In the grand tradition of outlaws discovering that their enthusiasm for mischief is no match for the long arm of the law, one Christopher Symes found himself rudely interrupted late Monday night when a well-armed assemblage of the law took an interest in his whereabouts.
Authorities allege that Symes, alongside a collection of kindred spirits, undertook a bit of uninvited wealth redistribution in Elko, using the persuasive qualities of a firearm to make their case. While no doubt thrilling at the moment, such antics have an unfortunate tendency to attract the attention of individuals tasked with maintaining civilization, namely the Elko Police Department Crime Suppression Unit and the Nevada Division of Investigations.
With the suspect’s location sniffed out in Spring Creek and the nature of his alleged enterprise deemed sufficiently violent, the Special Weapons and Tactics Team (SWAT) roused from its slumber. The body of law enforcement, known for their enthusiasm, made their introduction just past 10:30 p.m. and persuaded Mr. Symes to accompany them elsewhere, presumably without gunplay.
Authorities, ever diligent, suggest that more arrests are in the offing, proving yet again that crime may be many things—exciting, lucrative, and even fashionable—but seldom is it a solitary pursuit. Those possessing any intelligence regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Symes’s fellow adventurers are encouraged to share their knowledge at 775-777-7310.
In the grand old tradition of kicking troublesome cans down the road, the Supreme Court plans to referee a dispute over where to pile up America’s surplus of nuclear leftovers. On one side, you have the federal government and a private outfit keen on stacking spent uranium in the open country of Texas. Texas Governor Greg Abbott is objecting to Uncle Sam’s latest scheme to turn his state into a glow-in-the-dark pantry for radioactive odds and ends.
The whole business traces its roots back to the ever-elusive search for a proper resting place for America’s atomic junk. Once a grand vision for permanent storage, the Yucca Mountain project got torpedoed by the citizens of Nevada, who decided that turning their backyard into a uranium burial ground was not on their list of civic improvements. That left the Nuclear Regulatory Commission scrambling for other options, which led to the bright idea of “temporary” storage in the wide-open spaces of Texas and New Mexico—temporary, of course, like an old sofa dumped in the desert is “temporary.”
At the heart of the matter is the legal right of states to protest when the federal government decides the state in question makes a fine dumping ground. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the NRC overstepped its bounds in approving a Texas site, a decision that now stands in contrast to other courts that gave the NRC a free hand. The Supreme Court will now decide whether the Lone Star State and its neighbors get a say in the matter or whether the federal government, like a pushy dinner guest, can leave its mess wherever it pleases.
With the long memory of a government agency tasked with justifying its power, the Justice Department argues that the authority to handle nuclear waste has been in place since the Eisenhower administration. Opponents, including Republican and Democratic politicians and oil and gas interests, counter that storing radioactive fuel atop the Permian Basin—the golden goose of American energy—is about as wise as storing gunpowder in a blacksmith’s shop.
New Mexico’s governor, Michelle Lujan Grisham, finds herself in rare agreement with Abbott, both unwilling to see their states serve as America’s nuclear attic. Meanwhile, a chorus of concerned lawmakers, including Senator Ted Cruz, warns of the security risks posed by leaving highly radioactive material just sitting out in the countryside like an oversized, uranium-flavored piñata for any mischief-maker with bad intentions.
And so, the Supreme Court finds itself faced with deciding what to do with things no one wants. The fate of these nuclear waystations now rests with nine justices, who will determine whether the law permits this game of radioactive hot potato—or if Congress must first be bothered to say so explicitly.
Well, it seems that our good friend Quincy Lee Grubenman of Dayton has found hisself tangled in a predicament that could make even a cat think twice about chasing its tail. On the first Saturday of March, the Lyon County Sheriff’s deputies were doing their regular work, which, as fate would have it, included pulling over Mr. Grubenman on U.S. 50 near Retail Drive.
It wasn’t a fancy car he was driving, nor a particularly memorable one—just an unregistered contraption that seemed to have the same lawful presence as a windblown tumbleweed. But that wasn’t the most curious part of this little saga.
No, what caught the eye of our ever-vigilant deputies was the revelation that Mr. Grubenman, a man not unfamiliar with the law’s less friendly side, was allegedly not in compliance with his sex offender registration requirements.
Now, to make sure you know, when you find yourself on that list, the rules are clear as day—you’ve got to keep your registration up to date, just like you might keep your dog vaccinated or your shoes tied. Failing to do so is something the law doesn’t take kindly to, and neither did the deputies that day.
So, in a move that would’ve left any poker player thinking twice about their hand, Mr. Grubenman was arrested and carted off to the Lyon County Jail, charged with the felony of failing to register. One can only imagine what stories he’ll tell in there, though I suspect the deputies might have a few stories of their own to share about him.
There’s a lot to be said for a swift apology—mainly that it should come with a clause protecting the apologizer from cruel and unusual punishment. Last night, in a lapse of judgment that I deeply regret, I was short with my wife. This morning, she brought me a cup of coffee, which I naively accepted as a peace offering.
Sensing an opportunity to restore domestic tranquility, I said the magic words: “I’m sorry for losing my temper, last night.”
She smiled, said, “You’re forgiven,” and strolled away, leaving me with what I assumed was a fresh start to my day.
Then I took a sip.
Friends, I have tasted the ocean. I have swallowed seawater after being knocked over by a wave. And yet, nothing in my life had prepared me for the briny abomination that assaulted my taste buds.
I enjoyed it without complaint.
And thus, I learned two valuable lessons: First, forgiveness in marriage is a dish best served with a pinch of quickness. And second, if your wife brings you coffee after an argument, ask her to take the first taste.
The sky was gray over Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Fernley as the wind stirred the flags. The ceremony brief, its significance felt.
The Nevada Veterans Coalition had come together to honor those who had served and then forgotten by their families. The crowd, few in number, stood silent as the Patriot Guard Riders marched in with the flags.
In remembrance, the names read as the columbarium wall echoed them solemnly.
The ceremony was simple: a three-volley salute, Taps, and Amazing Grace. Then, the folding of the flag—neat, sharp, deliberate. It was presented, as always, to a member of the community who was humble enough to accept it.
Diane Mckillip took the flag, her hands steady. She had come from Sparks.
She knew the men who had worn the uniform. Her grandfather had been in the Navy, her father in the Marines, and an Uncle had flown in Korea.
She stood, quiet, at the edge of the pavilion, taking in the weight of it all.
The narrator, Sharon Serenko, spoke with a voice that echoed in the stillness. She thanked the veterans for their service and reminded those who had come to remember that each gravestone told a story—one that needed hearing.
She called it a privilege, and it was clear she meant it.
The ceremony ended as it had begun. Simple. No fanfare.
Just a quiet remembrance. A nation’s gratitude in a small act of respect.
The veterans laid to rest for February included Air Force Sgt. Patrick Mooney, Army Pvt. William Gryder, Spc. 4 Jeffrey Keltner, Ralph Leonardi, Pvt. Ronald McLarnan, 1Lt. Thomas O’Brien, Pfc. William Shipley, Navy SR Daniel Alvey, EMC Melvin Burrow, SM3 Thomas Dougherty, CS3 Ronald Huff, SN Philip Rupert, MM2 Mario Secchi, and U.S. Marines Gunnery Sgt. Richard Harold and Cpl. Richard Machado.
Veterans laid to rest in January included Air Force Airman First Class William Dickey and Airman Second Class George Kell, Army Pfc. Randolf Chandler, Sgt. Dennis Chrisman, Sgt. Walden Crawford, Spec. Fourth Class Leonardi Fontes, Sgt. Carl Huycke, Pfc. Andrew Pullos, Jordan Sanchez; Navy Lawrence Flattem, IC3 Robert Hell, MM2 Darrel Kelly, AWC Jerry Jenkins, SA Carey Petty, ETN3 David Ruhl, and John Winter.
Well, it appears Senator Jacky Rosen is at it again, and this time dusting off a five-year-old event to stir up some more fear and hoopla to push through a bill that’ll have all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. Her latest venture? A ban on high-capacity magazines, those contraptions she deems so dreadfully dangerous.
According to Rosen, any magazine holding more than ten rounds is just a ticking time bomb waiting to go off in the hands of the wrong person.
The bill, dubbed the Keep Americans Safe Act, promises a noble-sounding buyback program for those wicked high-capacity magazines, along with the grand authority to send law enforcement after anyone caught with one and take those gadgets away, presumably with the precision of a deer hunter and the grace of a stampede.
But here’s the thing–Rosen–bless her heart, still doesn’t seem to understand the simple concept of “shall not infringe.” The Founding Fathers, those fellows who set up this nation and wrote the Constitution, might have been less charitable in their views of federal overreach than our dear Senator.
You see, they didn’t put the words “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms” for decoration. And here’s the kicker—while Rosen’s busy invoking the shadow of that sad day in Las Vegas on October 1st, 2017, what she’s missed is that most Nevadans see that whole tragedy a little differently.
Instead of a lamentable mass shooting, many folks around here think it was just another one of those federal gun-running operations gone awry. So, while Rosen tries to pull the wool over your eyes with the same old fear-mongering, most folks who’ve lived here more than a week can tell you it wasn’t the magazines that made the mess.
And until she can wrap her head around that, all this talk about “commonsense legislation” rings hollow.
It’s clear that she’s trying to take a five-year-old tragedy and use it as a cudgel to push her pet project, but it’s not fooling anyone around here. We’ve seen enough of the government’s meddling to realize that they’ve got their hand in the cookie jar, and it’s not always for our benefit.
Rosen can try all she wants, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before she convinces Nevadans that a federal ban on magazines is the solution to what’s gone wrong in this country.
There is a bill in Nevada, quiet and cold, like the winds that sweep through the desert. Assembly Bill 287 sits on the table today, waiting for the hand to push it forward.
It is not just a change in the law; it is a blow to the heart of democracy. If it passes, the people of Nevada will lose the right to ask for a recount on ballot questions.
It is not progress. It is a theft of power.
And it is a power grab that is too dangerous to ignore.
The voices in Nevada grow louder, one by one, across the state. They speak in coffee shops, on the streets, and over the dinner table.
One man, his face hard and eyes sharp, says, “If we can’t challenge a ballot question, what’s left? What is left of our democracy?”
Another man, hands worn from work, says, “This is a slap in the face to every taxpayer who ever fought for transparency.”
And these voices? They speak the truth.
This bill is not about efficiency or saving money. It is about taking control and silencing the people it should serve.
Assembly Bill 287, in all its legal language, takes away the right of citizens to challenge ballot measures. If the measure passes, and you think something is wrong, you can ask for a recount. You can ask the system to prove that it worked as it should. But not under this bill.
Under this bill, only the candidates can ask for a recount. Not you. Not me. Only the ones with the power to make the rules.
They say it’s for efficiency. They say it’s for saving money. A recount costs, they say, and it costs too much. But we know better.
Saving money is not what this is. It is about control, which is never cheap, especially at the cost of truth.
Imagine a tax increase passes or a law you don’t trust is suddenly in place. You believe something went wrong. Under this bill, there will be no recourse. No recount. No accountability. You will have no voice. Just silence from those in power, and that silence is louder than any argument.
The bill is a blow to everything we stand for, stripping away the right of the people to check the system. It puts us at the mercy of those in charge. And we cannot afford that. Removing the right to challenge is the worst form of corruption.
If the bill passes, we lose more than just a recount. We lose our voice. We lose the ability to say, “No, something is wrong.” We lose the power to make the system accountable. And we lose our place in this democracy.
The committee meets today, March 6th, at 4:00 PM. It is not a meeting to ignore.
Assembly Bill 287 must not pass. If it does, the next ballot may be the last one that matters.
As if the tariffs weren’t bad enough–Nevada’s getting unsolicited imports of the more indecent variety from Canada now.
Last Monday afternoon, travelers along Interstate 80 got treated to an unexpected—some might say unwholesome—spectacle when one Jeffrey Girard, a 49-year-old visitor from the Great White North, decided to engage in a bit of impromptu performance art near the Ryndon Country Store.
Deputies with the Elko County Sheriff’s Office were called around 4:15 p.m. after reports surfaced of a man behaving unbecoming to decent society. Upon locating Girard’s black SUV, officers quickly discovered that his mode of transport was as reckless as his decorum.
The gentleman was allegedly driving up and down the interstate ramps—going the wrong way, no less—before leaping from his vehicle in a state of nature that Adam himself might have found excessive. Witnesses, including some unfortunate children, were subjected to a view they never sought nor shall soon forget.
For his troubles, Mr. Girard was rewarded with a new set of accommodations, courtesy of the Elko County Sheriff’s Office, where he now faces charges of obscene exposure, reckless driving, and treating a divided highway as though it were a mere suggestion.
Well, friends, it appears that NV Energy, that noble steward of electrical reliability, has once again demonstrated its unique talent for charging more while delivering less. Nearly 27,000 souls in Douglas County were treated to a midweek surprise when the power up and vanished, leaving folks squinting in the darkness and wondering whether they had inadvertently moved to the 19th century.
No one knows why the outage happened, though one suspects NV Energy might classify that information under “state secrets.” Perhaps it was the weather, or maybe it was just Tuesday at the NV Energy control room.
Most customers eventually had their power restored, but a few unlucky stragglers in South Lake Tahoe continued their forced experiment in frontier living. Local businesses, of course, bore the brunt of the inconvenience.
Adding to the amusement–NV Energy’s communication strategy appeared to consist of sending out vague estimates, only to revise them into meaninglessness a short while later. If there’s a skill NV Energy has mastered, it’s that.
And yet, despite this triumph in unreliable service, the company is beseeching the Public Utilities Commission of Nevada to let them raise rates. Yes, dear reader, in the grand tradition of corporate audacity, NV Energy has concluded that the best way to remedy its shortcomings is to charge its customers more for the privilege of being left in the dark.
Meanwhile, as Nevada summers remain hot, some lawmakers want to prevent residents from baking in their homes like unattended pot roasts. Enter Assemblywoman Cinthia Moore, who has floated legislation that would prevent shut-offs in extreme heat, an idea borrowed from Arizona—where at least one woman perished after losing power over a mere $51 shortfall.
NV Energy assures customers that they are paying less for their energy than last year, though those left sweating in the heat and fumbling in the darkness may find that cold comfort. But don’t worry—if the power goes out again, remember–the rate hike is coming, and that candlelit lifestyle might soon cost you a premium.
The Great American Circus returned to Congress last night, with President Donald J. Trump delivering another full-throttle sermon on the virtues of tax cuts, border walls, and America First—a phrase that, when repeated enough times, starts to sound like a thinly disguised middle finger to the rest of the world. The Nevada political class, ever eager to grab a microphone and make noise, wasted no time staking their ideological turf.
First up: Senator Catherine Cortez Masto, who came out swinging like a woman forced to watch a five-hour infomercial on the joys of trickle-down economics. “President Trump spent tonight’s address repeating falsehoods and attacking our allies without actually offering solutions to lower costs,” she said, eyes burning with the kind of rage only a politician who’s just heard the words Medicaid cuts can muster.
She rattled off a laundry list of Democrat nightmares—gutting public education, slashing Social Security, delivering tax breaks to billionaires. Her bottom line? Trump talks a big game but leaves the bill with the middle class.
She didn’t listen to the speech but sat quietly with her fingers in her ears since she didn’t have a hand sign to hold.
Not to be outdone, Senator Jacky Rosen took her turn at the microphone, striking the usual pose of the pragmatic centrist who’s had just about enough of this madness.
“Nevadans sent me to the Senate to work with anyone,” she said, making clear that “anyone” did not include a man hell-bent on handing the federal government over to Elon Musk like a drunken casino boss betting the last of his chips.
Medicaid cuts? Check.
New tariffs? Check.
More cash for billionaires? Triple-check.
“This is not what Nevadans voted for,” Rosen declared, probably knowing that a significant chunk of them did vote for it.
Meanwhile, Republican Governor Joe Lombardo took the opportunity to remind everyone that he’s still firmly strapped into the Trump rollercoaster, hoping to white-knuckling his way through to another term.
“Tonight in his Joint Address to Congress, President Trump reaffirmed the importance of prioritizing America’s interests,” Lombardo said, parroting the usual lines about border security, the economy, and the absolute necessity of not taxing tips—because, in Nevada, that’s where the real revolution begins.
Then came the Nevada GOP, hoisting their Trump flags high and declaring victory before the dust settled.
“Last night, President Trump delivered a powerful address,” they crowed, praising him for stopping the supposedly unstoppable tide of illegal immigrants, pledging fealty to the working class, and sending Democrats into fits of silent protest.
“The contrast in the chamber couldn’t have been clearer,” boomed Nevada Republican Party Chairman Michael J. McDonald, relishing the image of grim-faced Democrats refusing to clap for “nonpartisan” issues like a childhood cancer victim, border security and ending war.
To hear them tell it, it was a night of historic triumph, the latest chapter in the great American political bloodsport. And so, the Nevada establishment goes on—Democrats wringing their hands over economic betrayal, Republicans toasting their latest victory in the war on decency.
The Old Blog in the Desert 