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Making Two Wrongs into a Right

The Nevada Legislature, in its infinite wisdom, has taken up the noble task of turning the aged adage “two wrongs don’t make a right” and turning it inside out and backward.

Assembly Bill 209, now before the Committee on Judiciary, proposes to extend a legal olive branch—nay, a full-blown pardon—to those who commit certain crimes whilst engaged in the world’s oldest profession. The reasoning, as put forth by the bill’s presenters, is that sex workers, being at higher risk of exploitation and violence, are disinclined to report such injustices for fear of finding themselves in an equally unenviable position—under arrest.

The bill proposes a novel approach: grant immunity from the consequences of lesser infractions—prostitution, loitering, trespassing, and low-level drug offenses—so long as the offender is also a victim or witness to human trafficking or some other weightier misdeed. The person must, of course, be seeking assistance from law enforcement or other professional services, a stipulation that assumes a level of trust between the accused and the accuser which, given history, is as sturdy as a sandcastle in a Nevada windstorm.

Thus, we arrive at the legislative cartwheel before us: commit Crime A, witness Crime B, and—presto!—Crime A disappears. It is a curious method of lawmaking, akin to declaring that a man caught filching a chicken should get off the hook if he happens to have seen a bank robbery on his way home.

Whether this dazzling display of legal gymnastics will achieve its intended goal—making Nevada safer—is a matter left to time and the inevitable judicial head-scratching that will follow.

But He’ll Sue the Feds in a Heartbeat

Well, sir, it ain’t much of a surprise that Attorney General Aaron Ford doesn’t take kindly to DOGE, as he won’t even spare a sideways glance at nearly a million dollars gone missing in some Internet rigmarole in Lovelock. But turn your back for one second, and he’s already saddled up, riding into court with a posse of 19 other attorneys general, ready to give the federal government what-for over some pink slips.

A federal judge in Maryland, perhaps feeling particularly charitable toward the working man, has seen fit to grant a temporary restraining order against 18 federal agencies, forbidding them from sending probationary employees packing and even ordering them to round up the poor souls they already fired and put ‘em back on the payroll. The lawsuit, spearheaded by Ford and his fellow legal wranglers, argues that these mass firings—ordered by none other than President Trump and DOGE—have caused “irreparable injuries” to Nevada and other states.

The judge, evidently seeing merit in their bellyaching, agreed to halt the whole business.

Ford, never one to miss a chance at a grand proclamation, issued a statement dripping with righteous indignation:

“This ruling not only requires the Trump Administration to stop these indiscriminate and unlawful layoffs but also orders it to undo the harm inflicted on Nevada by restoring the jobs of hardworking federal employees. These mass firings reflect a disregard for both the law and the essential role of the civil service in maintaining government stability.”

Some lovely words, certainly, but one questions whether his enthusiasm could be summoned for the small issue of the disappearing Lovelock Internet funds.

It is universally recognized—at least by those with a lick sense—that a man’s stomach, like the rest of his insides, is his concern. But in these latter days, when the noble art of government consists chiefly of meddling in the affairs of others, the question of whom a man (or woman, or anyone sufficiently afflicted with the need for medical attention) may see for their doctoring has become a matter for the courts, rather than common sense.

Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford, a man presumably elected to keep the peace and maintain the dignity of the law, now finds himself in a tussle along

with no fewer than 17 other state attorneys general over a simple proposition: whether those who rely upon Medicaid shall be permitted to decide for themselves which physician, nurse, or other sawbones they might employ to probe, poke, and prescribe upon their ailments.

The trouble began in South Carolina, where the governor, exercising that peculiar instinct for interference that afflicts all men in office, sought to bar Medicaid funds from traveling in the direction of certain providers—chiefly those with an association of a particular kind of doctoring that stirs up the righteous indignation of politicians with idle hands. Lower courts, perhaps briefly overtaken by an unusual bout of reason, ruled that such a maneuver was illegal, affirming the long-standing principle that choices in healthcare should be an individual desire rather than the whims of those in power.

But because no absurdity in this nation can be left untested before the highest tribunal in the land, the case has now made its way to the U.S. Supreme Court on April 2, where justices will take a break from their usual business of bewildering the citizenry with conflicting interpretations of the Constitution to determine whether 791,000 Nevadans and untold others across the republic shall continue to enjoy their current freedom of choice or get conscripted into whatever arrangement suits the reigning political mood.

Attorney General Ford, for his part, insists that the “free choice of provider” rule is essential, not merely as a matter of principle but as a means of ensuring access to necessary medical care. His opponents, no doubt, will argue otherwise, and the great machinery of law grinds on, converting simple rights into complicated battles, leaving the average citizen to wonder if he dares sneeze without first consulting a judge.

Bless his heart, Nevada Attorney General Aaron Ford seems to think that hollering “unconstitutional” is the same as making it law, much like a rooster believing his crowing brings up the sun. Ford has hitched his wagon to a group of like-minded legal luminaries to stop Donald Trump from downsizing the Department of Education—a noble cause if one assumes the federal government must be ever-expanding and never subject to a trim.

With all the grace of a man clearing brush with a scythe, the Trump Administration recently announced plans to send half the department’s workforce packing, which has sent Ford into a fit of righteous indignation.

“I was a public school math teacher!” he declared, as though that alone makes him the sole authority on education policy.

He then went on to inform that removing government employees from their chairs is not just a bureaucratic shift but an “attack on Nevada’s students”—never mind that education is a state responsibility or that entire nations have managed to educate their youth without a sprawling federal apparatus.

In his fervor, Ford has been scrawling his name on a pre-drafted lawsuit, ensuring his signature appears in the mix of fine print while insisting that “This plan is unconstitutional. It’s illegal. It’s dangerously reckless.”

That is his opinion—a fine and fiery one—but as any schoolchild knows, merely declaring something unlawful does not make it so. The lawsuit, making way to the federal courts, seeks to block Trump’s attempts to wield his budgetary axe.

If successful, Ford and his fellow litigators may ensure that not a single bureaucratic chair is left unoccupied, or if not, some of those soon-to-be-displaced officials can take up the noble profession of teaching math.

Once upon a time, a man could walk into a schoolhouse, tip his hat, and expect to be judged by his wits, not by the color of his britches. Alas, such quaint notions have fallen under suspicion, as more than 50 universities—including the University of Nevada, Las Vegas

—find themselves in a pickle jar of federal scrutiny for what the Department of Education calls “race-exclusionary practices.”

President Donald Trump, in his second tenure, has taken the broom to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs, a breed of institutional contraptions designed, in theory, to uplift the downtrodden but, in practice, have turned the table against white and Asian students. In a memo as direct as a Missouri mule, the administration gave colleges two weeks to dismantle anything hinting at racial favoritism or risk a cut-off from the federal trough.

The department has also fashioned itself a contraption called the “End DEI” portal, where students, faculty, and concerned parties can report instances of discrimination, or at the very least, its heavy whiff. This modern-day complaint box, one imagines, will soon be filled to the brim with grievances, some worthy and some no more substantial than a summer breeze.

At the heart of the investigation sits the PhD Project, a well-intended initiative that assists underrepresented students in business programs but which officials say crosses the line into outright exclusion. If true, it suggests that in the pursuit of fairness, some schools have sorted applicants as a farmer might sort apples—keeping some for market and tossing others aside, not based on taste, but on the shade of their skins.

The Department of Education, led by Secretary Linda McMahon, now finds itself on the warpath against such practices, declaring that “students must be assessed according to merit and accomplishment.” What was a clumsy attempt at social engineering has now collided with the unwavering principle that a young person’s future should be determined by hard work rather than by their ancestry.

Of course, not everyone is taking this lying down. Teachers’ unions have already filed lawsuits, claiming the administration’s order is as vague as a fortune teller’s predictions and a direct affront to free speech. Whether the courts will uphold the administration’s iron grip or throw its memo into the dustbin of unenforceable policy remains to be seen.

College administrators, once the lords of their leafy domains, must now answer to a federal authority that has turned its skeptical gaze upon them. When the government comes knocking, universities tend to do a mighty quick reappraisal of their priorities.

I strolled into the Union Brewery Saloon that morning, where the dusty scent of antiques hung in the air, where folks traded stories like breathing.

At the bar sat a man, maybe a decade older than me. He looked like someone who had spent his life taking what the land offered without ever asking for more.

His straw cowboy hat was pushed back on his head, catching the light just right. The man was sipping on a Colorado Coolaid, his long, weathered fingers steady as he held the drink.

Sitting beside him, we started talking about growing old, engaging in idle chatter. I commented on his tennis shoes.

“I don’t wear boots anymore,” he said, his voice low. “They hurt my back something fierce. It makes it harder to get up in the morning. Used to be, I couldn’t take a step without a good pair of boots, but now the only things that fit me right are my hat and my suspenders. Everything else—well, it either needs to be replaced or enlarged.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, realizing we were both wearing our time and troubles like worn-out gear—those things that need fixing because they never stay new.

There are some folks who, upon encountering a rickety old fence in the wilderness, will tip their hat, step over it, and go about their business. Then there are others who, upon seeing the museum piece, will whip out a hammer, rally a crowd, and commence hollering about how the fate of civilization hangs upon its removal.

And so, it appears U.S. Senator Catherine Cortez Masto has taken a firm position in the latter camp.

Alongside two dozen of her esteemed colleagues, the Senator has taken up arms against the specter of the Comstock Act—a relic of the 19th century that once forbade mailing anything a prudish government agent might deem offensive. The fact that this particular law has spent the last hundred years gathering dust in some forgotten corner of the legal archives does not trouble Cortez Masto. Indeed, she warns in dire tones that Republican forces are sharpening it into a weapon of tyranny, poised to strike at modern reproductive rights.

“Anti-choice Republicans have made it clear they want to use this 150-year-old law to enact a national abortion ban – even without the support of Congress or the American people,” she declared as if Anthony Comstock himself had risen from the grave, frothing at the mouth and demanding fealty to his puritanical crusade.

And so, the Senator presents the Stop Comstock Act, a noble effort to slay this legal ghost before it can haunt the nation anew. Whether this effort will amount to a necessary safeguard or merely a spectacle of political shadowboxing remains to be seen.

But one must admire the energy with which some politicians can kick up a dust storm where nary a tumbleweed stirred before.

Nevada’s Senators Can’t Agree on Disagreeing

In a display of unity so fractured it could make the Grand Canyon blush, Nevada’s two Democratic senators found themselves at odds today over whether to keep the government’s doors open or let it slam shut like an old saloon in a dust storm.

Sen. Catherine Cortez Masto, perhaps remembering that people like getting paid, announced she would vote “yes” on the latest stopgap spending measure. Meanwhile, Sen. Jacky Rosen, evidently more impressed by the grand tradition of political brinkmanship, declared she’d be voting “no.”

And so, with all the coordination of a one-horse town’s marching band, Nevada’s representation in Washington did what Congress does best—disagree.

The matter is another “continuing resolution,” which is political lingo for “kicking the can down the road like a government-sponsored game of street soccer.” The bill would fund Uncle Sam’s ever-hungry operations through September, an improvement over past shutdown showdowns but still a far cry from responsible governance. The House managed to squeeze it through earlier in the week, and now the Senate must wrangle the votes, provided they can stop squabbling long enough to count them.

Cortez Masto warned of dire consequences if the government shut down, including unpaid military personnel, stalled court cases (all untrue,) and alarmingly—more power in the hands of Elon Musk, who seems to be Washington’s latest bipartisan boogeyman. Meanwhile, Rosen, not one to lose when it comes to rhetorical flair, accused Congressional Republicans of being more interested in tax cuts for the ultra-rich than in, say, keeping the government functioning like a halfway competent institution.

For those keeping score at home, this marks the third time this fiscal year that Congress has had to pass a short-term budget extension. That’s right—the very folks entrusted with running the nation can’t seem to plan further ahead than a man who just realized his rent is due tomorrow. And with each round of fiscal chicken, the stakes get higher, the rhetoric gets louder, and the solutions get more temporary.

While the bill’s fate remains uncertain, one thing is clear–Nevada’s senators, much like the rest of Congress, remain committed to the fine art of disagreement. Whether the government remains open, rest assured that the great American tradition of political bickering will continue uninterrupted.

ICE Struggles with Simple Arithmetic

Now, it would seem a curious thing—one might even say a confounding thing—that an agency whose sole occupation is the counting, catching, and corralling unlawful inhabitants cannot, with any degree of certainty, say how many it has apprehended in a particular state. And yet, here we are. Two months into President Donald Trump’s second term, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement finds itself in the peculiar position of not knowing just how many souls it has plucked from Nevada’s landscape, a matter that one might suppose should be easier than tallying chickens in a coop—if, of course, the one counting possesses a working abacus and the chickens remain sufficiently still.

The president, a man of considerable enthusiasm for immigration, made a solemn promise to sweep the land of those unlawfully dwelling within it. Indeed, since his return to office, illegal border crossings have plunged to a level not seen in decades—perhaps owing to new policies or perhaps due to nothing more than the natural ebb and flow of human affairs, which often pay little heed to the proclamations of politicians.

Over the first 50 days of the administration, ICE claims to have arrested nearly 33,000 individuals found to be lacking in the necessary paperwork, with a wholesome 75 percent of them accused of or convicted of criminal acts. But when asked to provide a precise number of those arrests in Nevada—it seems a detail of such unfathomable complexity that it requires months of careful study, verification, and perhaps a consultation with the Oracle of Delphi. The department assures the public that it is laboring mightily to present only “the most accurate information.”

Though one might suspect that they are still, at this moment, rooting about in a desk drawer full of unsorted figures, shaking their heads, and muttering, “Now where did we put Nevada?”

Meanwhile, court records hint at a few cases—the deported 14 times man, whose persistence would be admirable were it not so unlawful, and a political refugee arrested in southern Nevada. But these anecdotes aside, the official tally remains a mystery, locked away in the vaults of government bureaucracy, awaiting a revelation that, one must assume, will be met with equal measures of relief and incredulity when it finally arrives.

For now, the people of Nevada must content themselves with the knowledge that immigration enforcement is well underway—somewhere, somehow, in some number—and that the wheels of government, ever steadfast, turn just as they always have: slowly, noisily, and with no small amount of confusion.

The Lost and Found Water

For some time now, one must wonder what the fine folks at Lion Copper and Gold have been using to make their morning coffee—dust, prayers, or perhaps a sense of optimism. Lo and behold, their water had up and vanished, forfeited to the powers.

But take heart, dear reader, for in a stroke of legal wizardry and bureaucratic wrangling–the company has successfully wrestled back its lost water rights from the clutches of the Nevada Division of Water Resources and the Nevada State Engineer. With this grand Settlement Agreement, Lion CG has managed to reinstate a whopping 6,014 acre-feet of groundwater—enough to keep their mining aspirations, and presumably their coffee pots, well-hydrated.

Having reconsidered its stance on dehydration, the State has withdrawn its previous notice of forfeiture, restoring the company’s water rights to good standing, much like an old gambler who finally squared his debts. Of course, there is a catch, as there always is.

The company must now file regular applications for extensions of time, lest the water gods grow restless once more. They will ensure that the precious liquid is used appropriately for mining.

Steven Dischler, CEO of Lion CG, expressed his heartfelt gratitude to the water-wielding authorities of Nevada, thanking them for their efforts in crafting this Agreement. With the confidence of a man who just found a canteen in the desert, he declared that securing the water was a turning point in domestic copper production. He further pledged that the company remains steadfast in its mission to bring prosperity to the good people of Yerington.

And so, the miners of Lion CG march forward, their picks sharpened, their pre-feasible study underway, and their water, at long last, secured. One can only hope they use it wisely—perhaps even for a celebratory cup of something more than coffee.