The Old Blog in the Desert

Well, it seems that Nevada’s esteemed legislators, having exhausted all conventional remedies for the state’s rampant mental maladies, have turned their hopeful eyes toward a most unconventional cure—magic mushrooms. Yes, dear reader, the fungi that once inspired beatniks to gaze at their own hands for hours are now the subject of serious political discourse.

The Senate Legislative Operations and Elections Committee entertained the merits of SJR10, which would beseech federal agencies to reconsider their harsh judgment of psychedelic compounds such as MDMA and psilocybin. The goal? To reclassify these substances in the hallowed halls of drug law so that their purported therapeutic benefits are studied and, perhaps, harnessed for the betterment of the human condition—particularly in Nevada, where the burdens of the mind weigh heavy, and the suicide rate is among the highest in the land.

The bold proposition, introduced by Sen. Rochelle Nguyen of Las Vegas, boasts an impressive 27 sponsors, seven of whom hail from the Republican side of the aisle—proving that, at least when it comes to mind-altering fungi, bipartisanship is not yet a relic of the past.

Now, one might ask, why a sudden interest in mushrooms? The answer lies in troubling arithmetic: A quarter of Nevada’s adult population has wrestled with mental illness in the past year alone, a grim figure surpassing the national average. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and if mushrooms can offer relief where traditional remedies fail, perhaps it is time to consider them in a more favorable light.

Clinical research suggests that psychedelics may aid in the treatment of PTSD, substance abuse, and the melancholy of the soul. Yet, owing to their current classification, those most in need—veterans, first responders, and others who have looked into the abyss—struggle to gain access to such treatments, let alone convince their insurance companies to foot the bill.

John Dalton, a military veteran and advocate for the Nevada Coalition of Psychedelic Medicines, warned that without federal clarity, the whole effort exists in a shadowy realm of legal ambiguity. And if there is one thing bureaucrats despise, it is a lack of clarity.

The good people of the Nevada Legislature have not been idle in this endeavor. Last session, they created the Psychedelic Medicines Working Group, which, in December, advised that the state go ahead and set up a regulated access program for psychedelic-assisted therapy.

In response, Assemblyman Max Carter, another Las Vegas lawmaker, introduced AB378, a measure that would establish a pilot program under the watchful eye of the Division of Public and Behavioral Health. Even a few Republicans have signed on, further evidence that nothing unites Americans quite like the promise of a miracle cure.

Several states—most notably Oregon and Colorado—have already taken steps toward decriminalizing psilocybin, leaving Nevada in the unenviable position of playing catch-up or risk looking like a stick in the mud. When asked why she had chosen to push a resolution rather than outright decriminalization, Nguyen replied with pragmatic wisdom: It is far easier to build a regulatory structure when the federal government is nudging you along rather than standing in your way.

And so, the matter stands. Whether mushrooms will prove to be Nevada’s salvation or just another entry in the long ledger of legislative folly remains to be seen.

But one thing is for sure—never before has the path to mental well-being been paved with so much compost.

In Carson City, lawmakers have proposed teaching the police that not all individuals walk, talk, or think alike, which they believe is a significant revelation deserving four hours of instruction. Senate Bill 380, should it become law, would require peace officers to receive instruction on the delicate art of recognizing and addressing those of our brethren whose wits run along different tracks—specifically, those with autism and other developmental peculiarities.

Now, a learned study of eight-year-olds in the year 2020 has declared that one in every thirty-six exhibits signs of autism, an increase from the days of yore, when such matters went unmeasured and unmentioned. The prevalence of this condition has grown from a mere one in 150 souls at the turn of the century to a more noticeable one in 36, which suggests that either the world has grown more peculiar or science has grown more observant. It notes, too, that boys are four times as likely to be so affected as girls—though anyone with sisters might have already suspected as much.

The purpose of SB380 is to keep the guardians of the law from mistaking a bewildered soul for a belligerent one and thus prevent a tragedy. It’s known that when a man with autism is armed, situations can quickly escalate into unfortunate events.

The bill aims to ensure law enforcement can distinguish between genuine danger and simply challenging circumstances in such moments.

The bill’s champion, Democratic State Sen. James Ohrenschall, in his wisdom, has decided that four hours is the proper measure of enlightenment required to unravel this complex mystery. Not to be outdone, Republican State Sen. John Steinbeck entered SB377, which would grant the Nevada Commissioner of Insurance the power to smite any health maintenance organization that fails to abide by its obligations—an act of retribution most befitting the name of its sponsor.

And thus, the machinery of government grinds forward, ever vigilant in its pursuit of progress, provided progress does not take up too much of anyone’s time.

The great and noble sport of lacrosse—known to its practitioners as a game of skill, speed, and bruised shins—has long been played by the youth of Nevada, though you would hardly know it from glancing at the official state-sanctioned sports. There, one finds football, where the players crash into one another with the enthusiasm of runaway cattle; basketball, where men grow as tall as the law of nature will allow; and even skiing, which is little more than a refined way to fall off a mountain.

But lacrosse? Nowhere to be found.

A few days ago, an army of high school lacrosse players descended upon the legislature, not to raid it–though the idea is not without merit–but to support Senate Bill 305, a measure that would grant their beloved sport the recognition it deserves under the Nevada Interscholastic Activities Association (NIAA). Such recognition would bestow upon lacrosse official funding, oversight, and dignity enjoyed by lesser sports.

“It’s an incredible opportunity,” declared Justin Cutler, President of the High Sierra Lacrosse League, who seemed perplexed that a sport requiring both athleticism and a working knowledge of blunt objects had not already been deemed worthy of officialdom.

Reno High School Senior Maggie Grimes, a team captain, noted that formal recognition might even lure college recruiters westward, granting scholarships to those who lack the funds for “academics and stuff”—an honest appraisal of higher education’s function.

But like all endeavors, resistance is being met–and in this case–tits the NIAA.

Executive Director Tim Jackson, speaking on behalf of bureaucracy everywhere, declared that the bill is unopposed because of the sport but because it attempted to “skip the line,” a phrase which suggests that the NIAA maintains a grand queue of sports patiently awaiting their turn—perhaps just behind competitive lawn darts and synchronized pogo-sticking. More gravely, Jackson worried about the “disproportionality of funding,” insisting that “no one sport is greater than another,” a sentiment that must come as quite a surprise to the football teams of Nevada.

Supporters of the bill countered that they have been waiting for a decade—ten long years of toil, sweat, and sore muscles—for the NIAA to take action, only to find themselves stuck behind an unmoving bureaucratic ox-cart. And so, the matter now heads to a work session in the Senate Committee on Education before making its way through the labyrinth of government, where it may yet emerge victorious—or trampled beneath the hooves of political inertia.

At Least Busier

What distinguishes the great state of Nevada from others is the understanding that a man should be able to wake up in a luxurious hotel, venture downstairs to gamble in peace, and then return to find his bed made, fresh towels provided, and all traces of previous activities discreetly cleaned away by an unseen hand. That, at least, is the vision behind Senate Bill 360, introduced by Sen. Lori Rogich, which seeks to require daily room cleaning in Las Vegas resorts once again.

Now, this bill is not entirely new—it is merely a revival of a rule that first imposed during that period of national lunacy known as COVID-19 when men who once thought nothing of shaking hands or standing elbow-to-elbow at a roulette table were suddenly afraid of doorknobs. Governor Joe Lombardo signed a bipartisan bill repealing such requirements in 2023, declaring that Nevada would return to its natural state of carefree disorder.

However, the Culinary Union, never one to let a lucrative broom lie idle, insists that the repeal of daily cleaning was nothing more than an excuse for resorts to lighten their payrolls. They see SB360 as a righteous cause, a battle to return hardworking housekeepers to their rightful places, armed with fresh linens and the eternal fight against unidentifiable stains.

Lombardo, however, remains unconvinced, taking to his official government X account–which, for the uninitiated, is what they now call Twitter, though no one is entirely sure why–to declare that he sees no good public policy in reviving COVID-era cleaning mandates. For now, the bill’s shuffling to the Committee on Health and Human Services, where it will be debated, amended, and possibly left to gather dust—a fate, one assumes, it seeks to prevent in Nevada’s finest resorts.

We were on patrol, moving along the narrow path near Cerro El Pital. The jungle was thick, and the air was close.

There was a stream, not much more than a trickle. It was ankle-deep, fifteen feet across.

We crossed and came up behind a hut. The Skipper signaled to stop.

He crouched and called one of the grunts over. “Go check it out.”

The grunt went in. A minute passed. The man came out and walked straight to the Skipper.

He broke a rule. You keep fifteen, twenty feet in the open. He got too close.

As he spoke, he looked back. He saw something above the doorframe. A wire. An antenna.

He pointed before thinking. That was the second rule. Never point. It shows direction. It shows authority.

Then the gunfire came.

A round took him in the back. The Skipper went down–chest wound.

A grenade launcher cracked from the other side of the hut. The other column had made contact.

The grunt was on the ground, calling out. “Corpsman.”

I ran.

“The Skipper,” he said.

He knew.

I dragged the Skipper’s body into the ditch as the AKs started again, chewing the hut to pieces. The grunt, on his knees, took a round in the thigh.

I grabbed him and pulled him into the ditch. Blood was pumping. I tied a tourniquet tight. He was shaking. I kept talking to him, singing cadence songs. I don’t know if it helped.

Then someone was yelling—choppers.

“It’s time,” I said.

It hovered, not landing. Fifty feet away. Hauling and inside, I climbed in after. We lifted off, overweight and full of wounded.

Two days later, I checked Sick Call.

He was gone.

I went back to work. Another patrol. Another trip outside the wire.

In the bustling town of Reno, where the Truckee River murmurs secrets to the sagebrush, a father and son have found themselves in a pickle that’d make even old Injun’ Jim raise an eyebrow. The law laid its heavy hand on Carlos Recinos-Valdez, a man of forty-three summers, and his spry young cub, Kevin Recinos-Ruano, scarce twenty years old.

The Department of Justice, with its stern visage and ink-stained fingers, has clapped the irons on ‘em, charging the pair with harborin’ illegal aliens like a couple of river pirates stashin’ contraband along the Mississippi.

‘Twas back in July of ’21, when this nefarious scheme took root, stretchin’ its tendrils clear to March 11 this year. The elder Recinos-Valdez, a feller with a mind twistier than a barrel of snakes, hatched a plot with his boy to shelter these wanderin’ souls, not out of Christian charity, mind you, but for the jingle of coinage in their pockets. The constables, with their keen noses and searchin’ paws, rummaged through the duo’s abode and turned up a haul fit for a dime novel—guns glintin’ in the lamplight, papers forged slicker than a gambler’s smile, and sundry items now sittin’ pretty in evidence lockers.

The DOJ spins a yarn that’d set your hair on end–Old Carlos, they reckon, was the mastermind, a regular Captain Kidd of the smuggling trade. He wove a web of human peddlers stretchin’ from the jungles of Guatemala, through the dusty trails of Mexico, plumb into these United States. In his Reno roosts—apartment warrens he lorded over—he stashed the migrants like so many bottles of rum, keepin’ ‘em hid till the coast was clear.

Now, this wasn’t a free ride. The indictment paints a picture grim as a thunderstorm–Recinos-Valdez and his shadowy crew fleeced these poor devils for thousands of dollars a head, promisin’ passage to the land of milk and honey.

Once they hit Reno, the father turned the screws, demandin’ cash to square the smugglers’ ledger. He’d mosey up to their shacks or workin’ haunts, a collector with a scowl, and if the money didn’t flow, threats of busted bones and bruised hides hung in the air like woodsmoke. Young Kevin, they say, was his pa’s strong right arm, gatherin’ the payments and playin’ the bully-boy when the debtors balked.

The law’s got a laundry list of charges longer than a preacher’s sermon.

Carlos faces a heap of trouble–one count of conspirin’ to harbor aliens, three counts of harborin’ ‘em outright, and two counts of aidin’ and abettin’ some fancy extortion racket. Kevin’s tagged with a single count of conspiracy, but it’s enough to make a young man sweat.

If the judge’s gavel falls unkindly, the elder could be coolin’ his heels in the calaboose for twenty years while the lad might stare down a decade behind bars. So there you have it—a tale of greed and guile spun out under the Nevada sun.

Whether these two swing or sing, only time and twelve good people will tell. Till then, the Truckee keeps rollin’, whisperin’ its secrets to them that’ll listen.

Out in the dusty stretches of Winnemucca, where the sagebrush whispers secrets and the wind carries a tune of hard labor, Governor Joe Lombardo and Congressman Mark Amodei came a-traipsin’ on Tuesday afternoon, their brand-new work boots gleam’n like a pair of polished city notions. They’d come to gawk at a mighty workforce housing project meant to cradle the weary souls toilin’ at the Thacker Pass Lithium Mine—a venture kicked off after Lithium Americas and General Motors shook hands and swapped promises late last year.

Now, picture ol’ Lombardo, struttin’ ‘round in them stiff, shiny boots, toes pinched tighter’n a miser’s purse strings, proclaimin’ to all who’d listen that this here project “will boost the economy in Nevada and across the U.S.”—as if words could soothe the blisters brewin’ in his fancy footwear. And there’s Congressman Amodei, noddin’ along, tryin’ to look wise, though you’d swear he’d rather be soakin’ his feet in a barrel of creek water than paradin’ ‘round a construction site in boots that ain’t yet learned the shape of his soles.

A grand sight it was, these two gents hobblin’ through the dirt, puffed up with pride for a heap of houses yet to be filled, all while the employees—folks with boots broke in proper—likely chuckled under their hats. Reckon them shiny-shoed politicians might’ve boosted the economy more if they’d traded them boots for a pair that didn’t squeak with every step!

Taxpayer Tomfoolery and Housing Hopes

Nevada Senator Catherine Cortez Masto is kickin’ up dust like a mule in a dry wash over some mighty curious goin’s-on in Washington. It ain’t no tale of silver mines, but it’s got its share of high stakes and sharp tongues, and I reckon it’s worth a listen.

Now, Senator Cortez Masto, she’s got her feathers ruffled somethin’ fierce, claimin’ that the Department of Homeland Security—DHS, they call it—and a newfangled outfit dubbed the Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE–sounds like a hound let loose in a henhouse–have been nosin’ ‘round the Internal Revenue Service for a peek at folks’ private tax papers. She and a posse of fifteen other Senate Democrats, led by a feller named Ron Wyden from Oregon, penned a letter hotter than a Nevada noon, hollerin’ that these Trump administration rascals are up to no good.

Accordin’ to the senator, who’s quotin’ a Washington Post tale, DHS wants the IRS to fork over home addresses, phone numbers, and email particulars of nigh on 700,000 souls, all in a bid to round up what she calls undocumented immigrants. She points out that millions of taxpayers, some without them fancy Social Security numbers, use a thing called an ITIN to settle up with Uncle Sam, and they do it trustin’ the IRS won’t go blabbin’ their business to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a badge.

But that ain’t the half of it.

The same Senator Cortez Masto, she’s been wrestlin’ with the Federal Home Loan Bank of San Francisco—FHLBank-SF, if you’re keepin’ score—like a prospector pannin’ for gold, and she’s struck a vein. She’s roped in a cool $10 million to prop up Nevada’s affordable housin’ efforts, the first of its kind for the Nevada Housin’ Division’s bond program. It comes after she nabbed $9.4 million last year from the same outfit, near doublin’ what they gave afore, and she’s still pushin’ for more, like a gambler doublin’ down at the faro table.

Then she stood afore a joint session o’ the Nevada state legislature, talkin’ turkey ‘bout the Trump administration’s doin’s and how they’re rattlin’ the good folks o’ Nevada. She owned up to votin’ for a bill to keep the government from shutterin’ its doors, but she reckoned it would leave Nevadans high and dry, workin’ for no pay like fools in a storm.

But here’s where the plot thickens. The good senator frets that in their zeal to trim the fat of government waste, the Trump crew might take a chainsaw to Medicaid, a lifeline for Nevada’s sick and needy. Meanwhile, the White House swears they won’t touch them benefits, but Cortez Masto ain’t buyin’ it.

And if that weren’t enough, she’s worried that federal cuts’ll leave the state legislature scramblin’ to raise taxes or slash healthcare, a pickle sourer than a barrel o’ pickles. So there you have it, a tale of one senator fightin’ tooth and nail for her Nevada kin, callin’ out the high-handed and haulin’ in dollars where she can.

In the sagebrush-dotted wilds of Nevada, where the sun blisters the sand while the wind whispers secrets to the Joshua trees, two congressional critters—Susie Lee, a Democrat lass from the southern reaches, and Mark Amodei, a Republican gent from the north—have teamed up with a posse of lawmakers to lasso a newfangled bill. They’re callin’ it the Nuclear Ecosystem Drone Defense Act, a mouthful fit aimed square at keepin’ them buzzin’, whirrin’ contraptions—drones, they say—away from the nation’s nuclear lairs.

Now, Miss Susie, with her heart rooted in Southern Nevada’s dusty trails, reckons the U.S. Department of Energy’s got about as much power to shoo off these sky varmints as a one-legged man in a footrace. She’s talkin’ ‘bout places like the Nevada National Security Site, where Uncle Sam keeps his atomic arsenal polished and primed.

Up jumps Mark Amodei, a fella who’s seen the elephant and heard the owl in Northern Nevada’s rugged sprawl. He painted a picture bleak as a moonless night–the Department is hog-tied and helpless, watchin’ these mechanical hawks snatch secrets outta the air.

If the NEDD Act takes root, the Energy folks’ll get to rustle up a drone herd—testin’ tricks to outfox the enemy’s flock. It’s a regular hoedown of high-tech and high stakes, and it’ll be a sight to see–Nevada’s own, Democrat and Republican alike, ridin’ herd on a threat buzzin’ louder than a rattler in a rainstorm.

Time’ll tell if this legislative lariat snags the prize or stirs up more desert dust.

On a brisk Thursday, March 19, state lawmakers sat down to pick through this fiscal briar patch, and Democratic Assemblyman Howard Watts caught a thorn that didn’t sit right with him.

Now, the prison stores in Nevada ain’t no trifling matter. They’re projecting nigh on $15 million in sales this year, a sum that keeps the “Offenders’ Store Fund” plump as a Thanksgiving turkey.

The trick is, they slap a markup of 50 percent to 60 percent on the goods—everything from soap to socks—and the inmates, bless their shackled souls, ain’t got much else to spend their pennies on. Then there’s the vending machines, clinking and clanking their way to $200,000 last year.

With 10,800 souls penned in Nevada’s iron cages, that’s a tidy little commerce.

Now, a bit of cash trickles over to the inmate welfare account, a pot that dishes out necessaries to the poorest of the lot—free soap, socks, and, queerest of all, free burials when they shuffle off this mortal coil. The budget talk rolled on, and Watts perked up at the mention of NDOC asking for a weight bench, two stationary bicycles, and a shiny new scoreboard for the Lovelock prison.

“Recreational equipment, a scoreboard for the basketball court,” Watts mused aloud, scratching his chin. “Those are the sort of things that perk up an inmate’s welfare, I reckon.”

But then his brow furrowed like a plow hitting rock. “Frankly, I’m thunderstruck that the markup on commissary goods is paying for burials and cremations when these poor devils pass in our care.”

A fancy chart flashed up during the hearing, showing the markups plain as day, courtesy of the Nevada State Legislature. State budgets, you see, are tangled as a briar patch in a windstorm, shifting with every new governor and every pinched penny.

This year, they’re cutting loose four positions once paid from the store fund, and the phone commissions—once a golden egg—have dried up under federal orders. It’s a scramble to break even, and the result is a ledger queerer than a three-dollar bill.

The notion that the state might be fattening its coffers on the backs of these caged birds sticks in the craw of some lawmakers. Republican Minority Leader Senator Robin Titus, a sawbones by trade, demanded to know more about treating hepatitis C among the prison flock and whether the womenfolk behind bars were getting proper doctoring.

Meanwhile, Democratic Senators Rochelle Nguyen and Angie Taylor, alongside Assemblyman Natha Anderson, poked into the wages inmates earn from prison toil. The state skims 24.5 percent for room and board, five percent for victims’ funds, and caps the take at 50 percent, according to Bill Quenga, the fellow running NDOC’s industrial works.

And yes, even those wages help pay for a man’s pine box.

“There’s every reason to sit idle,” Nguyen remarked, sharp as a tack. “No wages, and your bed and bread come free.”

Welders can pull down as much as $14, while others scrape by on minimum wage—all voluntary in the state’s prison industry. Yet the state still dips its ladle into their thin soup.

It’s a curious business, this prison purse, and one that leaves a man wondering if the scales of justice ain’t just a mite out of plumb.