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Ford and Lombardo Square Off

If there’s one thing about Nevada politics, a quiet day is as likely as snow in the desert—possible, but only under the most peculiar circumstances. And last month, when Attorney General Aaron Ford released his 72-page tome of “model immigration policies,” it set off a political scuffle that will likely define the 2026 gubernatorial race.

The combatants? Ford, a Democrat, and Republican Governor Joe Lombardo. The whole business over immigration policies is a classic case of two men looking at the same instruction booklet and reaching entirely different conclusions.

Ford insists that his guidelines were to help local governments and law enforcement agencies about how to handle the ever-bewildering labyrinth of federal immigration laws. According to his office, the idea is to keep state and local agencies from getting tangled in federal enforcement efforts they are not required to participate in—thus sparing the state’s coffers and bolstering trust between immigrant communities and the police.

Reading the document, Lombardo immediately proclaimed it as instructions to create a “sanctuary state.” What constitutes a sanctuary state is a topic of political poetry; in this case, it was to imply that Ford’s policies invited foreign individuals to enter freely.

Ford, naturally, denies this, declaring that he supports no sanctuary for “any criminal—period.” But the matter remained a source of outrage for political operatives on both sides, who need sustenance to keep themselves riled.

If one thought that a raging political fight over immigration would be enough to keep Nevada’s governing class busy, one would be mistaken. Like a chef who discovered a cabinet full of spices, Ford added another ingredient to the political stew by calling out Lombardo for supporting President Donald Trump’s executive order to eliminate the Department of Education.

Yes, dear reader, the institution overseeing the mechanization of America’s school districts now finds itself on the chopping block, and Ford has wasted no time predicting doom.

“The fact is, Joe Lombardo just sold out Nevada’s kids and their futures,” Ford thundered, likely pounding his fist on a lectern for added effect.

Others followed suit, with members of Nevada’s education establishment warning that the loss of federal funding would be catastrophic. Over the last five years, they argued, nearly six billion dollars have flowed into the state’s schools from Washington, and the idea that Nevada could replace those funds with its meager coffers was as laughable as a one-legged man entering a footrace.

Lombardo, however, remains unfazed. He insists that education is best left to the states, that eliminating the federal department will lead to a “localized, innovative, and accountable” approach, and that Nevada’s bottom-rung ranking in education suggests the status quo isn’t worth defending.

Meanwhile, Ford is already licking his chops at the prospect of yet another lawsuit. “I know that Trump said Pell Grants won’t be affected, well I don’t believe him,” Ford said, a sentiment roughly translating to, “I’ll see you in court.”

And with that, Nevada’s two political heavyweights have set the stage for a 2026 contest that will feature immigration, education, and the broader question of whether the federal government should be meddling in the affairs of the Silver State. The ink will flow freely, the coffee will percolate, and by the time this is all said and done, Ford and Lombardo will have filled enough press releases to paper the Great Basin.

Whether Nevada’s students, immigrants, or taxpayers benefit from the fracas remains to be seen, but at least the political class will have something to keep them occupied.

The good folks at the Nevada Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation–who, one presumes, never miss a meal–have released their January 2025 economic report, with all the excitement of a man announcing that he has misplaced his spectacles—again. The state’s seasonally adjusted unemployment rate remains as stubborn as a mule at 5.8 percent, exactly where it was in December–as if daring the economy to do something about it.

Breaking it down into the three great hubs of civilization in the Silver State, Las Vegas sits at 6.1 percent, Reno holds its head marginally higher at 5.1 percent, and Carson City rests at a dignified five percent as if such figures bring any comfort to a man without two nickels to rub together.

For those preferring a more rustic setting to ponder their empty pocketbooks, unemployment wobbles wildly across the counties. Humboldt County, where folks must have found something useful to do, boasts the lowest unemployment rate at 4.4 percent. Meanwhile, Mineral County, any overachiever in all the wrong ways, soars to a staggering 11.4 percent.

A more distressing bit of arithmetic reveals that unemployment has risen in all of Nevada’s counties, as unwelcome as a skunk at a garden party. Reno-Sparks, perhaps feeling left out, nudged up 0.4 percentage points, while Carson City, ever the competitor, ticked up 0.3. The Las Vegas area, already feeling peckish from its 5.9 percent in December, decided another 0.2 percentage points wouldn’t hurt.

The real champions of this dismal race are Esmeralda, Mineral, and Eureka counties, which saw their jobless numbers climb as though scaling the mountains that surround them, rising 3.5, 1.2, and 1.0 percentage points, respectively. Meanwhile, Churchill, Elko, Clark, and Nye counties took a more reserved approach, with a modest increase of 0.1 to 0.2 percentage points—small but still enough to ensure their citizens remain suitably aggravated.

In summary, Nevada’s economy appears to be following the sage wisdom of an old dog that has settled on a dusty porch–it isn’t improving, but it isn’t getting much worse. And if history has taught us anything, such a situation can persist indefinitely, provided enough official reports are issued to confirm it.

And the Eternal Rate Hike

The Nevada Legislature, in its boundless wisdom, has taken up the noble cause of rescuing the common folk from the clutches of high energy bills—or so they say.

Assemblymember Howard Watts, with a heart brimming with benevolence and a keen eye for rooftop real estate, has unveiled AB458, a bill designed to allow renters the privilege of solar power, a heretofore reserved for the landed gentry. “I’ve toiled with housing advocates, clean energy prophets, and community sages to craft a policy that not only makes fiscal sense but also delivers salvation in the form of savings,” proclaimed Watts, no doubt with the gravity of a man carving his name into the annals of history.

The bill, in short, seeks to remove the pesky legal obstacles that have kept Nevada’s renters from enjoying the golden rays of government-approved sunshine.

Meanwhile, Assemblymember Tracy Brown-May has thrown down the gauntlet against NV Energy with AB452, a bill that would prevent the utility from gleefully foisting the full cost of fuel price increases onto the weary shoulders of its customers. “Even as families shivered in the dark, their bills kept climbing,” lamented Brown-May, who seems to suspect some measure of corporate greed afoot—an allegation that, if true, would surely shock the nation.

Of course, NV Energy is not one to sit idly by while the legislature gallops forth with its grand ideas. The utility, ever the visionary, has already charted its path to 2028 with renewable energy, battery storage, and a smidgen of natural gas to keep the lights on when the sun decides to clock out early. Representatives insist that while batteries are improving, they are not yet ready to shoulder the burden alone, so some good old-fashioned fossil fuel reliability is still required—an assertion that has not impressed the more fervent disciples of clean energy.

Local activist Jackie Spicer, with the Nevada Environmental Justice Coalition, suggests that NV Energy is simply taking “the easy route” by continuing to use natural gas. NV Energy spokesperson Meghin Delaney, ever the realist, counters that “batteries are getting better at long-term storage, but they’re not fully there yet.”

And so, the great tug-of-war continues. But let us not be distracted by the particulars of energy production, for the real news is this–the cost of it all is about to go up, as it always does.

NV Energy has a grand scheme to improve infrastructure and to pay for these improvements, a mere nine percent rate hike looms on the horizon—though, in an act of extraordinary generosity, they assure us that if we use precisely the same amount of energy next year as we did this year, we might, by some mysterious arithmetic, end up paying less. Nevadans, meanwhile, are growing increasingly weary of the ever-rising price of simply existing.

And so, as NV Energy busies itself, drafting its next grand plan for 2029 and beyond, the rest of us wait, wallets in hand, to see just how much lighter they will become in the name of progress.

Yesterday morning, the good folks of Yerington found themselves in a most inconvenient predicament, all because of an anonymous scoundrel with a telephonic contraption and a shortage of both scruples and good sense. At precisely 8:10 a.m., the Yerington Police Department, accompanied by the ever-dutiful Lyon County Sheriff’s deputies, descended upon Raley’s grocery store in response to a most unwelcome report of a bomb threat.

Now, the offending party—who remains as unidentified as a stray hat in a windstorm—had taken it upon himself to ring up the establishment and demand money, promising in return a most disagreeable experience in the form of a sudden and violent rearrangement of the store’s general structure. The store’s staff, not being of the mind to negotiate under such conditions, promptly summoned the authorities.

As it turns out, this particular brand of extortion was not a limited-time offer, as similar threats had been called into Raley’s stores over in California, suggesting that the culprit was either very ambitious or unoriginal. Regardless, customers and staff were ushered out of the store as the Consolidated Bomb Squad and Tahoe-Douglas Bomb Squad conducted a thorough search, no doubt overturning loaves of bread and peering suspiciously into barrels of pickles.

After much diligent sweeping, dusting, and peeking into corners, it was concluded that there was no bomb, no villain lurking in the soup aisle, and no cause for further alarm. The store resumed its regular operations, and the townspeople were free to return to the noble pursuit of selecting produce and debating the ripeness of melons.

As for the culprit, one can only hope that fate has an appropriate reckoning in store, perhaps involving a long and lonesome stretch spent contemplating the ill-advised nature of his choices.

I count the heads I talk to weekly like a prisoner marks days on a wall. Since I got the boot from the paper in Virginia City, that number has dropped from dozens.

This week–it’s been two—my daughter-in-law and the woman at the bank. It would’ve been three, but my wife went to Southern California for a vacation, so she doesn’t count.

I started keeping track after they cut me loose, but if I’m being honest, this has been the pattern all along. It began to sink in during Covid, that asshole quarantine life, and then later, even when I had the paper job.

Working from home, I cranked out stories nobody gave a shit about, then every Friday, I’d go out and deliver the same goddamn newspapers I wrote for. Real poetic.

At least then, I had the route—talked to the old timers who still give two shits about a printed page. Then I’d hit the saloons on C Street, throwing back drinks with strangers, laughing too loud, pretending I belonged somewhere.

But now? That’s over.

Too far, too expensive, and money’s a bitch again, so no more playing cowboy at the bar, no more chasing ghosts in a town built on them. And without that, I start looking back too much.

Fucking dangerous thing, looking back.

Turns out, I’ve been alone my whole fucking life. Swing shifts, graveyard shifts—me walking in when my wife walks out.

As a child, I wandered the redwoods and splashed in High Prairie Creek by myself, making up stories since there was no one else to talk to. So now I ask myself—was it always supposed to be this way?

Is this normal? Is this natural?

Or did I just get good at being my own fucking shadow?

I count the bastards and bitches I talk to weekly like a prisoner marks days on a wall. Since I got the boot from the paper in Virginia City, that number has dropped from dozens.

This week–it’s been two—my daughter-in-law and the woman at the bank. It would’ve been three, but my wife went to Southern California for a vacation, so she doesn’t count.

I started keeping track after they cut me loose, but if I’m being honest, this has been the pattern all along. It began to sink in during Covid, that asshole quarantine life, and then later, even when I had the paper job.

Working from home, I cranked out stories nobody gave a shit about, then every Friday, I’d go out and deliver the same goddamn newspapers I wrote for. Real poetic.

At least then, I had the route—talked to the old timers who still give two shits about a printed page. Then I’d hit the saloons on C Street, throwing back drinks with strangers, laughing too loud, pretending I belonged somewhere.

But now? That’s over.

Too far, too expensive, and money’s a bitch again, so no more playing cowboy at the bar, no more chasing ghosts in a town built on them. And without that, I start looking back too much.

Fucking dangerous thing, looking back.

Turns out, I’ve been alone my whole fucking life. Swing shifts, graveyard shifts—me walking in when my wife walks out.

As a child, I wandered the redwoods and splashed in High Prairie Creek by myself, making up stories since there was no one else to talk to. So now I ask myself—was it always supposed to be this way?

Is this normal? Is this natural?

Or did I just get good at being my own fucking shadow?

Davud sat across from me, a quiet presence in the small café in downtown Reno, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup. His eyes, dark and still, held something more than the ordinary wear of time.

It was as if he carried the weight of all he had lived through. His voice, when he spoke, was steady but worn. I was there to interview him for the newspaper.

“You know,” he started, looking down at the table as though the memories were unfolding before him, “I never thought I’d be here, in the States. Safe, I mean.” He paused, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Back then, I didn’t think there’d be a ‘back then.’ There was just the war. Every day felt like the same. You wake up, and you don’t know if you’ll make it through. The sounds of bombs, the gunfire… it never stops.”

His eyes lifted then, meeting mine. “The worst part is the quiet. You get used to the noise. But when everything stops, that’s when you know something’s wrong. That’s when you know the next explosion is coming.”

I leaned in, listening, not wanting to interrupt but needing to understand more of what he was trying to tell me. “What was it like for you… in that apartment?” I asked as if to match the heaviness of the moment.

His gaze softened, and he gave a small, almost reluctant smile. “We didn’t go outside much. You couldn’t. Too dangerous. I remember we covered the windows with plastic and blankets. It was winter, but the cold… it was just another thing to endure.”

He rubbed his face as though trying to rub away the memory. “My family and I huddled together inside, trying to stay warm. We wore our coats in the house. But it was never enough, you know? That cold—it gets into your bones. And it never really goes away.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle between us. “Did you… did you ever think about leaving?” I asked gently.

He shook his head. “Leaving? Where would I go? We didn’t have a choice. You just kept going. Every day, just trying to survive. Sometimes, we ate what we grew on the balcony—just a few vegetables. But it was never enough. So, we waited for the UN drops. When they came, it was like a little party. We got food, and for a moment, it felt like someone still cared. But you knew the next time they came, there might not be anything.”

The silence between us deepened, filled with the weight of things he hadn’t said–yet.

His voice broke the quiet again, almost in a whisper. “My brother went out for water once. We didn’t have taps, so we had to go to the wells. He didn’t come back.” He looked down at his coffee, his expression unreadable. “A sniper. That’s what they told me. A sniper shot him down.”

I felt the sadness in his words, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak. “I’m sorry, Davud,” I said finally, unsure what else to say.

He nodded, almost as if accepting the apology, but there was no anger, no bitterness, just a quiet acknowledgment. “My mother, she cried a lot after that. She doesn’t talk much now. Even her silence is full of sadness. And my father… he stays busy. Always fixing something, always looking for food. I think he does it to distract himself from the pain. He’s never the same, not since that day.”

I waited, giving him space, as he seemed to gather his thoughts. “And school?” I asked, unsure if it was a subject too far away, something he no longer cared to remember.

His lips pressed together before he spoke, his voice tinged with a strange kind of bitterness. “School? School was in the basement. The real schools, they were gone. No electricity, so we learned by candlelight. Our teacher told us stories about peace, about what Sarajevo was like before all this. I couldn’t picture it. It was like some fairy tale from another world. I missed my friends. Some left, some didn’t make it. The classroom got quieter each day.”

His words were so matter-of-fact, yet they hit me like a punch. “And the cat?” I asked, needing to move to something lighter, something to pull us out of the heaviness.

Davud’s face softened. A small, almost imperceptible smile appeared at the corner of his lips. “The cat,” he repeated. “Yeah, I found her under the building one day. She was scared and hungry, just like us. We took her in, fed her what little we had. She slept on my bed. Her purring… it was the only comfort we had. It made the nights a little less lonely.” He paused, then added, “I think she saved us, in a way.”

I smiled then, relieved to hear that small glimmer of tenderness in his voice. “It sounds like she gave you a reason to keep going,” I said.

“Maybe,” he answered softly, his eyes distant. “There were times when the quiet would come, and we’d think it was over. But then the explosions would start again. We learned not to trust the silence. We learned that peace could be over in an instant.”

“And when the fighting stopped for a little while?” I asked, my voice almost hesitant.

“That one morning,” he began, his eyes sharp with the memory, “there was no fighting. We went out to get water. It was quiet. And you knew it could start again at any second. But for a moment, it was like everything had stopped. We filled the buckets and ran back. And that night… that night we drank the water slowly, like it was something precious. It was the one normal thing we had. For just a moment.”

I sat back, letting the weight of his words settle. “You still dream of peace, don’t you?” I asked.

He nodded slowly, staring off into the distance. “I dreamed of walking in the park, without worrying about snipers. I dreamed of school, real school. I dreamed of a city where children play without fear.” His voice softened, almost wistful. “But dreams don’t change what’s happened. All we could do is survive. Wait. Hope.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say for a long while. When I finally spoke, it was quieter than before. “What happens now?” I asked.

“Now?” he said, looking back at me with a faint smile, “Now we live. We keep going, day by day. I write it down, so I don’t forget. So I don’t forget that we survived. Even when everything was falling apart.” His eyes met mine again, clear and steady. “We hold on to what we have left.”

And then, with a finality I couldn’t deny, he added, “Because we must.”

It’s acknowledged by all who have ever driven through Nevada in the summer that once the snow melts and the days grow longer, so too does the mighty reign of the orange traffic cone. Yes, friends, it is Cone Season again–that grand annual tradition where highways transform into obstacle courses, lanes vanish into the ether, and men and women in neon vests appear at random, wielding signs of unknowable intent.

While Cone Season is inconvenient for the motoring public, for those brave souls who toil under the desert sun, dodging wayward sedans and distracted drivers–it’s a matter of life and death. Thus, one noble legislator from Southern Nevada has taken up the cause of these unsung heroes, proposing a bold and innovative solution: More cameras.

Assemblymember Selena Torres-Fossett, the guiding spirit behind Assembly Bill 402, believes that Nevada’s work zones needn’t more caution nor common sense but a good old-fashioned digital eye—ever watchful, ever unblinking. Hidden–the cameras will capture when an unsuspecting driver speeds through a construction zone.

The authorities will review the photographic evidence. Should the blurry specter of a guilty party emerge from the grainy abyss, a citation will get dispatched to the registered owner—no questions asked–except, of course, for the name and address of any alternative suspects. Lest you fear the advent of a Big Brother-esque surveillance state, rest assured–the camera will not reveal faces—only license plates.

And if you were not the one driving, you will have the opportunity to clear your good name by dutifully informing on the true culprit, be it a friend, relative, or hapless acquaintance who borrowed your car in good faith. Ain’t that justice?

Of course, should a flesh-and-blood law officer catch you in the act of recklessly careening through a work zone, you will get the full force of traditional penalties—steep fines, potential jail time, and a deep sense of regret. But rest easy, dear driver, for the watchful cones will ensure that automated citations remain a civil infraction, free from pesky demerit points.

Assembly Bill 402 now awaits its grand debut before the Assembly Growth and Infrastructure Committee, where it will get discussed, debated, and perhaps even met with a few raised eyebrows. The date remains undecided, but one thing is sure–more cameras are coming, the cones are watching, and Cone Season shall never be the same again.

The Nevada Legislature has before it a bill that aims to do what the Almighty Himself might struggle with—protect veterans from swindlers and grant them a few more well-earned benefits, assuming the state’s purse strings can bear the strain. Assembly Bill 145, proposed by two veterans who now pass their days making laws instead of dodging bullets, seeks to fortify the lives of Nevada’s former warriors, provided it can navigate the legislative thicket without being whittled down to a shadow of its former self.

Assemblymember Reuben D’Silva, a man who left the better part of his left arm in Fallujah, and Assemblymember Ken Gray, a fellow veteran, have taken it upon themselves to champion the cause. They assure their colleagues in the Legislature of full support for the bill, a rare moment of unity in a house more likely to squabble than a yard full of hungry chickens.

“This bill is a mighty stride toward honoring our veterans not just with words, but with action,” said D’Silva, whose personal history with the perils of war lends his words a weight beyond mere politics. However, in a nod to fiscal reality, the bill’s latest draft has cast aside a provision that would have allowed spouses of veterans free burials in military cemeteries—an act of belt-tightening justified by an estimated cost between $600,000 and $2 million. The lawmakers, well-versed in the art of compromise, bowed to financial constraints while keeping the rest of the bill intact.

The proposed law would mandate a veteran hiring program and a peer mentor initiative securing jobs and support for those who traded combat boots for civilian shoes, which, if we are honest, are often less comfortable. Furthermore, AB 145 seeks to do away with those unsavory creatures known as “claims sharks,” the kind of folks who would sell you a ticket to your funeral and charge extra for the privilege. These opportunists prey upon veterans seeking benefits, promising assistance while delivering little more than empty pockets and frustration.

The bill insists that only individuals recognized by the Veterans Affairs Department may handle veterans’ legal claims, ending the meddling of those who have no business profiting from another’s sacrifice.

Fred Wagar, a supporter of the bill, said, “A person shall not prepare, present, prosecute, advise, or assist in any claim before the United States Department of Veterans Affairs or the Department of Defense unless they have been recognized or accredited to do so.”

Whether the bill will sail through the Legislature or get tripped up by the usual bureaucratic bumbling remains to be seen. But for now, Nevada’s veterans can take comfort in knowing that at least a few of their own are fighting this battle—not with rifles and bayonets, but with ink and lawbooks.

Authorities in Arizona are searching for a family of three who vanished while traveling from the Grand Canyon to Las Vegas earlier this month.

According to the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office, Jiyeon Lee, 23, Taehee Kim, 69, and Junghee Kim, 64, were on vacation, driving a white 2024 BMW rental car with a California license plate 9KHN768 westbound on Interstate 40. GPS data indicates their vehicle was recorded on the highway at 3:27 p.m. on March 13, but they have not been seen or heard from since.

On the same day they went missing, a deadly multi-vehicle crash occurred on I-40 near Williams, Arizona, amid winter storm conditions. The Arizona Department of Public Safety reported that 22 vehicles were involved in the accident, including 13 passenger cars and five commercial trucks. Two people died, and 16 others received medical care at a local hospital.

Authorities have not determined whether the missing family was involved in the crash. “Law enforcement is aware of the large multi-vehicle accident that occurred on I-40 on this day; however, it is not known if this vehicle was involved in the accident,” the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office stated in a news release.

Officials urge anyone with information about the family’s whereabouts to contact the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office at 928-774-4523.

No regrets. That’s what Steve Sisolak says now. No second thoughts, no looking back, no sleepless nights over the businesses shuttered, the lives upended, the jobs erased like chalk on a sidewalk before a storm. “I wouldn’t change anything,” he tells reporters–as if that settles it–as if that made it true.

But Nevada remembers. The casinos might have flickered back to life, and the traps might hum again with tourists clutching watered-down drinks, but outside that neon glow, the scars remain. The boarded-up storefronts, the homes too expensive for the people who built this state, the kids who lost years they’ll never get back.

Sisolak ruled like a man who mistook himself for a king. Emergency powers meant to last days stretched into months, then years.

A flick of his pen decided who was “essential” and collateral damage. Churches sat empty while blackjack tables filled up.

Kids were muzzled with masks long after the science wobbled. And when the people cried foul and questioned the constitutionality of it all, Sisolak didn’t even flinch.

He hitched Nevada’s wagon to California’s fate, signing onto the Western States Pact like a junior partner in a doomed business venture. Newsom cracked the whip, and Sisolak followed suit. Zero fucking consideration for Nevada’s unique economy, no acknowledgment that Vegas and Reno weren’t just San Francisco with slot machines.

And then came the unemployment crisis, a disaster of his own making. Thousands were out of work overnight, drowning in paperwork and bureaucratic sludge while the state’s broken system coughed and sputtered. “We never anticipated this much demand,” he said as if the economic collapse was some act of God, not the direct result of his executive orders. The man who pulled the plug stood over the wreckage, shaking his head, gloating at all the darkness.

Nevada’s unemployment hit 28.2 percent, the highest in the nation. While locals scraped by, buyers from locked-down California swept in, driving housing prices to absurd heights. A state built on affordable living suddenly had its people priced out. The schools, the mental health system, the police—everything buckled under the weight of his decisions.

And when it came time to jab the population into compliance, Sisolak didn’t just push—the bastard sweetened the deal. He offered lotteries, stadium mandates, and “shots for raffle tickets” schemes that felt more like desperation than public health policy.

And then there was the mystery of the Chinese COVID tests—what happened to those? Nevada never quite got an answer.

But in the end, it wasn’t the critics, the scholars, or the ruined small business owners who delivered the final verdict. It was the voters.

In 2022, Nevada was the only state in the country to flip its governor’s mansion from blue to red. The message was clear–Sisolak could stand by his decisions all he wanted, but the people wouldn’t stand by him.

Sisolak gambled, even doubled down, but when the cards showed, he lost. No regrets? Maybe not for him.

But Nevada ain’t fucking forgetting.