like an enemy that knows no truce.

The backyard is my trench, my battlefield, and I am its weary soldier, armed with a push mower that rattles like a dying beast. The sun beats down as I survey the line—ankle-high grass, dandelions standing like sentries, a patch of clover buzzing with bees I dare not provoke.

My comrades are few–the mower, its blade dulled from last summer’s campaign; a rake, bent and sullen; and the neighbor’s dog, barking from beyond the fence, a constant reminder of the world beyond my war.

“Quiet, Fritz,” I mutter, though his name might be Buddy, like my dog.

It matters not. Fritz is the artillery of this quiet afternoon.

We learned to mow in youth, taught by fathers or necessity, gripping handles slick with sweat, pushing forward through the thickets of suburbia. Now I advance, step by step, the mower coughing as it chews through the enemy lines.

A stick jams the blade—a landmine of nature—and I kneel, cursing, prying it free with hands stained green. The grass falls, silent, in clumps, like soldiers cut down without a sound. I feel no triumph, only the ache in my shoulders, the weight of a Saturday lost to duty.

Once, we dreamed of glory—clean lines, a lawn to rival the golf courses of legend. We spoke over beers, my friend Dave and I–plotting strategies against crabgrass and molehills. But Dave is gone now—moved to an apartment with no yard—and I am alone, save for the memory of his laughter when I tripped over the hose. The hose lies coiled now, a serpent waiting to strike, and I eye it warily as I push on.

The middle of the yard is the worst, a no-man’s-land of uneven earth and hidden rocks. The mower bucks, I stumble, and a stone flies—ping!—against the shed. I pause, breathless, listening.

All is quiet in the backyard, save for Fritz’s distant yaps and the hum of a sprinkler two houses down. The silence is a lie. Beneath it, the grass plots its return, roots deep as despair. I know this, as all mowers do–we win today, but tomorrow, the war resumes.

At last, the final strip falls. I stand, victorious yet hollow, the mower silent beside me. The lawn is uneven and patchy—a scarred field—but it is mine.

I drag the clippings to the bin, my medals of honor, and collapse into a chair with a cold drink, the armistice of dusk settling in. Fritz whines once more, a farewell shot, and I nod to him across the fence.

“Until next time,” I whisper.

For in the backyard, as in all wars, peace is but a pause.

Without aiming to startle nobody, I recently found myself ensnared in a war of words with Mrs. Leggs, a woman-friend of stout East Coast conviction and a voice that could lullaby a White Shark to sleep. It all started innocently enough—she asked me who I reckoned might win the ongoing war, betwixt Ukraine and Russia.

Being a man of peace and not particularly fond of having frying pans flung at my head—whether metaphorical or cast iron—I replied, “Ma’am, I do not rightly know, other than if the U.S. sets up shop in Ukraine, it a certainty that China will fall in with Russia, and only because of their shared love of Communism.”

I figured that was a safe harbor in a storm of opinions. Alas, I was mistaken.

She cocked her head like a chicken hearing thunder and declared that we were fools if we didn’t understand the war was one head of a many-headed beast–and the real trouble was the nature of the governments behind the guns. Russia and China, she said with great thunder and finality, were operating under totalitarian hybrids, something like a bank run by prison wardens.

Now, I like to keep things simple—it makes the world easier to chew on—so I said, “Well, I call both of‘em Communist and be done with it.”

That was a mistake on par with asking a mule to dance the Lindy. She flared up like a prairie fire, arms flailing and facts flying.

“Communist?” she said as if I’d insulted her grandmother’s soup. “Neither one’s been Communist since Disco died.”

And she commenced lecturing me like I was a schoolboy caught cheating on a geography test, which I suppose I was, in a way. Well, I’m no stranger to being wrong–I’ve been married a long time, after all–so I figured I’d do some digging.

By the time I emerged from the digital mines of the internet, I had dirt under my nails and a head full of confusion. It turns out Mrs. Leggs was neither entirely right nor entirely wrong.

But me? I was gloriously, absolutely, and undeniably mistaken.

After rummaging through various reputable sources and a few that smelled of basement mildew and conspiracy, I discovered that China is a “Democratic Dictatorship,” which sounds like a jailhouse where the inmates get to vote on what flavor of porridge they eat. Russia, on the other hand, is an “Authoritarian Republic,” which means they hold elections in the same spirit a magician pulls rabbits out of hats—prearranged and for show.

And here at home, in these United States, we’re no longer a “Constitutional Republic,” but a “Democratic Republic,” which roughly translates to–we all get a vote, provided we don’t mind the fact that our choices have already been picked out for us by men and women in expensive suits and no sense of shame.

Don’t believe me? Look at what they keep doing to the Second Amendment.

After digesting all this, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the wall, which seemed just as puzzled. I thought about those sacred old words, “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” and I tell you true–happiness now feels more like a joke told by a tax collector with a straight face.

We’ve traded it in for something colder, meaner—something called helplessness. It’s the sensation of shouting into a canyon and only hearing someone else’s opinion echo back at you.

It’s voting for a person who promises change–and getting change back in the way of more taxes. It’s watching your country argue over which way the ship is sinking instead of plugging the hole.

Still, I reckon Mrs. Leggs meant well. And maybe I did, too.

But next time someone asks me about world affairs, I’ll tell them I’ve taken a vow of silence—or that I only speak in riddles and limericks as it might save me from learning too much truth all at once.

By the looks of it, the great State of Nevada is goin’ to have herself an Easter fit for a king, a queen, and at least three well-fed rabbits. According to the keepers of coin over at the Retail Association of Nevada (RAN), folks will part with a staggering $382.3 million this season—proof that resurrection is big business, even if it ain’t saving a single soul.

The National Retail Federation—bless their spreadsheets—says each reveler will toss about $189 at the altar of Easter essentials. That’s the second-highest per-person Easter-spendin’ ever recorded, trailing only the year folks mistook Easter for Christmas with better weather.

Yet for all that spendin’, not a whisper of redemption has been heard among the jellybeans.

“Retailers aren’t the only ones feelin’ the seasonal buzz—the Easter Bunny is lookin’ bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” chirped Bryan Wachter, RAN’s Senior Vice President and part-time poet. “It’s clear consumers are embracin’ this year’s holiday with energy and enthusiasm.”

And presumably with wallets swung wide like barn doors in a windstorm.

With more than two million Nevadans joinin’ in, food is wearin’ the crown, with nearly $60 per person goin’ toward Easter feasts. That adds up to a belly-buster of a whoppin’ $120.4 million. Candy’s hangin’ in there like a good-humored toothache, with nine outta ten celebrants droppin’ a sweet $54.2 million into the confectionary abyss.

Other favored expenditures include gifts–65 percent, likely stuffed animals with judgmental eyes–decorations at 51 percent, clothing pulling up 49 percent, with pastels being the color of salvation–flowers growing at 43 percent, preferably ones that don’t perish before the Visa bill arrives, and greeting cards–also 43 percent, mostly read once and kept forever out of guilt.

As for how folks aim to mark the occasion, 58 percent say they’ll cook up a holiday meal—bless their deviled eggs. Another 55 percent intend to darken the doorstep of friends and kin, while 45 percent will give church another try, if only for the ham afterward. Over half of families with young ’uns are fixin’ to hide plastic eggs in the backyard—modern-day treasure hunts where the prize is sugar and ants.

When shopping, discount stores lead the parade at 55 percent, followed by department stores at 44 percent, the wild frontier of online streaming in at 36 percent, and, bless their hearts, local small businesses cementin’ 26 percent.

So there you have it—Easter in Nevada, where rabbits are holy, baskets are bountiful, and salvation may be scarce, but you can sure buy a perfected facsimile of it, wrapped in cellophane and marked down for the following day.

In the grand circus tent of Nevada politics, where the clowns wear neckties, and the carnival barkers speak a procedural language, four Republican senators drew a firm line—not in the sand, but in the cement mix of legislative integrity—by voting against Senate Bill 451, a measure to continue funding Las Vegas police through an existing property tax stream.

Don’t let the headlines fool you—these folks ain’t shaking their fists at the badge. They were raising an eyebrow at the fine print.

The bill, cooked up by Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro—a Democrat out of Las Vegas, naturally—promises to keep boots on the ground—800 of them, to be exact. That’s 400 officers, give or take a baton or two.

Cannizzaro warned with all the dramatic flair of a thundercloud that if this tax extension didn’t pass, the city might be left defenseless in the face of armed robbery, sexual assault, and Lord knows what else. But hold on a minute–Republicans weren’t objecting to keeping the town safe. They were objecting to the way this sausage’s gettin’ made.

Senator Robin Titus of Wellington—Minority Leader and, it seems, guardian of voter intent—stood on the floor and said the people voted on this tax back in 1996, and should they want to keep it rolling, then the people should have another say.

“Shall impose a tax,” the bill reads, and to Senator Titus, that smelled a lot like the state elbowing past local authority.

If a law officer’s job is on the line, that’s serious business. But so is keeping a campaign promise, especially when it’s the governor’s neck in the political noose. Governor Joe Lombardo—who once wore a badge and pledged not to raise taxes—might get caught betwixt and between.

Sign the bill, betray the tax-hating faithful.

Veto it, officers get pink slips, and folks might accuse him of gutting the force he once led. Talk about a steel-toothed trap.

Democrats, of course, are grinning like cats in a creamery. All of them voted “aye” on SB451, and you can bet they’ll remind voters they’re the ones who backed the blue—especially if Cannizzaro’s eyes are on the attorney general’s office. It’s a tidy little purposeful narrative they’re weaving—Republicans voted against police—Democrats saved the day.

But politics, like poker, ain’t played with just the cards on the table. You have to watch the hands.

Meanwhile, in the dim-lit backrooms of the Capitol, where deals get made over weak coffee and strong ambitions—another drama folds. NV Energy, that giant humming beast of the electric grid, is busy whispering about wildfire liability. They ain’t wantin’ to get left holding the match if a power line goes rogue and torches a hillside.

No official word yet—they’re tighter-lipped than a banker in a gold rush–but they’re angling to follow Utah’s lead by setting up a fund paid for by ratepayers–that’s you and me, dear reader—just in case their equipment sparks a blaze.

Call it “self-insurance,” though the self in question is the customer, not the company.

It’s all quite preliminary, of course, like sourdough rising. But if NV Energy gets its way, it might walk away from future infernos without a singed cuff. Berkshire Hathaway—the folks who own NV Energy—have been pushing this model across the West like a traveling salesman with a miracle tonic.

Now, some may call this savvy business. Others might call it wriggling out of responsibility. But one thing’s known—if a wildfire ever comes roaring through your backyard, don’t expect the electric company to bring marshmallows and apologies. They’re more likely to hand you the bill.

So as the Legislature heads toward its finale with all the grace of a one-legged mule in a rainstorm, we see the old playbook at work—Democrats securing their headlines by setting up Republicans, who’re standing their ground, and the corporations whispering deals in the hallway.

And the voters? They’ll have the final say, assuming someone remembers to ask them.