The Old Blog in the Desert

The Administration to Reclaim Idle Funds

There’s a great commotion in Nevada, and it ain’t due to a silver strike nor a sagebrush rebellion–but over Uncle Sam deciding to clean out the attic and reclaim a sack of dollars that had been gathering dust. It is the $29 million in pandemic relief funds that the Trump administration, under the steady hand of Secretary of Education Linda McMahon, has rightfully pulled back from the Nevada Department of Education.

The funds were not gifts from the clouds nor tokens from the government’s wishing well. They were tax dollars — yours, mine, and the grocer’s down the road — handed out in the darkest hours of a pandemic to help schools patch holes, build bridges, and get the young ones learning again.

The intention was clear–spend it intelligently–and do it soon.

And yet, here we sit in the year of our Lord 2025, and Nevada still has $29 million of those same dollars sitting around like fenceposts waiting for a barbed wire. The state’s top education official, Superintendent Jhone Ebert, laments the loss and calls the funds “definitely needed for student achievement.”

No doubt, she believes that, but one must ask — what of the past four years? If a man sets aside a pot of stew to feed his guests and brings it to the table, it ain’t the host’s fault when the guests don’t eat.

Secretary McMahon, no stranger to hard decisions, issued a clear letter on March 28, stating that the deadline for using these pandemic funds had come and gone, and so too must the funds. She reasoned — with more sense than poetry — that dragging out the deadline for years after the pandemic is inconsistent with the department’s priorities.

The federal government is not a barn filled with forgotten tools and half-used supplies. It is a place of sudden accountability, something missed during the Biden years.

The Clark County School District received a towering sum of $1.2 billion, and the state had $2.1 billion to work with. That is not pin money.

They used some of it to buy computers, staff mental health positions, and roll out curriculum. All good and necessary things — yet still they found themselves with millions unspent.

The money was for immediate relief, not a retirement plan for future projects.

Some folks are up in arms, claiming the move is illegal, heartless, or some other political epithet. But the administration is not pulling the rug—it’s merely folding up the one no one stepped on, meaning they’re not taking funds from the mouths of children—they’re retrieving leftovers from a table that’s already cleared.

So, if projects got started late or delayed by red tape, that is unfortunate, but it is not Washington’s fault. The bell rang, the funds offered, deadlines known, and extensions granted already. Indeed, Nevada had until March 2026—but plans delayed until the eleventh hour carry risk.

It ain’t a surprise quiz–it’s on the syllabus.

McMahon has left a door open as extensions may still be granted case by case. But even that is a courtesy, not a promise, as the business of government cannot forever run on what-ifs and maybes.

The lesson here is not of villainy but of vigilance. Funds, like time, must be used or lost. Nevada, and every other state, would do well to learn it.

So let the papers holler, and the officials wring their hands. The rest of us will tip our hats to the administration for putting a little backbone in bureaucracy, reminding the nation that money from the people needs respectful treatment, not delay.

And that is gospel enough for one day.

But Mind That Other Boot

It’s curious when a politician does something kind-hearted and helpful right after an election year.

Senator Jacky Rosen, a woman of considerable smile and careful diction, has hitched her name to a bill that would make military retirement pay tax-free. And bless her for it, as they could surely use a little relief.

The bill is called the Tax Cuts for Veterans Act, and it aims to unshackle U.S. veterans from the cold iron grip of the taxman. Speaking in tones that’d warm the heart of a marble statue, Rosen said, “Veterans in Nevada and across our nation have made huge sacrifices to keep our nation safe, and the least we can do is ensure they can keep all of their retirement pay.”

That’s mighty fine, and for once, Washington might look like it’s got some common sense brewing in the pot. But here’s the part where voters should keep one eye on the lady’s smile and the other square on her boots—both of them.

Because while one foot may be gently nudging the noble bill forward, the other is liable to swing up when you’re least expecting and catch you right in the nether region, if you understand. Politics, after all, is a game of gestures with one hand and schemes with the other.

Whether Rosen’s sincerity is pure as mountain spring water or just cleverly bottled and sold at election-time prices, it’s learned that every gift from the government comes wrapped in fine print and often with a string or two tied to the tail.

So, hats off to the Senator for stepping in the right direction. Just mind the other boot, as it could swing the other way.

Nevada’s Old Bomb Hands Offered a Lifeline

Many people have spent their youth dodging debts, their middle age dodging matrimony, and later years dodging responsibility. But the stout-hearted souls who toiled in dusty Nye County did none of the above.

No sir—they walked headlong into danger, wrapped in government-issue coveralls and carrying the kind of lunch pails that clanged like liberty bells in the Nevada breeze. They worked at what was then called the Nevada Test Site—now rechristened the Nevada National Security Site–for no reason other than to lend some refinement to a place built for turning the desert into a stovetop.

From Pahrump to Beatty to Amargosa, these were plain folks—dirt on their boots, grit in their smiles—who spent their days poking and prodding the atom as if it owed them money. And the atom, being a spiteful little rascal, took its revenge.

The good men and women who clocked in under mushroom clouds and clocked out with radioactive dust in their boots now find themselves years later eligible for something called the Workers Health Protection Program, or WHPP—pronounced like a surprised hiccup. Don’t let the bureaucratic name fool you.

The WHPP’s Early Lung Cancer Detection Program, which has been scanning chests and saving lives since 2000, is a godsend cloaked in government jargon. Using low-dose CT scans—a marvelous contraption that lets doctors peek inside you without the indignity of being carved like a Christmas goose—the program has found over 230 cases of lung cancer.

And get this–most were caught early before the cancer could pack up and go sightseeing through the lymph nodes. And lest you think it’s all lungs and no love, WHPP also checks for bladder and bowel troubles, liver and kidney woes, hearing loss, and just about anything else you might pick up from shaking hands with plutonium for thirty years.

They say lung cancer is the deadliest of the bunch—it kills more folks than breast and colon cancer put together, and that’s no mean feat. But if you catch it early, before it’s taken root like a stubborn mesquite bush, your odds improve faster than a card shark’s grin when the dealer’s green.

The program’s no fly-by-night outfit either. It started at just three DOE plants, and now it covers 15 sites across eight states—each one a little monument to humankind’s hubris and our infinite capacity to clean up after it.

A woman who once drew a paycheck from the Test Site and now helps run the program, Sandie Medina, said it best–this service saves lives and gives peace of mind. And that, dear reader, is no small thing—especially for folks who once measured their risk in Roentgens and trusted Uncle Sam wouldn’t forget them when the clouds cleared.

So if you, or someone you know, once labored under the great, white blossoms of atomic ambition in Nye County, you might do well to give this program a look. It may just give you another year, another breath, another shot at watching your grandkid’s baseball game without wheezing like a busted accordion.

To learn more, visit Worker-Health.org or schedule an appointment call 888-241-1199 or 702-485-6724.

A Strange Notion of Liberty

Having lived long enough to witness people try every trick in the book—legal and otherwise—to get their way, the antics of Nevada have all the makings of a traveling medicine show, with just about the same amount of sincerity.

Attorney General Aaron Ford, a man who’s made a regular hobby of suing folks—particularly a president—is back at it again, linking arms with Secretary of State Francisco Aguilar and about 18 of their most like-minded chums across the Union. Their complaint?

Trump has taken it upon himself to fix elections by issuing an executive decree that says voters need to prove they’re citizens, mail-in ballots should arrive on time, and if the states don’t like it, Uncle Sam will keep their supper money.

The good Mr. Ford and his fellow legal riders call this a “federal overreach.” That’s a term politicians use when they’re not doing the reaching.

“Irreparable harm!” they cry, waving their briefs in court like preachers at a tent revival.

The suit alleges all manner of sins: targeting military voters, curbing mail-in ballots, seizing state control of elections—though I reckon if you asked ten folks on the street, half of ’em wouldn’t even know when Election Day falls, let alone how the ballots get counted. Puffed up like a rooster in a henhouse, Mr. Ford declared, “I will not stand for it.”

It’s a bold statement since all he ever seems to do is stand in front of microphones, telling us he won’t stand for something.

He praised Aguilar for guarding the electoral henhouse while accusing Trump of trying to swipe the eggs. California’s Rob Bonta stood beside him as if the two of ’em were casting for a Broadway revival of Hamilton, only with fewer lyrics and more litigation.

The President’s men, for their part, call this all common sense.

“Insane!” said his press feller, Harrison Fields, which I admit is the first time someone from the White House said something plainly.

Mr. Trump says it’s about protecting elections, keeping illegal votes out, and making sure only good, wholesome, American-born folks get a say in who runs the country.

The echoing media says no one has found all these legions of foreign impostors sneaking into the polls—but then who took the time to look?

As for the Constitution, it’s getting passed around like a church collection plate, each side grabbing hold of whichever line suits their purpose.

“The President has no power to do any of this,” the lawsuit says.

New York’s Letitia James calls the order “authoritarian,” as Rhode Island’s Peter Neronha says Trump’s holding the states hostage like a two-bit outlaw in a dime novel, “He’s trying to undermine elections!” they cry.

And so the lawsuit lands in Massachusetts, where the judge must now sift through all the declarations, motions, and footnotes in search of something resembling justice—or at least a precedent.

Meanwhile, the rest of us watch, mouths half-open, wondering if our vote counts or if it’s just a leaf on the wind, subject to whichever side has the fancier lawyer.

In conclusion–whether it’s Ford’s lawfare or Trump’s ink-stained proclamations, the whole affair smells suspiciously like politics—a stew of ambition, indignation, and just a pinch of self-interest.

A Lyon County Chronicle of Hope and Horror

Now, friends, let me tell you a tale fit for the annals of contradiction—a tale that ambles through the dusty lanes of Lyon County, where good folks are laboring to protect the most innocent among us even as some devils still prowl beneath their roofs.

Lyon County Human Services, bless their hearts. They are earnest in their mission. They’re doing their level best to lend a hand to families before trouble sets in like a squatter and refuses to leave. Their programs aim to prevent child abuse and neglect and to keep families stitched together with a strong thread of education, resources, and neighborly support. April, that fresh-faced month when springtime peeks over the horizon, is also Child Abuse Prevention Month—when the community dons blue like soldiers in a noble campaign to raise awareness and shield children from harm.

They’ve got pinwheels, blue ones, bright and spinning like little beacons of hope, planted in town parks and playgrounds from Dayton to Silver Springs, Fernley to Yerington. The whole county’s invited—mothers, fathers, children with muddy boots and grass-stained knees—to plant those pinwheels and show the world that Lyon County stands watch over its young.

But wouldn’t you know it, just as the townsfolk are preparing their pinwheels and blue shirts for April’s events, the devil showed his hand right in Dayton. On the eve of the very month dedicated to protecting children, a man named Saul Gallegos-Duron, age 40, was taken into custody after his child turned up at school bearing the cruelty of a beating. “Blunt force trauna,” they called it—bruises like dark clouds across a young sky.

Sheriff’s deputies rushed to the school, and paramedics did their swift duty, hauling that poor soul off to the hospital for the kind of care no child should ever need. The investigation, grim and thorough, turned its eye toward the home, and there they found the culprit—not some stranger in the night, but the boy’s father.

The Nevada Division of Child and Family Services stepped in with the quiet precision of seasoned angels, gathering up the remaining children and ferrying them to safety, far from the reach of the hands that should’ve been gentle.

And so we find ourselves in this strange Nevada fable, where the county rallies with bright ribbons and laughter in the parks while a child suffers unspeakable harm behind closed doors. It is a harsh truth, as hard and cracked as the desert earth—but it’s the truth just the same.

So wear your blue, plant your pinwheels, and hold your children close.

Virginia and her three friends—Alice, Georgia, and Willow—huddled around the coffee table, the dim glow of scented candles flickering against the living room walls. The bottle of cabernet sat open, deep red in their glasses, a little courage against the unknown.

Waiting patiently like a stealthy predator, the Ouija board lay in the center of the table.

“Ask it a question,” Willow said, her voice light but her eyes tight.

“No, you ask,” Georgia countered, smirking over the rim of her glass. “It was your idea.”

The planchette twitched. Then, before anyone could react, it lurched to life, skittering across the board with a frantic, almost desperate energy. Alice and Virginia pressed their fingers down, trying to steady it, but the thing moved as if it had a mind of its own.

S-I-N-C-E-Y-O-U-W-I-L-L-N-O-T-A-S-K-A-Q-U-E-S-T-I-O-N-L-E-T-I-T-B-E-K-N-O-W-N-W-E-H-A-V-E-B-E-E-N-T-R-Y-I-N-G-T-O-R-E-A-C-H-Y-O-U-A-B-O-U-T-Y-O-U-R-C-A-R-S-W-A-R-R-A-N-T-Y-W-I-L-L-O-W…

They barely had time to register the words before the room plunged into darkness. Then someone screamed.

It was a fine spectacle last week when a mighty throng of high school and middle school girls, accompanied by their long-suffering parents, descended upon the Assembly Education Committee in Nevada, pleading for what ought to be the most self-evident right in the world–the right for women to compete against women in their sporting events. But, alas, such simple logic is not so simple to those who fancy themselves the improvers of society–nor to those who look at a straight line and declare it a circle.

The object of the day’s grand petitioning was AB 240, a bill with the shocking audacity to assert that biological males ought not to compete in women’s sports—a principle so sound that only a politician could find fault with it. Sixteen Republican legislators stood in favor, which in the strange arithmetic of modern politics means it needs opposing with all the might of those who find reason a troublesome burden.

Chairwoman Selena Torres-Fossett, a Democrat by trade and an educator by profession–though one wonders whether she prefers ignorance to knowledge–was unmoved. She said with the confidence of a lady who knows, “Nevada voters were not talking to me about this.”

Instead, they were worried about housing, prescription costs, and the price of a loaf of bread. No doubt they are—but perhaps that is because common folk assume certain things, such as the separation of male and female sports, are too obvious to require discussion.

The lieutenant governor of Nevada, Stavros Anthony, had a different notion. Being a man of sense, he thought it wise to form a task force to preserve what is left of women’s sports before the whole enterprise gets reduced to an absurd exhibition of well-trained men sweeping up every trophy.

It did not sit well with Madame Torres-Fossett, who, rather than admitting the lieutenant governor had a point, took it upon herself to scold him for not concerning himself with matters more fitting to his station—like tourism, roads, and anything, presumably, that does not interfere with her notions of progress.

Meanwhile, the esteemed Nevadans for Equal Rights Committee, whose devotion to ‘equality’ evidently means ensuring that women’s sports remain open to men, filed an ethics complaint against Anthony, accusing him of misusing state resources for his crusade. One wonders how much state time and money got wasted ensuring that a man’s right to dominate women’s volleyball got preserved.

The catalyst for all this commotion? A single forfeit last fall, when the University of Nevada, Reno’s women’s volleyball team took one look at their opponent’s lineup, saw a player whose physique resembled something one might expect on a cattle drive rather than a sorority house, and decided that they were not in the business of humoring nonsense.

Their refusal to play against San Jose State’s team, which featured a transgender athlete, sent the issue soaring into the political stratosphere.

In a moment of rare clarity, former President Trump took pen to paper last month and signed an executive order barring transgender athletes from women’s sports altogether.

It, of course, was met with outrage by those who maintain that the best way to ensure ‘fairness’ is to erase every distinction that ever existed.

Torres-Fossett, who by this point had become positively weary of the topic, lamented that coaches might soon be required to verify the ‘feminine-enough’ qualities of their athletes—which would be laughable if it weren’t precisely the situation that policies like hers have created. But worry not, for in the world of the enlightened, the only thing necessary to be declared a woman is to say so, and if reality objects–reality’s got to be overruled.

And so, the bill sits in limbo, awaiting the day when either reason prevails, or we all agree to close our eyes and pretend the fella with broad shoulders and five o’clock shadow is supposed to be the champion of women’s athletics all along. It’s a new era of progress, indeed.

Well, well, well—what have we here? Another lawsuit from the great state of Nevada flung like a well-worn horseshoe at the ever-stoic post of Washington bureaucracy. One wonders if Attorney General Aaron Ford is getting bulk discounts on legal filings.

Is this the 23,000th suit since January? Who’s keeping count? Certainly not the clerks in his office—they’re too busy sharpening their pencils for the next one.

This time, Nevada joins a chorus of twenty-three states and the District of Columbia in hollering at the federal government over what they claim is an unlawful axing of nearly $12 billion in public health grants. At the center of the ruckus is Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and the Department of Health and Human Services, who, according to Ford’s office, have wielded the budgetary scythe with reckless abandon, leaving state health agencies in a sorry state of distress.

For its part, Nevada could lose a tidy $35 million meant for the State Public Health Laboratory, with further damage rippling out to universities and nonprofits. In his official statement, Ford did not mince words, declaring the decision to be a grave affront to the well-being of Nevadans and vowing to see it undone in court.

The lawsuit seeks an emergency restraining order to halt the cuts and a declaration that the terminations were, in fact, unlawful. Whether the courts will see it that way or tell Nevada and its fellow litigants to sit in the corner remains to be seen.

If lawsuits were a commodity, Nevada’s stock would be soaring.

On the first day of April, a date well-suited for bold proclamations and practical jokes, Governor Joe Lombardo stood before the good people of Nevada, declaring that his housing bill could turn a modest $250 million into over a billion bucks worth of development. Now, that’s the sort of arithmetic that would make an alchemist jealous, turning state funds into gold—or at least into apartment buildings.

He made this pronouncement outside the Ovation Property Management project, Heirloom at Pebble, a soon-to-be-opened senior housing complex with rents ranging from $893 to $1,285. The project, situated near Eastern Avenue and the 215 Beltway in Vegas, is expected to welcome its first tenants in May—assuming they can outpace inflation with their retirement checks.

The governor’s legislative handiwork, Assembly Bill 540, is one of the five precious bills he gets to introduce each session, a privilege akin to a man picking his last meal before facing a firing squad of political opposition.

The bill, dense enough to give a lawyer a headache, lays out a grand vision as it establishes the Nevada Attainable Housing Account, generously seeded with $200 million for loans, grants, and rebates to build housing across the affordability spectrum. The Nevada Housing Division will toss in an extra $50 million, bringing the pot to a quarter-billion dollars—still a pittance compared to the price of a single-bedroom in San Francisco, but a start.

In a shocking twist, developers must match the state’s funds. The bill also seeks to exempt these housing projects from prevailing wage laws, ensuring that laborers can enjoy the thrill of working for less in service of the greater good.

But wait—there’s more!

The bill offers rental assistance, eviction diversion funds, expedited approvals, permit reimbursements, and even provisional contractor’s licenses in rural areas. In short, it aims to turn Nevada into a paradise where housing is as plentiful as casino chips—though, like the chips, one suspects most of it will end up in the hands of a select few.

Ever the statesman, Lombardo assured Nevadans that he did not dream up this plan alone. Nope!

He consulted developers and the Southern Nevada Homebuilders Association, who, as luck would have it, stand to benefit handsomely from his legislative largesse.

“If you look at polling data across the board, no matter what subject matter it is, affordable housing comes to the top,” the governor declared as if he had just uncovered this stunning revelation.

Meanwhile, in a subplot as predictable as the ending of a dime novel, Assembly Democrats pounced. They pointed to Lombardo’s 2023 vetoes of housing bills and lamented the rising eviction rates and sky-high home prices.

The Nevada State Democratic Party’s spokesman, Tai Sims, thundered against the governor’s refusal to rein in corporate investors. He accused him of leaving working Nevadans to fend for themselves in a market devoured by hedge funds.

Speaking of which, the elephant—or rather, the New York hedge fund—in the room is Pretium Partners, which now holds dominion over at least 3,190 homes in Clark County. One can almost hear the dice rolling now.

Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager, meanwhile, extended the hand of cautious optimism. He looks forward to the bill’s hearing before the Assembly Commerce and Labor Committee–where the finer points are up for discussion with all the care and delicacy of a saloon brawl.

And so, dear reader, the great Nevada housing saga marches on. Will Lombardo’s billion-dollar gamble pay off, or will it be just another mirage shimmering in the desert sun? The Legislature has until June to decide, and in the meantime, the people of Nevada will do what they do best—wait, watch, and hope they can still afford their rent.

Once upon a time in America, a man worked himself to the bone to keep his wife and new baby housed, fed, and out of the poorhouse, while the lady of the house saw to it that neither the child nor the furniture accumulated too much dust. But, dear reader, that was a simpler age.

The Nevada Legislature has taken it upon itself to ensure that families no longer rely on such antiquated notions as thrift, sacrifice, or good old-fashioned gumption—no, ma’am! They got a plan to expand paid family leave benefits at a rate that would make even the most indulgent grandparent blush.

Those lucky enough to be employed in Nevada’s Executive Department get eight weeks of paid leave—provided they’ve been on the job for at least a year—should they find themselves with a new child, a serious illness, or a relative needing care. But lo and behold, Assembly Bill 388 seeks to slash that waiting period from twelve months to a mere ninety days while bumping the leave to a full twelve weeks.

But why stop there? The bill also expands the acceptable reasons for paid absence to include bonding with a foster child, recuperating from unspecified “health conditions,” or dealing with the unfortunate realities of domestic strife, such as harassment or stalking.

And lest one worry about paltry pay during such an extended holiday, the bill sees to that, too. Whereas current law only provides half-wages during paid leave, the new proposal ensures that employees making up to 110 percent of the state’s average wage will now receive an entire paycheck, courtesy of their obliging employer.

Those making beyond that sum will still pocket a respectable 60 percent of their earnings, though not to exceed 150 percent of the state’s weekly wage—because even generosity has its limits, or so one is told.

The largesse does not end there.

The bill further decrees that all public and private employers with at least 50 employees must establish “reasonable procedures” for doling out these benefits. And should any tightfisted business owner balk at such mandates, fear not—the Human Resources Commission and Labor Commissioner will be standing by to ensure compliance, and those who dare defy the new order, penalties of up to $5,000 per violation are waiting in the wings.

Of course, in their magnanimity, the bill’s backers have also done away with older statutes relating to leave for domestic violence and the like, folding them neatly into this grand new framework. The bill’s supporters assure the good people of Nevada that these changes will do wonders for work-life balance and the general well-being of the state’s industrious citizens.

And who are we to argue?

No one could surely object to more paid time off—least of all those footing the bill. But one can only wonder, as the lawmakers debate, whether they’ll feel inclined to take a few weeks’ leave after such an exhausting bout of legislating.