The Old Blog in the Desert

The Fernley women came into Saturday hoping to shake off Friday’s loss to Lowry, but fate had other ideas. The Vaqueros battled hard but ultimately fell 6-3, stretching their losing streak to four games.

Despite the setback, Lauren Smith and Sara Moffett did their best to keep Fernley in the fight. Smith notched a 2-for-3 performance, stealing a base and crossing the plate once, while Moffett added another run and a stolen base of her own. Hunter Lyle also made her presence known, cracking a double and driving in a run on a 2-for-3 showing.

The Vaqueros swung the bats well, finishing with a solid .379 team batting average—which usually spells victory. But on this day, the scoreboard told a different story.

The loss dropped Fernley to 8-5, while Lowry continued their dominant run, improving to 13-3 after winning nine of their last ten. However, the Vaqueros got a measure of revenge later that day, shutting out Lowry 2-0 to finally snap their skid.

The Fernley men, meanwhile, found themselves on the wrong end of another tough battle with Lowry. The Buckaroos had already bested them 11-3 on Friday, and they doubled down on Saturday, squeezing out a 3-1 victory. The trend of road teams winning in this matchup held again, with the visiting squad emerging victorious for the fifth straight meeting.

Dylon Comer gave the Vaqueros every chance to win, pitching a complete game and allowing just one hit across seven innings. Not a single earned run crossed the plate against him, and he fanned eight batters in a commanding performance.

But in a cruel twist of fate, unearned runs and a quiet Fernley offense cost him the win. Riley McCullar tried to spark a rally, going 2-for-3 with a run scored and two stolen bases, but the Vaqueros couldn’t muster enough firepower to get over the hump.

With their sixth straight home loss, Fernley fell to a dismal 3-12-1 on the season, while Lowry crept above .500 at 8-7. And if Saturday’s loss wasn’t frustrating enough, the Vaqueros got another dose of the same medicine in their rematch later that day, falling 6-1 to the Buckaroos.

With their recent struggles, Fernley’s teams need to dig deep to turn things around. Whether they can reclaim their early-season form remains to be seen.

The Virginia City women stormed into Saturday’s doubleheader against Smith Valley riding high on a four-game winning streak, and when the dust settled, they had stretched it to five. The Muckers took the Bulldogs to task in a 20-10 rout, marking their most decisive victory over Smith Valley since April 2021.

Leading the charge was Bity Lopez, who turned the basepaths into her playground. She crossed home plate four times and swiped five bases, reaching base in all five at-bats. Not to be outdone, Nanna Lopez hammered out a 3-for-3 performance, smashing two doubles while scoring three runs and stealing two bases. Danika Baker added to the carnage, stealing four bases and going 2-for-4.

When all was said and done, Virginia City had battered Smith Valley’s defense with a .562 team batting average—just another day at the office for a squad that has hit .412 or better for seven straight games.

Not finished, the Muckers squared off against the Bulldogs again later that day and once more left them in the dust, this time by a 23-15 margin. With the victories, Virginia City lifted their record to 8-4-1, while Smith Valley’s losing streak stretched to 11 games, their 0-4 start to this season looking grimmer by the day.

On the men’s side, the Muckers weren’t quite as fortunate. Their struggles continued with a lopsided 23-8 defeat at the hands of Smith Valley. It marked the second consecutive game Virginia City had lost by 15 runs, a statistic that does not bode well for their fortunes moving forward.

Despite the rough outing, Derek McCoy gave the home fans something to cheer about, going 1-for-2 while scoring twice and swiping a base. History suggests that when McCoy gets two or more runs, the Muckers have a shot—but with an 0-8 record in games where he doesn’t, the team needs more bats to come alive. Shiloh Coelho also made his presence felt, scoring twice and stealing two bags.

With the loss, Virginia City’s record dipped to 2-9, while Smith Valley improved to 5-1. Both teams return home to familiar surroundings, hoping for some hometown magic. The Muckers will host North Tahoe at 3:00 p.m. on Thursday, while Smith Valley takes on Mineral County on Tuesday at 3:00 p.m.

The question now is whether Virginia City can shake off the road woes or if the home field will offer little more than a change of scenery.

The Yerington Lions are packing their bags and heading into opposing territory to face off against the Oasis Academy Bighorns on Tuesday at 4:00 p.m. Both teams roll into this contest fresh off commanding victories, their bats hot, and their pitchers dealing.

Yerington’s latest triumph saw them blank Pershing County 14-0, with pitcher Erika Landa keeping the Mustangs in check over five solid innings, surrendering just three earned runs. Karla Zarazua spearheaded the offensive attack, racking up three RBI, two runs, and a triple, as Laney Triplett and Yessenia Zarazua kept the bases busy with key steals and scores.

The Lions have been relentless at the plate, posting a staggering .595 OBP in their last outing—just the latest chapter in a six-game stretch where they’ve reached base at an eye-popping .528 clip or better.

Tom shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and yawning, the gray light of dawn seeping through the blinds. He flicked on the coffee maker, long since gone cold from yesterday’s brew, and poured the stale, dark liquid into his chipped ceramic mug.

He’d turned the machine off last night—why waste power keeping it warm? It was a ritual as old as his apartment lease–cold coffee, microwave, sip, repeat.

He slid the mug into the microwave and punched in 1:30. The old machine only worked in 30-second jumps—thirty seconds, one-minute, one-minute-thirty-seconds, nothing in between. A full minute and a half was too hot, so he always stopped it early.

The hum filled the silence as the numbers ticked down one minute-twenty-nine seconds, one-minute-twenty-eight seconds. At 1:15, he hit the stop button, pulled the mug out, and sipped. Warm enough. The display froze at fifteen seconds.

He tapped clear, resetting it to zero-zero, and a stray thought flickered through his mind: What happens to those fifteen seconds I skip?

A minute and a half was the “proper” cycle, but he never let it finish. Where did those leftover seconds go?

He smirked at the absurdity, but the question lingered as he leaned against the counter, staring at the microwave. The room felt oddly still, the fridge’s hum unnaturally loud.

Then, a faint tick came from the microwave—a sound it shouldn’t make when idle. The display flickered back to life, unprompted, showing fifteen seconds.

Tom frowned and tapped clear again. The screen went dark, then snapped back to fifteen seconds. He yanked the cord from the wall.

The display stayed blank for a heartbeat before the numbers glowed faintly despite the lack of power. A chill crawled up his spine.

“Okay, that’s weird,” he muttered, setting his coffee down.

He reached out to touch the handle, and the moment his fingertip brushed it, the world lurched. When his vision cleared, Tom was no longer in his kitchen.

He stood in a vast, shimmering expanse—a place like liquid glass stretching infinitely in all directions. The air buzzed with a low, rhythmic pulse, like a heartbeat.

Floating before him was a jagged tear in reality, a rift the size of his microwave door. Through it, he saw his kitchen frozen, mug suspended mid-air, a droplet of coffee hovering inches from the counter.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

A voice answered, sharp and metallic, echoing from nowhere. “You asked about the fifteen seconds.”

Tom spun around, but there was no one—just the endless glass plane and the rift. “Who’s there? What is this?”

“You discarded them,” the voice said, ignoring him. “Every day, you cut the flow short. Fifteen seconds here, ten there. They don’t vanish. They pool.”

“Pool?” Tom’s mouth went dry. “Where am I?”

“You’ve breached the Margin—the void where your rejected fragments collect. You’ve pulled too many threads loose.”

The rift pulsed, and Tom glimpsed faint shapes beyond—not his kitchen now, but flashes of other places: a bustling city street, a snowy mountain peak, a star-filled void. Each scene flickered for fifteen seconds before shifting.

“I didn’t mean to—” Tom started, but the ground trembled.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the glass, and the pulse quickened. The rift widened, sucking air inward with a low roar.

“You’ve destabilized it,” the voice snapped. “The Margin holds the excess, but your curiosity tore the seam. Fix it, or it swallows everything.”

“Fix it? How?” Tom shouted, stumbling back as the cracks raced toward him.

“Return the seconds.”

The rift flared, and Tom was yanked through—not back to his kitchen, but to the city street he’d glimpsed. Car horns blared, people jostled past, faces blurred.

A strange intuition gripped him. He glanced at his wrist, where a faint fifteen seconds pulsed like a countdown.

Fifteen seconds.

He bolted to a street vendor selling coffee, shoving a crumpled bill into the man’s hand. “Quick—microwave this!” he yelled, thrusting his mug forward.

The vendor blinked, confused, but popped it into a small microwave behind the cart. Tom punched in 1:30—no stopping early—and hit start.

The count on his wrist ticked down with it fourteen, thirteen, twelve. When it hit zero-zero, the world lurched again. He was back in the Margin, the rift slightly smaller, the cracks less jagged.

“One fragment returned,” the voice said. “More remain.”

Before Tom could protest, the rift swallowed him again.

He bounced through moments—a battlefield where he reheated a soldier’s ration, a spaceship warming a nutrient pack, and a medieval village where he improvised with a fire and a pot. He let the complete 1:30 run, watching the countdown on his wrist shrink fifteen, ten, five seconds.

Finally, he landed back in his kitchen, gasping, mug still in hand. The microwave displayed zero-zero, and the rift was gone.

The voice echoed, “Time is whole. Don’t pull the threads again.”

Tom stood there, heart pounding, staring at the microwave, “Whoa, no more thinking before I’ve had my coffee.”

There are men born with the sense of a barn owl, men graced with the common sense of a fence post, and then there is Brandon Blount—a man whose thought process, if it can be called such, operates on a plane of reality not yet charted by science.

Mr. Blount, a 39-year-old specimen hailing from Nevada, recently undertook an odyssey across this fine nation, choosing as his chariot not a modest station wagon, nor even an ill-advised minivan, but instead the noble and spacious confines of a U-Haul truck. Not content to merely ferry furniture or household goods, Mr. Blount—who, one presumes, has never once consulted a map, a rulebook, or a scrap of his conscience—decided to cram his seven daughters into the said vehicle, dispersing them in a manner one might expect from a man accustomed to packing crates rather than caring for children.

On March 25 in East Ridge, Tennessee, the local constabulary received an alarming report–an individual shoveling children into the back of a U-Haul, like sacks of potatoes. Now, while the human race has made questionable transportation decisions—consider, if you will, the historic perils of the covered wagon—this particular method lacked both necessity and dignity.

Officers, ever diligent in pursuit of justice and baffling stupidity, soon located the rolling nursery on I-75 northbound. Upon halting the vehicle, they discovered Blount at the helm, two of his unfortunate offspring riding up front like proper passengers, and the remaining five enjoying the unventilated, shock-absorbing splendor of the cargo hold.

After confirming that this was not, in fact, a surreal misunderstanding but rather the full scope of Blount’s plan, the authorities saw fit to relieve him of his paternal responsibilities, placing him under arrest on multiple counts of child endangerment and neglect. The Tennessee Department of Children’s Services, accustomed to sorting out the misdeeds of the misguided, whisked the children away for medical evaluation.

And so, Mr. Blount now sits in the company of others who have mistaken reckless foolishness for ingenuity, no doubt wondering why society refuses to acknowledge his brilliance. One can only hope that the time spent in reflection will yield some understanding of why people ain’t freight.

In a grand display of legislative valor, U.S. Senator Catherine Cortez Masto, flanked by her trusty Montana counterpart, Steve Daines, has unsheathed the Small County PILT Parity Act—a bill of such magnificent importance that one wonders how civilization has managed to persist without it.

This noble measure, aimed at counties with fewer than 5,000 souls, would tweak the Payment in Lieu of Taxes (PILT) formula to shower a slightly less pitiful sum upon the proud but sparsely populated lands of Esmeralda, Eureka, Lincoln, Mineral, and Storey Counties. The concept is simple–Uncle Sam owns most of the land, won’t pay property taxes on it, and now, in boundless generosity, proposes to toss a few extra coins into the collection plate.

“This bipartisan bill ensures that our most rural counties are treated fairly,” declared Senator Cortez Masto, presumably with a straight face, as she championed the desperate quest for equity among counties competing for federal crumbs.

Meanwhile, bureaucrats in Washington, no doubt exhausted from their herculean efforts to carve out these marginal increases, patted themselves on the back for this triumph of rural justice. To enhance the newfound fairness–the bill introduces four breathtakingly specific new tiers—1,000, 2,000, 3,000, and 4,000—presumably so each county may now agonize over whether its population lands it in the “Pittance” or the “Slightly Larger Pittance” category.

While the good folks of Nevada’s least populous counties wait with bated breath for this windfall, the rest of the country can only marvel at Congress’s ability to tackle the issues of our time—one fraction of a tax dollar at a time.

Nevada Pushes Back, Of Course

President Donald Trump has taken it upon himself to tighten up the election process with all the vigor of a frontier sheriff cleaning up a crooked town. In a move that has sent many a bureaucrat into fits of righteous indignation, he has signed an executive order demanding that voters produce proper proof of citizenship before participating in federal elections—something that most reasonable folks might assume was already required. Alongside this–he insists that ballots be received by Election Day rather than lingering about in the postal system like a lost dog waiting for a bone.

The order is a fiery proclamation that the United States has been far too lackadaisical in securing its elections, and it puts state officials on notice–work with federal agencies to ensure accuracy or find yourselves short of federal funding. Naturally, this has drawn a chorus of outrage from those who find such demands inconvenient, particularly among the professional class of politicians who profit from confusion.

Enter Cisco Aguilar, Nevada’s Secretary of State, who wasted no time declaring the order an overreach. He insists that Nevada already has sufficient safeguards—paper audit trails, regular voter roll maintenance, and penalties for fraud.

In other words, he suggests Trump is trying to mend a fence that isn’t broken, at least not in Nevada.

“We know the people best prepared to run our elections are those at the local level who understand the needs of their community,” Aguilar declared, adding that the state would be weighing its legal options.

Aguilar’s opposition comes as no surprise. Nevada, being a key battleground state, has been a favorite target for election integrity debates since 2020 when Trump and his supporters pointed to questionable mail-in ballot practices. The state’s rules require voters to affirm their citizenship when registering, and giving false information can result in felony charges and a hefty fine—though critics argue that’s hardly an impenetrable defense against fraud.

The objections to Trump’s order are coming fast and furious. Some claim this is “federal overreach,” a phrase they seem to have misplaced when President Biden, by a similar stroke of the pen, ordered federal agencies to boost voter registration efforts in ways that conveniently favored his party. Others, such as Colorado’s Secretary of State Jena Griswold, have labeled it “unlawful,” though one suspects the legality of elections has only recently become a concern for such individuals.

Of course, the matter of mail-in ballots has caused no small amount of uproar. Ever skeptical of the system that saw his presidency cut short, Trump argues that these ballots invite fraud. With the straight-faced confidence that only lifelong politicians can muster, his critics insist fraud is “rare” and “limited.” The argument, it seems, is whether a flawed system is acceptable so long as its failures are not overwhelming.

Yet, Trump is not waiting on Congress to act—perhaps a wise decision given its tendency to move at the speed of molasses in January. The SAVE Act, which sought similar election reforms, has been slow to gain traction. So, in true Trumpian fashion, the president has taken matters into his own hands.

The response from the usual suspects has been predictably apocalyptic.

Lawsuits have already been threatened, with one Democratic lawyer declaring, “This will not stand.”

Yet, stand it may, as the order directs federal agencies to ensure the integrity of voter rolls, prioritize prosecution of election crimes, and set new security guidelines for voting systems. It’s a clear message–the days of ballots mysteriously appearing after election night, of names long since removed from this world remaining on voter rolls, and of uncertain identities slipping through the cracks may be drawing to a close.

And yet, one must admire the theatrical nature of the opposition.

Representatives and officials from various states have lined up to call the order “immoral,” “illegal,” and a “weaponization of government.” One wonders if these same individuals saw such weaponization when their party attempted to rewrite election laws in ways that benefited them.

Aguilar and his allies are dug in for a fight, insisting that their system is fine. But one must wonder—if the state’s elections are so secure, why should any of these reforms be problematic? Perhaps the real objection isn’t to security but to the man demanding it.

The real question, of course, is not whether the order will face legal challenges—it most certainly will—but whether the American people will tolerate an electoral system that remains porous and open to manipulation. Trump has put forth a challenge. Should elections be secure, or should they stay in the foggy realm of ambiguity where so many politicians thrive?

If Trump is good at anything, it’s stirring up a ruckus—and this ruckus is just getting started.

A Grave Reminder

The Grim Reaper has been keeping himself mighty busy on Nevada’s highways, and if the latest numbers are correct, he ain’t planning to retire anytime soon. Last year alone, 412 families had the misfortune of setting an extra place at supper out of habit, only to remember that their loved one had gone and met their end on the asphalt instead.

Clark County, always eager to be the biggest and best at everything, contributed 293 of those unfortunate souls to the tally. And to keep things exciting, 2024 decided to one-up its predecessor with 22 more names added to the roll call of the dearly departed.

Now, you might wonder what brand of foolishness is responsible for all this calamity. According to the sages at Zero Fatalities, more than half of these misadventures involved some feller who mistook his whiskey for wisdom and took to the road in an advanced state of enthusiasm.

Speeding, too, did its fair share of the reaping, contributing to a third of these unfortunate demises—because nothing says “bound for glory” quite like seeing how fast a man can get himself from here to eternity.

To drive the point home—preferably at a responsible and legal speed—Nevada State Police held a vigil to honor the fallen and, one can assume, to plead with the rest of us to use a lick of common sense. The message was simple–if you must drink, then by all means, drink—but kindly refrain from piloting a ton of metal down the thoroughfare while under the influence.

There are many ways to make an impression on a Friday night, but piloting a Porsche up Geiger Grade like the Devil himself was riding shotgun is one of the more memorable—if not advisable—methods.

Late on March 28, a 2016 Porsche Coupe was engaged in what might generously be called an unwise expedition northbound on SR-341 at a speed more appropriate for a comet than a car. The posted limit was a respectable 45 mph, but the Porsche, evidently believing speed limits were mere suggestions, was galloping along at an estimated 80 to 85 mph.

As it approached a left-hand curve, the driver—perhaps emboldened by spirits of the liquid variety—realized, rather too late, that physics was not inclined to negotiate. A fellow motorist loomed ahead, and in a heroic but ill-fated maneuver, the Porsche veered right, kissed a metal barrier, and then proceeded to perform an unscheduled descent down a dirt embankment, ultimately coming to rest on its wheels—a salute to German engineering, if not to common sense.

Storey County Sheriff’s deputies and the Nevada Highway Patrol arrived, likely shaking their heads before placing the driver under arrest for suspicion of driving under the influence and carrying a firearm while intoxicated–because why stop at just one poor decision?

Meanwhile, the passenger was carted off to the hospital with non-life-threatening injuries, presumably to reconsider their choice of travel companions. The driver, now a guest in the Storey County Detention Facility, will have ample time to reflect on the consequences of speed, spirits, and steel barriers.

Elsewhere in the Silver State, fortune tragically dealt a far graver hand.

Near Mineral County’s mile marker 37 on US-95, a commercial vehicle hauling a flatbed trailer was making its way southbound when a bracket—a seemingly innocuous piece of metal—made a bid for independence. It separated from the trailer, hurtled through the windshield of a northbound GMC Yukon, and like a cruel stroke of fate, ended the driver’s life in an instant.

The Nevada Highway Patrol is still working to identify the deceased.

And though the circumstances of the incident are still under investigation, the grim truth remains: sometimes, a man meets his end not by reckless choices or foolish misadventure–but by the heartless randomness of fate, as a single piece of errant steel turns a highway into a scene of sorrow.

Being a fan of Mark Twain and Dan DeQuille and their journalism style, called “Quaints,” I decided to update the style (for myself) as I continue to write at Substack. And so, may I present Fictalism (n.) – A literary approach that blends fiction and journalism, using narrative techniques traditionally found in storytelling—such as character development, dialogue, and immersive scene-setting—to explore real-world events. While grounded in factual accuracy, Fictalism allows for creative structuring and perspective shifts to provide deeper emotional and thematic insights, enhancing the reader’s understanding of complex truths.