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The Nevada Legislature, in its infinite wisdom and boundless energy for busywork, has taken up the noble cause of solving problems that expired when the state itself was much more than a dusty waypoint for weary prospectors.

Assemblyman Reuben D’Silva, a gentleman untroubled by the practical affairs of governance, has taken it upon himself to draft a bill establishing a commission to study the impacts of slavery and racial discrimination in Nevada and consider the notion of reparations. Now, one might forgive the casual observer for wondering what precisely slavery had to do with a state that waltzed into the Union under the banner of Free Soil.

But Professor Tyler Parry of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, assures us that slavery, much like a stubborn rattlesnake, left its venom in every corner of the land, free state or otherwise.

“I think when people see the word slavery they wonder what that has to do with Nevada,” he muses, before not explaining its legacy in the Silver State.

D’Silva, for his part, seems undeterred by political tides, declaring with great confidence that now—precisely the moment when public sentiment runs in the opposite direction—is the perfect time to introduce this measure. One can only admire the man’s commitment to charging headlong into the teeth of political improbability.

The idea follows California’s grand experiment in reparations, which has thus far produced reams of reports, a great deal of chatter, and precious little else. If the proposed Nevada commission follows suit, the outcome is likely to be the same: a great deal of study, a respectable quantity of paper, and no small amount of moral preening—followed, at length, by the realization that the treasury is not so much a bottomless pit as a very finite one.

D’Silva anticipates the bill will be drafted in the coming weeks, at which point the people of Nevada may rest easy knowing that, while the roads remain pockmarked and the schools underfunded, their elected officials are, at the very least, diligently engaged in the serious work of historical contemplation.

Samuel Clemens—better known as Mark Twain– stood on the boardwalk of Virginia City. On a brisk morning, with the sun barely peeking over the horizon, Twain found himself in a rather peculiar situation.

A heated argument with a cantankerous fellow had escalated to the point where a duel seemed imminent. Twain, not keen on the idea of an early demise, decided the wisest course of action was to make a swift departure.

With a dramatic flourish, he waved his hat in farewell to the city he had come to love and hurriedly boarded a stagecoach heading west. Unbeknownst to Twain, his hat-waving had caused a slight gust of wind that set off a chain of events destined to ripple through the ages.

The gust diverted a butterfly from its flight path, causing it to flutter toward a young boy playing nearby. The boy, entranced by the butterfly, decided to chase after it, inadvertently bumping into a woman carrying a basket of apples.

The apples tumble to the ground, a horse tied to a post. The horse, in its panic, broke free and galloped through the streets, causing a wagon loaded with newspapers to overturn. This resulted in a delay in the morning paper’s delivery, much to the dismay of the editor, Mr. Grumbleton.

Tom sat at his desk, typing away on his latest story. “Just one more sentence… there! All done. This is going to be my big break,” Tom thought as he hit the send button.

The newspaper office was in a flurry of activity. Tom submitted his story, but the ancient ripple from Twain’s hat wave still affected the printing process. Mr. Grumblepant III, the editor, was not pleased.

“Tom! My office, now!” Mr. Grumblepants III barked.

Tom entered the office, nervous but hopeful.

“This story! It was delayed! Again!” Mr. Grumblepants III yelled, angrily waving a paper.

“But sir, it’s not my fault! The printing press—” Tom began to explain.

“Excuses! This paper has a reputation to uphold. You’re fired!” Mr. Grumbleton III cut him off.

Tom, dejected, left the office and stood on a street corner, lost in thought.

A butterfly landed on his shoulder, and he chuckled. “Well, I’ll be… Mark Twain would have a field day with this story,” Tom mused.

Tom took a deep breath and started walking, ready to embrace the next chapter of his unpredictable journey.

If ever there was a finer specimen of irony prancing about under the desert sun, it would be none other than Lindsey Harmon, a proud member of the so-called Nevadans for Equal Rights Committee, wagging her finger at Lieutenant Governor Stavros Anthony for daring to suggest that women’s sports ought to be for—heaven forbid—actual women.

Ms. Harmon is deeply concerned about fairness. Why, she’s so troubled that she believes biological males ought to have the right to outcompete, outmuscle, and otherwise outmaneuver young women in sporting events. It would seem the “equal” in the committee’s title is of the peculiar sort that requires some women to sacrifice their trophies, scholarships, and ambitions so that men, in a feat of supreme generosity, may graciously claim them instead.

The alleged crime at hand—Mr. Anthony’s formation of a “Task Force to Protect Women in Sports”—has sent Harmon and her committee into a fit of righteous indignation, demanding an ethics probe for the reckless misuse of resources. One wonders where such enthusiasm for ethics was when Nevadans were promised “equal rights,” only to discover that in practice, this meant women must graciously step aside for any fellow inclined to borrow their gender for an afternoon on the track.

Harmon’s committee insists that Mr. Anthony’s task force is nothing more than an invention of his own making—an elaborate ploy to distract from more pressing concerns, such as the Governor’s “shoddy budget” and the federal government’s ever-generous proposals to cut funding from vital programs. It’s, they declare, the real scandal—not the absurdity of having to explain why it is unfair for a six-foot-two, 200-pound gentleman to send a teenage girl flying across a wrestling mat.

But let us all remember–fairness is paramount. And so long as women are willing to yield their opportunities in the name of progress, the Nevadans for Equal Rights Committee will rest easy.

How to Rob the Public Without Them Noticing

It would appear that neither the stalwart defenders of American sovereignty in the DOGE team nor President Trump himself have caught wind of the latest scheme brewing in the sagebrush-dotted stretches of Esmeralda County. And one must ask, with a touch of astonishment—why, pray tell, is the great and honorable State of Nevada not throwing itself bodily in the way of this relentless march toward lithium land barony?

The Bureau of Land Management, in its infinite wisdom and bureaucratic beneficence, has extended a most magnanimous invitation to the public—to voice their opinions, fears, and perhaps even their bewildered outrage—regarding the proposed expansion of a lithium mine near Silver Peak. The mine, already sprawling across 6,462 acres, including 548 acres of land belonging to We the People, is poised to balloon further.

If approved, an additional 1,596 acres—1,053 snatched from the public domain—will be handed over for corporate excavation.

The fortunate beneficiary of this generosity is Albemarle Corporation, which, if permitted, will proceed to construct transfer pump stations, lay down pipelines, fashion brine ponds of dubious description, and drill additional wells—all in pursuit of that gleaming white gold of the 21st century: lithium. The BLM, with a straight face, also announces that it may consider bestowing retroactive blessings upon certain facilities that have already sprung up without prior authorization—a remarkable demonstration of bureaucratic forgiveness if ever there was one.

But fear not!

The public, that grand and indispensable participant in democratic governance, will be granted the privilege of attending not one but two virtual public meetings at the highly convenient hours of 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. on March 18, where the good people may listen, nod thoughtfully, perhaps even scratch their heads in dismay—but they may not, under any circumstances, voice their comments during the meetings. One must assume that the BLM believes discourse is best as silent contemplation rather than pesky public input.

And so, dear reader, the question remains: Why does Nevada, that mighty and untamed land of rugged independence, allow itself to become a patchwork quilt of corporate dominion? If the State is not bothered by the rapid dismemberment of its lands, one wonders who, if anyone, will be left to object when there is nothing left to claim but the dust.

When Laws Are Optional

In this experiment called government, there are a few trifling matters which, in theory, should be settled without fuss—one is that laws get obeyed. However, in Nevada, a new and most peculiar doctrine has emerged–laws, it seems, are more like friendly suggestions, and duty is whatever is deemed convenient.

The latest performance in this ongoing farce features Attorney General Aaron Ford and Governor Joe Lombardo, two men squaring off over the delicate matter of whether law enforcement officers should enforce the law. Mr. Ford has provided Nevada’s sheriffs, police, and public institutions with a comprehensive set of “model policies” regarding immigration enforcement—policies that seem to be binding.

He assures us that they are suggestions and do not create a “sanctuary” for criminals, which is an excellent thing to claim–if one ignores the fact that these same policies seem designed to ensure that no one in uniform is troubled by the dreary business of actually enforcing immigration laws.

Meanwhile, Governor Lombardo, having discovered that the laws of the United States are under review by the esteemed bureaucrats of Nevada, was quick to declare that as long as he holds office, the state will “follow federal law.” It is a bold and remarkable stance. One might suppose that adherence to the Constitution would be an assumed duty rather than a dramatic pronouncement, but these are not ordinary times.

The sheriffs and police chiefs of Nevada, who one might assume exist to uphold the law, have also weighed in with an interpretation of their duty, which amounts to “not our job.” The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department has assured the public that immigration violations will not be of concern unless a particularly disagreeable criminal wanders into their jail. Even then, they shall require the federal authorities to file the proper paperwork, lest the dignity of local law enforcement get inconvenienced by enforcing the very laws that Congress—an institution presumably still in the business of governing—has already passed.

As the matter stands, it would appear that we are in the peculiar position of having laws without enforcers, enforcers without duty, and bureaucrats and politicians who will gladly argue over everything except the simple proposition that the Constitution is not a buffet from which one may pick and choose. One might dare to hope that a governor and an attorney general—both of whom swore an oath to uphold the Constitution—would settle this not with grandstanding and declarations but by recognizing that the laws of the land are not mere suggestions, nor are they to be enforced only when it pleases those in office.

Then again, hope has never been a great success in the halls of government.

The good folks at Mark IV Capital have made it their mission to see how much of Nevada they can dig up and rearrange before anyone notices. Their latest endeavor, the Victory Logistics District in Fernley, has just wrapped up its first phase, filling nearly 2 million square feet with industrial space and setting the stage for an even grander display of dirt relocation.

With a groundbreaking ceremony set for Friday, the developers will now turn their attention to what they call “critical infrastructure”—a phrase that here means paving roads, laying water lines, and making sure the future tenants of this 4,300-acre behemoth have everything they need to distribute, manufacture, and otherwise contribute to the grand march of industry.

The sprawling monument to economic ambition first made headlines in 2019, when it claimed the title of Nevada’s second-largest land sale—surpassed only by an even more audacious purchase at the Tahoe Reno Industrial Center, or the TRIC, that has become so flush with factories and warehouses that one might expect the air itself to hum with the sound of commerce.

The second phase of Victory Logistics will see some 600 acres graded and another 1,600 acres opened up for whatever futuristic enterprise wishes to stake a claim. Among the prime targets are “hyperscaler” facilities—which sounds suspiciously like something an overzealous marketer dreamt up but refers to colossal data centers like Amazon, Google, and Microsoft. These digital fortresses require such an astounding amount of computing power that they demand an entire infrastructure.

To accommodate such needs, Mark IV Capital will be busy installing new data pathways along Interstate 80 and U.S. Highway 50, paving four miles of roads, laying more than five miles of water lines, and digging over six miles of storm drains. They plan to move nearly 3 million cubic yards of solid earth—a volume equivalent to 880 Olympic-sized swimming pools or, for those with a taste for vertical comparisons, the Empire State Building.

Once completed, Victory Logistics District aims to be an all-purpose industrial hub, welcoming manufacturers, distributors, and any business that prefers its facilities tailor-made to order. To sweeten the deal–the project will boast renewable energy options, a private railcar switching facility, and a transloading hub for companies that like their cargo to switch from train to truck with minimal fuss.

While some might say this grand industrial effort will bring prosperity and efficiency to the region, others might argue it’s a high-tech way to shuffle around vast quantities of earth and concrete in pursuit of commerce. Either way, the folks behind Victory Logistics District appear determined to see their vision through—one hyperscaler, one road, and one cubic yard of dirt at a time.

Millions for Fuel, Not a Dime for History

Hrrumph! The wheels of progress turn, but not always in the right direction. Here we stand in Storey County, where fortunes are made as barrels of fuel roll out like a never-ending river of gold, and yet—the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, the very bones of our history, is left to rust like a forgotten tin can in a sagebrush thicket.

Here’s a bit of modern marvel for you–XCF Global Capital Inc. has seen fit to announce that New Rise Renewables LLC is churning out what they call ‘neat sustainable aviation fuel’ –which I assume means it is very tidy and does not spill. They have also secured a grand corporate purchase order for more than three million gallons of this miracle liquid, headed to some anonymous buyer.

And, if that wasn’t enough to make one’s mustache curl, the first shipments are already set to roll out faster than a politician changes his principles—early March, to be exact.

“Reaching commercial production at New Rise is an exciting milestone,” declares Mihir Dange, the fine gentleman at the helm of XCF.

He further expounds upon ‘dedication,’ ‘engineering excellence,’ and a ‘commitment to innovation’—all phrases indeed. But I reckon Storey County folks might swap some of that engineering excellence for a touch of common sense, namely in the form of a few pennies scraped together to preserve the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, rather than consign it to oblivion while barrels of this new-fangled flying juice roll out the door.

In its infinite wisdom, New Rise saw fit to convert its renewable diesel plant into a SAF-producing juggernaut churning out 3,000 barrels per day. The original plant, which sprang to life in 2022, sits on a sprawling 10-acre site within the Reno-Tahoe Industrial Complex, or the TRIC—a grand and modern name for a place that does nothing to remind one of silver strikes, steam whistles, or the charm of a locomotive rattling through the hills.

Of course, none of this could have come to pass without the generous backing of the USDA’s loan guarantee program, proving once again that when the government wishes to fund something, they do so with remarkable efficiency—so long as it doesn’t involve anything sentimental like preserving a piece of Western history. The facility, which has changed hands more times than a gambler’s last dollar, was dreamed up under the name Ryze Renewables Reno LLC and has since been subject to at least two acquisition agreements, both of which fell apart faster than a cardboard outhouse in a stiff wind.

And so, while fortunes get made and barrels of aviation fuel soar toward the heavens, our beloved Virginia and Truckee Railroad remains where the County sees fit to leave it—on the verge of ruin. Here’s a toast to progress–let us hope we live long enough to learn whether it was worth the price of our past.

Legislators Tossing Nevada Down a Mine Shaft

In the grand old tradition of selling one’s birthright for a mess of pottage, the 83rd Legislative Session of Nevada has turned into a veritable bazaar where independence, liberty, and common sense are being hawked off to the highest bidder—or worse, given away. Critics say the latest batch of bills rammed through by state Democrats is an outright assault on Nevada’s rugged spirit, handing power to illegal immigrants, bureaucrats, and coastal busybodies who wouldn’t know a sagebrush from a slot machine.

Among the most brazen of these legislative contraptions is AB140, which extends the renewal period for Driver Authorization Cards from four to eight years, making it as easy for an illegal immigrant to maintain a license as a lawful resident. Detractors call it a slap in the face to every honest Nevadan who followed the rules, arguing that rewarding lawbreaking with equal treatment is about as logical as inviting a pickpocket to manage the cash register.

Then there’s AJR6, a scheme to toss Nevada’s electoral influence onto the bonfire of the national popular vote. If this measure succeeds, say opponents, Nevadans might as well let California and New York handle the voting on their behalf since the Silver State’s voice would drown in the roar of coastal mobs. Worse yet, if it clears the Legislature, the governor can’t even veto it—meaning voters will be left to roll the dice in 2026.

Not content with meddling in elections, SB75 would grant the Secretary of State the power to raise business license fees without the pesky obstacle of a two-thirds majority vote, an innovation as fair-minded as letting a fox set the price of admission to the henhouse. As if that weren’t enough, it also does away with the English-only requirement for business filings, ensuring that Nevada’s official documents will be a linguistic free-for-all, much to the delight of lawyers and bureaucrats who thrive on confusion.

And for the grand finale, SJR7 aims to scrap Nevada’s current 24-week abortion restriction in favor of an open-ended policy. Proponents call it a victory for reproductive freedom, but critics argue that in their zeal, lawmakers have forgotten that the term “freedom” isn’t a one-way street.

These bills paint a picture of a Nevada where the frontier spirit is getting shackled by the heavy hand of overreach. With the legislative session still in full swing, Nevadans who value their state’s independence might want to grab their torches and pitchforks—figuratively, before the last vestiges of self-governance go away for good.

Hail coffee, full of caffeine. You are in me. Blessed art thou amongst beverages, and blessed is the result of thy consumption. Rightfullness. Holy coffee, color of mud, be there for us workers in the hour of our commute. Ramen

It is a peculiar feature of the human mind that a man may, by some misadventure, find himself lodged beneath a sewage drain cover and yet be at a complete loss as to how he arrived at such a station in life. Such was the case in northwest Reno, where a gentleman of unknown recollections was recently retrieved from the subterranean regions by a band of gallant firemen.

The affair began when an ordinary citizen was out taking his dog for an afternoon constitutional and found themselves unceremoniously detained by his four-legged companion, who insisted upon making the acquaintance of a particular section of pavement near W. 7th St. and N. McCarran Blvd. At that moment, the citizen and presumably the dog became aware of a most uncommon sound emanating from beneath their feet—a voice beseeching the heavens, or in this case, the sidewalk–for deliverance.

Summoning the authorities, the good Samaritan soon had the Reno Fire Department on the scene. The firefighters, whose professional experience no doubt includes many a tale stranger than fiction, did not hesitate. With commendable swiftness, they pried up the sewage drain cover, peered into the abyss, and, seeing a man in distress, lowered a ladder into that netherworld of drainage and lost dignity.

The man, once retrieved, was promptly conveyed to the hospital, where they discovered that while his physical condition remained uncertain, his recollections of how he came to be beneath Reno’s streets were most assuredly absent. Whether he had fallen, wandered, or been spirited away by some unseen force remains a mystery, as does the question of what grand purpose he was pursuing before fate saw fit to deposit him in a storm drain.

One can only hope that his memory returns in due course, if only to satisfy the curiosity of those who now find themselves pondering the age-old question–what manner of business could lead a man to awaken beneath a city street, with nothing but the echoes of his bewilderment for company?