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The Nevada Senate Judiciary Committee, that august and deliberative body dedicated to the art of lawmaking and the science of frustration, convened on Wednesday to hear testimony on a bill (SB142) from Sen. Fabian Doñate of Las Vegas. It would let working folks keep more of the money they earn before creditors descend upon them like vultures at a prairie dog convention.

At present, the law permits garnishment of wages down to a pittance so meager that even the most miserly of landlords would find it beneath contempt. Doñate’s bill seeks to raise the portion of wages protected from garnishment from a scandalous $400 to a slightly less scandalous $850, a sum which, in this era of inflation and unrepentant rent hikes, might keep body and soul together—if only barely.

Now, for those unfamiliar with the workings of wage garnishment, it is essentially a polite way of saying that a judge can compel an employer to hand over a chunk of a worker’s wages to creditors, whether for unpaid bills, alimony, child support, or some other regrettable financial entanglement. Presently, Nevada employs three differing mathematical formulas to determine how much can be pilfered from a paycheck, ensuring the process remains convoluted.

Under Doñate’s proposal, $850 in weekly disposable income would be entirely exempt from legal pickpocketing. And for those earning more, the percentage taken would be less draconian than before. Additionally, this exemption would adjust every three years with the Consumer Price Index.

The necessity of such protections becomes evident when one considers that Nevada, always eager to be in the upper echelons of dubious statistics, boasts the third-highest debt collection in the nation. As of 2021, nearly 40 percent of all civil filings in the state are for debt collection, for either the financial misfortune of its citizens or the predatory enthusiasm of its creditors. Nationally, in jurisdictions where data is available, over 70 percent of these lawsuits end in default judgments, meaning that defendants rarely even have the privilege of making their case before a judge before their pockets get turned inside out.

Of course, not everyone is thrilled with this proposal. A representative from the Nevada Credit Union League, which counts 400,000 members among its flock, expressed concerns that the bill might hinder the ability to lend money. No doubt, the notion that working people might need a little breathing room before being squeezed dry is a radical one in some circles.

It is worth noting that the state legislature did pass a bill in the last session that would have required debt collectors to provide itemized letters explaining outstanding balances upon request. But Governor Lombardo vetoed the measure, despite its bipartisan support, proving once again that common sense in politics is as rare as an honest gambler in a Virginia City saloon.

During the hearing, Doñate assured those present that he is working on an amendment to the bill and will engage with “all stakeholders,” which, in the language of lawmakers, means that the final product may end up so diluted as to be unrecognizable. Nevertheless, for those Nevadans whose wages are vanishing like smoke in a high desert wind, there remains a glimmer of hope—however faint—that the law may soon take a gentler hand with their hard-earned coin.

The SS United States is off the coast of Florida now. Once the fastest on the ocean, the great ship is under tow toward its watery grave. It left Philadelphia last week and will soon become the largest artificial reef in the world off the coast of Okaloosa County.

As a child, I came to this country aboard this ship in 1962. It was strong then, bright and full of life, its steel halls filled with voices, its decks lined with men and women who believed in something.

Now it is gone. We saved a British flagship, but not this one, not an American ship.

It does not seem right.

Tugboats push it along, guiding it down past the long Florida coast. They will bring it to Mobile first, strip it down, and gut it so it will sink clean.

They will scrape off the paint, take out the asbestos, tear away the engine room, and when it is ready, they will send it to the bottom. They say it will take a year.

They do not know where they will sink it, but it will be about twenty miles off Destin. Out there, it will settle on the sea floor, where fish will move in, and divers will come to look at what is left.

Again and again, departure got delayed. The Coast Guard wanted to make sure it would safely tow.

Then the wind came, hard and strong, and held it back. But on Tuesday, February 19, it left.

Built in Newport News from 1950 to 1951, it sailed for the first time on Thursday, July 3, 1952. It went from New York to France and England.

It was fast, faster than any other, and still holds the record for the fastest transatlantic crossing. It was American through and through, the last great passenger ship made here.

It was 53,000 tons. From keel to funnel top, it stood 175 feet high. It could hold nearly two thousand passengers and over a thousand crew.

If war came, it could carry 14,000 troops. Four American presidents, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, and Marlon Brando, walked its decks.

But time took it.

The airlines came, and in 1969, the owner could not keep up. It passed from hand to hand.

It became a museum in 1996, tied to the dock at slip 80 in Philadelphia. It sat there, waiting.

In October, Okaloosa County bought it for ten million dollars. They say it will bring in three million a year.

They say there will be a museum on land too. They talk about the future, about what it will become, but I can only think of what it was: the ship that carried me here–sinking.

I have always believed that there comes a time when every cowpoke finds themselves on a hoss they cain’t ride, no matter the size of the outfit or the number of times that same horse ridden till its head hung low. I have found mine.

His name was Lucifer. I did not name him.

Had I done so, I might have picked something softer, like Beelzebub or Old Scratch. But Lucifer he was, and Lucifer he remained, a name that suited him as a saddle suits a porcupine.

It weren’t as though I was some greenhorn fresh off the coach. I had spent a respectable number of years in the saddle, busting broncs and guiding cattle across lands so dry even the rattlesnakes carried canteens.

I had thrown a leg over more horses than I could count, which is to say, more than ten. And yet, Lucifer stood there staring at me with a look that made me suspect he had studied philosophy and concluded that humanity was a mistake best rectified by his four hooves.

“You sure you want to do this?” asked Jed, a man whose primary occupation was laughing at the misfortunes of others.

“Ain’t no horse alive I cain’t ride,” I said, with the confidence of a man soon disabused of such notions.

“Well, then,” he said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice that sizzled upon hitting the dust, “I reckon today’s the day we find out if there’s a horse that can ride you.”

Lucifer waited as I swung into the saddle, which should have been my first clue that things would go poorly. A horse worth his salt bucks a little when you mount to remind you of your place in the world.

But Lucifer stood still as a graveyard at midnight. I no sooner settled in than he let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, and then the devil went to work.

I will not bore you with the technicalities of bronc riding except to say that I did none of them. Instead, I dedicated myself to an artistic interpretation of flight, my trajectory suggesting that I had taken up astronomy.

I soared, I tumbled, I prayed. I landed.

Jed strolled up to where I lay, half-buried in dust and regret. He leaned over me, hands on his knees. “You stick the landin’ real nice,” he said. “Like a sack of flour.”

For his part, Lucifer wandered off a few paces and turned to regard me with an expression of mild disappointment as though he had expected more entertainment from the affair. Then he flicked his tail and began cropping hay, insult added to injury, as it suggested the whole thing hadn’t been worth his full attention.

I lay there, considering my options. Option one was to ride ever again and to find a new profession, such as banking or peddling notions. Option two was to accept my fate and prepare for a life of ridicule and derision at the hands of my so-called friends. Option three was to get up, dust myself off, and pretend it had not happened.

I chose option three.

I climbed to my feet with the dignity of a man who has fallen in public and is trying to pretend he meant to do it. I brushed myself off, set my hat back on my head, and turned to Jed.

“I declare, Jed,” I said, “I do believe Lucifer’s got a powerful dislike for me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take it personal,” Jed said. “He’s got a powerful dislike for everyone. But I’d say you’re special—he saved somethin’ extra just for you.”

“Mighty kind of him.”

Jed grinned. “You wanna try again?”

I looked at Lucifer, who was looking at me with the patience of a schoolmaster waiting for his most troublesome pupil to realize he had brought the wrong answer to the lesson. I reckoned I learnt my lesson.

“You know, Jed, I believe I have demonstrated my ability to ride this horse just fine,” I said. “The trouble is, he refuses to demonstrate his ability to be ridden. I think we have reached an impasse.”

“So that’s a no?”

“That is a most emphatic no.”

And so, I lived to ride another day, though I made sure it was on a horse with fewer opinions. But to this day, when I pass through certain towns, I find that old-timers remember me not for my skills, victories, or even my handsome and rugged visage.

No, they remember the day I took flight and left my dignity somewhere in the dust, courtesy of a horse named Lucifer.

If you’ve ever looked at a bull and thought, “I wonder what that fella’s working with under the chassis,” then, by gum, do I have the festival for you. Come Saturday, March 15, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., the fine folks of Virginia City will once again throw caution–and good sense–to the wind for their 34th annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry—a gathering so profoundly Western that

the bulls are keeping their legs crossed.

Billed as one of the West’s largest St. Patrick’s Day shindigs, this festival is not for the faint of stomach. The day’s festivities include the infamous Rocky Mountain Oyster cooking competition, where brave chefs go elbow-deep in a delicacy that separates the men from the vegetarians. Competitors will vie for the coveted ‘Best Of’ and ‘People’s Choice’ awards, proving once and for all who can work the most magic with… well, you know.

“Virginia City’s Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry is more than just a food festival—it’s a testament to our community’s knack for keeping with tradition while encouraging fun and creativity,” said Todd Tuttle, tourism director, who presumably has an iron constitution. “With multiple activities throughout the day and plenty of merchant shops to visit along the way, this event is truly one of a kind.”

And what better way to wash down a plate of—you guessed it—deep-fried bovine jewels than with a drink in hand? The St. Paddy Made Me Do It Saloon Crawl kicks off at 11 a.m., ensuring that even the most hesitant participants can find the courage–or at least the inebriation–to take part. Designated drivers get special cups because, let’s face it, this kind of bravery should probably come with a chaperone.

At high noon, C Street will erupt in a sea of green as Virginia City’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade marches through town, featuring floats, marching bands, and folks who have had enough whiskey to believe their outfits qualify as festive instead of downright absurd. Attendees are encouraged to dress in their most spirited attire, which, given the town’s history, could mean anything from traditional Irish garb to someone’s great-grandpappy’s old prospector getup.

So, if you’ve ever wanted to eat something you can’t quite make eye contact with beforehand, this is your chance. Bring an appetite, a sense of humor, and maybe an alibi if anyone asks what you were up to during the weekend.

Witch Hunter Sent Packing

It was a fine day for reason and justice when the Nevada Commission on Ethics review panel gave a polite but firm boot to an ethics complaint lodged against former Lyon County School District Superintendent Wayne Workman. This bit of drama, stirred up by one Joe Hart, a reporter of the inquisitive variety with KRNV, came about after Workman transitioned from superintendent to the district’s newly minted employee relations administrator—a position so fresh you could still smell the paint drying on the title.

Hart, ever the vigilant watchdog, filed his complaint in October, no doubt with all the fervor of a man convinced he had uncovered the crime of the century. In its wisdom, the Commission took a long, hard look at the allegations, interviewed district staff, examined the facts with the care of an old prospector panning for gold, and concluded that nothing improper happened.

Workman received official word of his exoneration on Thursday, and one could imagine him tipping his hat in satisfaction.

“That complaint was thoroughly investigated with the information I supplied,” Workman said in a manner befitting a man who knew he had done nothing worth the trouble.

“The Commission interviewed multiple staff members at the school district and they investigated the facts of the matter… and it was completely dismissed. There was no evidence that showed any inappropriate inactivity.”

Now, “inappropriate inactivity” means Workman was not lounging about, twiddling his thumbs, and collecting an undeserved paycheck. No, he had done things right—submitted his application, interviewed like any other hopeful soul, and secured the position through the district’s standard hiring process.

Superintendent Tim Logan, a man no doubt weary of such needless hullabaloos, confirmed that Workman’s hiring was as proper as Sunday church sermon.

“We’ve used the same hiring process for all candidates,” he said, in what one imagines was a tone of mild exasperation. “I personally was not on his committee.”

The Nevada Commission on Ethics, that venerable body tasked with sniffing out the scent of impropriety in public service, released a letter Thursday that all but patted Workman on the back.

“The facts do not establish credible evidence…” the Commissioners wrote in the measured language of bureaucracy, which is saying: “There’s no there, there.”

And thus, the great scandal of Lyon County, which might have kept some awake at night clutching their television remotes, was laid to rest.

“It has been frustrating there’s been this witch hunt,” Logan remarked, shaking his head at the sheer waste of time.

Workman, after all, is not some opportunistic interloper but a man with 18 years of service to the district, an educator of considerable experience, and a fellow growing weary of being dragged through the mud for doing his job. With the case dismissed, one might hope that the business of educating children could proceed unimpeded by baseless accusations.

Hopefully, Workman, for all his troubles, might at least get a moment’s peace before the next tempest in a teapot comes brewing.

In a turn of events that might have left even the most seasoned scoundrels shaking their heads in admiration or pity, one Mr. Miky Sears, aged 53, found himself on the wrong side of the law after a traffic stop on Saturday led to a most enlightening discovery.

The Carson City Sheriff’s Office Special Enforcement Team, ever vigilant against the high-speed pursuits of fate, pulled over Mr. Sears at the intersection of Goni Road and College Parkway. The man, doubtless offering the sort of pleasantries one extends when caught in an inconvenient moment, was soon advised of the nature of his predicament—speeding, though that would prove to be the least of his troubles.

Enter Cash, a particularly astute K9 officer, whose olfactory talents would soon cast a most unfortunate light on Mr. Sears’ travel arrangements. A free-air sniff of the vehicle—one presumes Mr. Sears had little say in the matter—led to a positive alert, prompting detectives to engage in impromptu housekeeping.

Their efforts found reward when they uncovered precisely 29.63 grams of methamphetamine nestled comfortably inside a cleaning container with a “false bottom.” Whether Mr. Sears had hoped the irony of his storage choice would serve as some form of poetic camouflage remains unknown.

With his day already taking an irreversibly sour turn, Mr. Sears got an escort to Carson City Jail, where authorities had yet to finish their inquiries. A subsequent search warrant for his residence yielded an additional 141.36 grams of methamphetamine inside a trailer on his property, bringing the total to 170.99 grams—a figure that, while impressive, was unlikely to win him any accolades in polite society.

Now booked on an array of charges, including possession of a controlled substance–third offense, mind you–intent to sell–also third offense–trafficking–second offense–and being, for lack of a better term, a habitual criminal, Mr. Sears has no doubt found himself with ample time to reflect upon the events of the day.

Rolls On to 11th Straight Victory

Turning regular-season triumphs into postseason glory is no small feat, and the Lowry Buckaroos learned that the hard way. For the third time this season, they got outmatched by the Churchill County Greenwave, this time in a 61-55 heartbreaker. Their latest brush with Churchill County had ended in a 47-36 defeat just two weeks prior, and this one proved no less frustrating.

At the heart of Churchill County’s victory stood Raegan Johnson and Vernita Fillmore, a duo that played like seasoned professionals. Johnson dominated the boards and the scoreboard, notching a double-double with 16 points and 14 rebounds, throwing in two blocks for good measure—the most she’s recorded since December 2024. Fillmore, meanwhile, ran the show with 13 points, five assists, and four steals, keeping Lowry on their heels all night. Not to be left out, Amillya Bishop contributed a solid 12 points, adding to Lowry’s woes.

With the loss, Lowry wrapped up their season at 15-8. As for the Greenwave, they’re riding high on an 11-game winning streak, their record now an imposing 22-6. Wasting no time dwelling on their latest conquest, Churchill County charged ahead and made quick work of Fernley, cruising to a commanding 63-31 victory on the 15th.

Lowry can only wonder what might have been while Churchill County forges ahead, leaving their latest challenger in the rearview mirror.

The V&T Railway’s Long, Slow Goodbye

There once was a time when the Virginia & Truckee Railway puffed its way across Nevada like a proud old-timer telling tall tales—some true, some exaggerated, but all worth the price of admission. Today, however, the yarn it spins is one of dwindling dollars, political hand-wringing, and the ever-present question: What do you do with an expensive relic that refuses to pay its way?

Like a physician breaking bad news to an aging patient, Carson City Mayor Lori Bagwell informed the Nevada Assembly Committee on Growth and Infrastructure last week that the railway had failed to live up to the grand promise of self-sufficiency. It may come as a surprise only to those who believe that money grows on sagebrush.

Flanked by Storey County Commissioner Clay Mitchell, Bagwell requested a study to determine whether the railway should be saved, sold, or left to fade like an old miner’s ghost. One option on the table is to dissolve the commission that oversees the railway and auction off its assets to the highest bidder—though one suspects the highest bidder will be in no hurry to lay hands on a business that leaks money like a sieve.

The situation is as follows: Without financial backing from Carson City and Storey County, the railway would lose between $100,000 and $150,000 annually. With that support, it can puff its way into the black by about $140,000—a thin profit margin that would make a prospector weep.

The railway is best known for its Christmas-themed excursions, wherein it transforms into the Polar Express, ferrying wide-eyed children and their weary parents into a winter wonderland of nostalgia. It is one of the few times the train makes any real money. Unfortunately, the V&T Railway Commission only owns the engine, not the passenger cars, nor the facilities required to maintain them—akin to owning a horse but not the saddle, stable, or oats.

In the spirit of practical governance, Bagwell pointed out that Carson City has potholes to fill, roads to pave, and the endless demands of modern infrastructure to meet. Nostalgia, she implied, is a fine thing—but it won’t fix a broken street.

Storey County, on the other hand, seems less inclined to let go. Mitchell noted that Virginia City sees the most direct benefit from the railway, with visitors rolling into town with pockets full of cash and an enthusiasm for historic charm. He suggested that, even if the railway were doomed to “tread water,” it would remain a beloved fixture.

No decision was made, no fateful spike driven, and no whistles blown—save for the weary sighs of officials wrestling with the age-old problem of keeping history alive while balancing the books. The Virginia & Truckee may yet chug along, but one gets the impression its next stop may be the auction block.

The fine gentlepeople at Sun Silver Limited have set their sights on a grand undertaking in the wilds of Nevada, a land that has never lacked for folks with picks in their hands and gold dust in their dreams.

With an eye toward fortune and formality, the company has commenced environmental surveys at its Maverick Springs Silver-Gold Project, a necessary bit of paper-waving to appease the regulatory gods and keep the development wagon from losing a wheel. These surveys shall march on until August, collecting all manner of ecological intelligence to assure the world that Sun Silver is not just digging holes but doing so with a sense of decorum.

Maverick Springs rests between Elko and Ely, perched on the northwest flank of the Maverick Springs Range, where men have long suspected the good Lord stashed a great deal of silver and gold. Access to this promised land is via a gravel road from Ruby Valley, a journey no doubt best made with auto springs and a determination to avoid getting bogged down in the dust.

The company is quite proud that its Maverick Springs asset now boasts a mineral resource of nearly 196 million tons, with a silver equivalent of over 423 million ounces—enough to make a prospector’s head spin and a tax collector’s hands itch. A thorough combing of old drill records and some fresh reimagining of what the earth might still be hiding has confirmed what Sun Silver has suspected all along–there’s more where that came from.

Sun Silver, not being the sort to sit back and merely count numbers, has been drilling, particularly to the northwest, where recent findings suggest richer veins than previously imagined. One particular hole, MR24-186, turned up a mighty promising stretch of silver, proving their suspicions were not just empty tavern talk. The company believes these results indicate a grander treasure still awaiting discovery beyond their current claims, and they intend to press forward, ever hopeful and ever digging.

So it is that Sun Silver finds itself at the helm of what may be the largest pre-production silver asset on the Australian Securities Exchange, a position that makes investors swoon and rival companies grind their teeth. If all goes well—and the hills of Nevada are as generous as they seem—Maverick Springs may be a modern El Dorado, mined with careful science, legal paperwork, and just enough old-fashioned luck.