Yerington took the measure of Pershing County in their last meeting, and Monday night proved no different. With a firm hand and a steady bat, Yerington secured a 9-4 victory, showing once more that they’re a team to take seriously.
Valor Angle was the man of the hour, making his mark both on the mound and at the plate. He worked two innings without yielding a single hit, walk, or earned run—his first since April 2024. Not content with baffling batters, he crossed home plate twice and swiped a bag while going 1-for-4.
Turning in a solid effort, Toby Juarez pitched three innings and allowed only two earned runs on three hits. Juarez has kept his walk count to two or fewer in three straight appearances.
At the plate, Colby Rowe made his presence known, going 2-for-4, scoring a run, and nabbing two stolen bases. He’s making a habit of swiping bags, now having stolen at least one in his last three games. Erick Juarez reached base in three of his four appearances and touched home once.
Yerington has been on a tear, winning five of their last six contests, bolstering their season record to 9-2. Their bats have been on fire, averaging 10.2 runs per game in that stretch. Pershing County, on the other hand, finds themselves in dire straits, their road woes stretching to eight straight losses, dragging their record down to 5-8.
It stands to reason that if a fellow climbs into his automobile after a drink too many and sets out to test the resilience of telephone poles, pedestrians, and his conscience, he ought to face punishment befitting the mayhem he unleashes. Governor Joe Lombardo appears to share this sentiment, for he has proposed that Nevada’s justice system sharpen its teeth when it comes to those who, in their inebriated stupor, send their fellow man to an early grave.
At present, a drunkard with a death on his conscience might find himself serving a sentence of two to twenty years, though an arithmetic quirk in Nevada’s 1995 sentencing law means he could be back to his revelries in as little as eight. Prosecutors, in their quest for more suitable retribution, have sought to elevate such cases to the level of murder. However, the Nevada Supreme Court has thus far swatted away these ambitions, declaring that the Legislature has set the rules for vehicular manslaughter.
Yet, there are moments when reality outpaces bureaucracy, such as when Jemarcus Williams, a man with all the judgment of a careening boulder, sent two Nevada troopers—men who had the misfortune of standing where they were supposed to—into eternity. For this, Williams accepted a plea deal granting him a maximum sentence of sixteen to forty years as a start, but hardly the deterrent that Lombardo and his allies envision.
Under current law, a man’s first encounter with a DUI charge earns him little more than a slap on the wrist—perhaps a couple of days in jail, community service, or a promise to behave. Only after three offenses does the law consider him a serious nuisance. Lombardo and his ilk argue it’s a system designed to encourage bad habits rather than reform them.
But the governor’s ambitions are not limited to tightening the screws on drunken drivers. He has also turned his attention to Nevada’s dwindling state police force, where troopers seem to be scarcer than shade in the desert.
Despite securing a pay raise in the last legislative session, the state police remain understaffed, with nearly half of their positions unfilled. The situation is such that, on some nights, only a handful of troopers patrol the entirety of Las Vegas, a city unknown for subtlety.
Lombardo insists that this is not a problem that money alone can fix—though a lack of pay raises this year won’t help matters. Instead, he speaks of changing recruitment strategies, adjusting qualifications, and, in what must be an ambitious undertaking, altering the attitudes of both leadership and the community toward law enforcement.
As for his DUI crackdown, the proposal is part of a broader crime bill, the details of which remain trapped in the wheels of legislative review. Though the deadline for introducing bills has passed, Lombardo’s measure will still receive consideration—perhaps proving that, unlike some of Nevada’s less fortunate motorists, it has not yet hit a dead end.
Dr. Terence McAllister, a humble physician of the youthful persuasion in the neon-lit expanse of Las Vegas, spends his days peering into ears, diagnosing the common colds of the world, and dispensing remedies to children who would much rather be anywhere else. But lo! His work, it seems, lies not in mere tonics and treatments but in the finer art of conversation—like the merits of the latest video game or the nuances of an adolescent existential crisis.
Now, one might think a doctor’s business is ailments of the flesh—fevers, coughs, the occasional peanut lodged in an orifice—but Dr. McAllister finds himself navigating the tempestuous seas of modern identity discourse. And as the Silver State suffers a scarcity of pediatricians, second only to the barren wastelands of Idaho, he finds himself swapping his stethoscope for a lobbyist’s badge, embarking on that grand and time-honored American pastime: persuading politicians.
His latest cause? A bill, SB171, protects Nevada physicians from the long arm of the out-of-state law should they provide gender-affirming care to their patients. For the uninitiated, the phrase encompasses a broad swath of medical, mental, and social affirmations—ranging from calling young Timothy “Tina” to the more controversial realm of pharmaceutical and surgical interventions.
Senator James Ohrenschall, the bill’s sponsor, believes such measures are necessary to shield Nevada’s medical folk from prosecution in lands beyond the horizon, where officials take a dim view of such practices. Governor Joe Lombardo, for his part, has been less enthusiastic in years past, striking down a similar measure in 2023 for fear of meddling too with state oversight. But hope springs eternal in the legislative heart–and Ohrenschall has returned with a revised version, hoping the governor might wield his pen in favor rather than against.
The doctor, for his part, insists that these matters—social affirmation, mental health support, and medical treatment—are crucial to the well-being of transgender youth, who face higher risks of distress and despair. He warns that failure to pass such protections will leave Nevada’s physicians vulnerable to legal harpoons from less permissive states, where legislation against such practices grows like weeds in a neglected field.
Yet, a curious observer might raise an eyebrow at the notion of an ear, nose, and throat specialist venturing so fervently into the political fray. Once, doctors merely concerned themselves with the body; now, they wade into the grand social experiment of human self-reinvention.
What a time to be alive!
And so, Nevada finds itself at a crossroads. Shall it be a haven for physicians untethered by laws beyond its borders? Or shall it heed the cautious voice of governance that fears too hasty a stride in uncertain waters? The Senate Committee on Commerce and Labor will soon weigh the matter, and if the bill once again finds itself at the governor’s desk, the great gamble of politics will play out once more.
Meanwhile, Dr. McAllister, no doubt, will continue his work—peering into ears, discussing the finer points of Mario Kart, and wondering if he should have just stuck to sore throats and chickenpox.
The Nevada Legislature, in its boundless wisdom and unfailing desire to shepherd its citizens through life’s many hazards, has introduced a bill to assist those hapless souls venturing into the wild and treacherous frontier of online courtship. Assembly Bill 162 proposes a grand, statewide register of domestic scoundrels–freely available to any lovelorn seeker of truth.
Nevada’s current laws allow the public to rifle through court records for such information but require navigating a labyrinth fit for the Minotaur, all while being fleeced for fees ranging from $30 to $100.
Assemblymember Toby Yurek, the bill’s sponsor, sees this as an injustice most foul.
“What we’re trying to do,” Yurek declares, “is make sure that people who need this type of information can access it when they need it.”
Indeed, under the bill’s provisions, the Nevada Department of Public Safety would dutifully maintain an easy-to-use list of convicted offenders, allowing anyone—provided they can type in a name—to see if their latest paramour is violence-prone.
Of course, no government proposal arrives without its skeptics. Some wary citizens suggest this is but a trojan horse for bureaucrats to install themselves permanently in drawing rooms and bedrooms of private folk. Others, doubtless possessed of a more charitable disposition, merely wonder how much it will cost and whether the state can afford to play matchmaker in such a manner.
The bill has gone to the Ways and Means Committee, where it will be determined if the state treasury can spare a few coins for the sake of love. Whether this noble experiment shall become law or wither like many a well-meaning romance–only time shall tell.
In the meantime, those needing assistance because of domestic violence may call 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788.
Nevada’s Local Food Programs Get a Chilly Reception
In an act that has sent school cooks and food bank operators into animated disbelief, the federal government has momentarily taken leave of its senses and frozen over $8 million intended for fresh vittles for Nevada’s schoolchildren and food-insecure populations. The Nevada Department of Agriculture (NDA), standing in the frostbitten shadow of the decision, has confirmed that the Local Food for Schools Cooperative Agreement Program (LFS) and the Local Food Purchase Assistance Cooperative Agreement Program (LFPA) are now temporarily defunct—at least in the financial sense.
Once upon a time, which is to say, last December, the USDA was full of promises, pledging a kingly sum of $1.13 billion to ensure these programs would see the light of 2025. Then, as swiftly as a politician dodging a straight answer, the Trump administration put the brakes on the funding in January, and now, for reasons left to the imagination, the programs have been axed—though officials assure, only in a temporary, “we’ll-see-about-that” kind of way.
Had the money materialized as once foretold, Nevada schools would have received over $4 million, a welcome bounty for the 63 school food authorities tasked with keeping the young scholars of the Silver State from subsisting on nothing but air and good intentions. Another nearly $4 million was to go to the Home Feeds Nevada initiative, which, in its more prosperous days, funneled local meats and produce straight from hardworking farmers into the hands of food banks such as the Northern Nevada Food Bank and Three Square. Since 2023, the program has secured over $6 million in agricultural goods from 265 small-scale Nevada farms and ranches, ensuring that children and struggling families get sustenance with nutritional merit rather than just the government-issued powdered milk and cheese loaf.
The NDA, not one to fold under pressure, still clings to the last $139,000 rattling around in its coffers—funds expected to run dry June 30 unless the winds of legislative fortune shift in their favor. Senate Bill 233, currently milling about in the Nevada Legislature, proposes an $800,000 patch to keep the Home Feeds Nevada program from keeling over entirely.
However, as is often the case in the grand theater of politics, the bill is in no hurry, and future hearings remain conveniently unscheduled. For now, Nevada’s schools and food banks must weather the storm, waiting to see if Washington’s hand of generosity will thaw before the pantry shelves run bare.
The thermometer ain’t the only thing climbing in Nevada—gas prices are making a mad dash for the heavens, leaving drivers clutching their wallets like a gambler on his last silver dollar.
At present, the privilege of filling one’s gas tank in the Silver State comes at an average of $3.74 a gallon, though some enterprising establishments have taken it upon themselves to charge as much as $4.07. It reflects the American tradition of making a bad situation worse.
Not too long ago, prices held steady, lulling drivers into a false sense of security, but no swindle lasts forever. The national average has crept up four cents to $3.12, a number which, in Nevada, would be greeted with suspicion.
Here, drivers must dig deeper, as our fair state is ranked the fourth most expensive for fuel, trailing only California, Hawaii, and Washington—fine company if one enjoys misery. Meanwhile, the good people of Mississippi are practically bathing in cheap gasoline at $2.66 a gallon, a figure that must seem as mythical to Nevadans as a snowstorm in July.
With summer on the horizon and the oil barons rubbing their hands together in glee, the road ahead promises nothing but more fluctuations, frustrations, and the grim spectacle of travelers weighing the cost of a full tank against the merits of simply walking.
The sky was pulsing like a neon bruise, and the mushrooms were kicking in with the fury of a derailed freight train. Green oranges tasted red—no, not red, RED—a screaming, blood-warm explosion of fresh Placentia and number nine cosmic dissonance.
The air was thick with sin and sweat that stuck to the roof of your mouth like the memory of bad decisions. Alice came at me like a razor-sharp hallucination wrapped in lace—pussy French kisses and stockings stretched high, a fever dream in silk and shadow and smoke.
“Wet and wild and sour,” she whispered, her breath tasting like fermented peaches and promises I’d be too drunk to remember, save the lacerations to my softened genitalia.
Whiskey on gravel, rough and biting. No ice, no relief—just the sting of fire down my throat, the kind that makes men confess sins they haven’t committed yet. Bananas slipping in and out, away from reality like sanity on a bad trip.
Christ, had Alice called out for more? Or was I the rabbit now, tumbling down the hole with no exit? Was this my life now? Chasing down the throat of madness, or was madness chasing me down with a cocktail of psychedelics and despair?
Tall and short, the world twisting like a funhouse mirror. I laughed, but it came out wrong—too sharp, too desperate. The music was like a chainsaw cutting through the fog of my mind, each note being a nail driven into the coffin of sanity. The smell was a mix of burnt rubber and dreams gone sour.
The stockings ran high, vanishing into shadows that should’ve been solid. Somewhere in the chaos, I knew I was lost. But hell, wasn’t that the point? Even Nixon would’ve blushed at this scene, this wild, unhinged circus of American decadence.
I could feel the walls closing in, not just physically but metaphysically. Were they watching? Did they know? Every shadow now seemed like a spy, every sound a betrayal. In one moment, I was the king of this twisted realm, and in the next, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand and played by elements I couldn’t see.
Her eyes were like twin moons, pulling at the tides of my mind and dragging me into an orbit of lunacy. Oh, you think you know fear? Try this: being caught between the high of enlightenment and the low of oblivion, with no map or guide to ignore.
The whiskey wasn’t just drinking me; it was baptizing me into a new religion of pain and pleasure, where every gulp was a sermon on the mount of madness.
For lo, these many years, it was taken as gospel truth that the official beverage of Nevada was whatever whiskey could get poured from a jug, and the only credentials required for its adoption were a fiery disposition and an ability to make a man forget his troubles—sometimes permanently. But in a stunning turn of legislative fancy, the Silver State is now considering a proper and official drink, and the honor may fall upon that most Basque of libations: Picon Punch.
Assembly Bill 375, sponsored by esteemed gentlemen Steve Yeager and Bert Gurr, seeks to bestow the noble title of State Drink upon this 19th-century concoction, a mingling of Amer Picon, grenadine, club soda, and a ceremonious float of brandy, all nestled within a tulip-shaped glass—presumably so the drinker may admire it before losing his wits entirely. Once a product of foreign lands, Amer Piconnow finds its only refuge on American soil at Reno’s Ferino Distillery, making the drink a rare gem in the thirsty world of spirits.
However, as all shrewd legislators can attest, no bill can pass through the esteemed halls of government without some incentives, and AB375 is no exception.
In addition to bestowing this liquid distinction upon the state, the bill proposes a modern twist–permitting establishments to sell mixed drinks in sealed containers for off-site consumption—an innovation that will surely spare many a weary Nevadan the terrible burden of assembling a cocktail at home. Moreover, it seeks to refine the laws surrounding alcohol delivery, ensuring that the devil’s nectar may find its way to the parched with greater efficiency than ever before.
The Legislature will hear the matter Monday, and the good people of Nevada can only watch with bated breath—and perhaps a stiff drink in hand—to see whether Picon Punch will take its rightful place or if whiskey will remain the unspoken sovereign of the sagebrush frontier.
It does appear that Governor Joe Lombardo has loaded a scatter gun with a grand notion–he wants to sprinkle a cool billion dollars across the Nevada landscape like a farmer seeding a field, only instead of wheat, he’s looking to grow houses folks can afford.
The Nevada Housing Access and Attainability Act—a highfalutin’ name—promises to carve out a fund to shovel money toward housing developments, with a tidy $250 million set aside to help folks pay rent or scrape up a downpayment. Mighty generous.
Full of optimism, the Governor assures us that Nevada need not choose between growth and more growth—an assertion that, depending on who you ask, is either forward-thinking or the sort of thing a fella says before his horse steps into a gopher hole.
Now, here’s a curiosity–the proposal claims to expand eligibility for affordable housing to those making 150 percent of the area’s median income. But that raises an interesting question—what exactly became of all that federal gold dust Nevada’s got showered with thanks to Senators Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen?
After all that taxpayer money rolled in, surely there ought to be some housing to point at, or is it like a gambler’s winnings in Virginia City—gone before you know where it went?
One of the plan’s ideas is to remove barriers holding builders from using government-owned land for affordable housing. The Governor points out that public land auctions often send prices soaring higher than a Fourth of July bottle rocket, leaving affordable housing developers to pick through the ashes.
Now, it seems reasonable enough, though one wonders why the state owns all this land in the first place if nobody can afford to build on it.
Lombardo says his office worked with Nevada’s federal delegation and the White House to hammer out the details, but the fine idea has yet to take the form of an actual, numbered bill. In other words, a grand promise sitting on a fence post like Mugwump, waiting to see how the political winds blow.
For now, the folks of Nevada can take heart in knowing that their fearless leaders are thinking about affordable housing, but whether they’ll do anything about it—well, that’s a house of a different color.
If you happened to look up in Washoe Valley last week and saw a helicopter buzzing about like a dragonfly with purpose, you weren’t hallucinating—at least, not unless you’ve been into something more than fire water.
The flying machine belonged to the Nevada Division of Forestry, and it wasn’t just out for a joyride. Nope, it was busy re-seeding the scarred remains of last year’s Davis Fire, which did a thorough job of turning nearly 6,000 acres into something resembling a bad day on the moon.
The noble effort is the work of a small army of government outfits, from the Nevada Division of Forestry to the Bureau of Land Management, all shaking hands under the grand umbrella of the state’s Shared Stewardship Agreement. The idea is simple: drop enough native seeds from the sky and hope Mother Nature forgives last year’s transgressions.
Officials swear by it, saying it’s the best way to give the land a fighting chance at looking green again, rather than the ashen wasteland it currently resembles.
Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the state, Clark County residents have been given a rare and generous offer–free trees, with no strings attached, no government forms requiring your firstborn.
Through the Community Canopy Project, about 4,500 water-efficient trees are up for grabs, with priority given to those most at risk of roasting alive in the desert sun. The particular act of kindness is a direct response to what was, officially, the hottest summer ever recorded in Southern Nevada, with temperatures reaching a blistering 120°F and over 500 deaths blamed on the heat.
So, whether sprinkling seeds over burned land or handing out trees like a kindly Johnny Appleseed, Nevada is doing its best to undo some calefaction damage.
The Old Blog in the Desert 