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It’s a curious thing about the coyote—this wiry, unlovely specimen of the animal kingdom that roams the deserts with the air of a bankrupt philosopher. I’ve studied him closely, for once you’ve encountered a coyote, you can’t help but feel a peculiar mixture of amusement and pity, the same as you might for a poorly tuned fiddle played with great confidence.

A coyote is a gaunt affair—a lean, rangy frame draped in a grayish hide that looks like it might peel off in a stiff wind. Its tail hangs as if apologizing for following it around, and its eyes have a calculating gleam as if it’s measuring the distance between your throat and its survival. To put it plainly, it’s the living embodiment of hard times, a shuffling bundle of bones and hunger with an outlook that would make even a miser look extravagant.

Now, there’s a drama to the coyote’s movements. If you meet one in the desert, it’ll fix you with a look that says, “Don’t get any ideas, friend,” before trotting off in a peculiar, gliding gait.

It’s a performance, you see, for it’s careful to keep you interested just enough to make you wonder if you could catch him. Spoiler: you can’t.

If you make a move for your pistol, it’ll put a mile of sagebrush between you before the hammer’s half-cocked. It’s not fast, mind you—it’s cunning. It doesn’t run; it insinuates itself into the horizon.

Now, if you happen to unleash a self-respecting dog after it, the real show begins. The coyote’s first move is to let that dog think it’s got it dead to rights.

It trots just ahead, casting over-the-shoulder glances so tantalizingly smug they’d make a saint curse. The dog, pride swelling with every stride, puts all his faith in his legs and none in his better judgment. The coyote, meanwhile, moves as if propelled by sheer scorn.

Round about mile two, the dog begins to reconsider his career choices. His lungs burn, his legs falter, and the coyote—cool as a shadow—glances back one last time with a look that says, “Bless your heart,” and vanishes like smoke in a breeze.

The dog slinks home, head hung low, a chastened beast. It’s a humbling affair that leaves the dog pondering the fragility of ego for weeks to come.

The coyote’s diet is as varied as his luck. He subsists on the leavings of discarded scraps and the occasional miracle of carrion. He shares his grim repast with his comrades, the ravens and buzzards.

His bark—a high, sharp thing like the crack of a whip—pierces the desert nights. It’s a mournful sound, a complaint against the universe for having the audacity to exist.

And yet, despite his wretched appearance and hard luck, you can’t help but admire him. He’s a scrapper, a survivor, a proof of the tenacity of life in its most threadbare form.

If the world ends tomorrow, there is little doubt the coyote will be there the day after, trotting through the rubble, looking for something edible and smiling to himself at the foolishness of it all.

There is one thing the enlightened federal government excels at–sending its fine young folk off to inhospitable places, promising them gratitude and care, only to develop a highly selective amnesia once they return. Such is the case with those stationed at the Nevada Test and Training Range from 1972 to 2005, who, having faithfully inhaled whatever invisible horrors Uncle Sam happened to scatter about, are now being asked to provide irrefutable proof of their misfortune—preferably notarized, in triplicate, and signed by the very particles that did the damage.

Enter Representative Mark Amodei, who states what’s obvious–that veterans, having been exposed to whatever was lurking in the Nevada dust, should not have to scale bureaucratic Everest to receive the care promised. With Congresswoman Susie Lee at his side, Amodei has reintroduced a bill to grant them the presumption of exposure—an effort to spare them from the indignity of proving what everyone with a functioning mind already knows.

“Veterans, who made such selfless sacrifices for our nation, should not have to move mountains to prove they are suffering,” Amodei declared, perhaps forgetting that moving mountains is precisely what the government expects of its veterans—preferably uphill, in the snow, both ways.

Congresswoman Lee echoed his sentiments, championing the bill as a long-overdue measure of justice for those who, having served their country, would now like to avoid being treated like a collection of bothersome receipts lost in a bureaucratic ledger.

Whether the noble endeavor will be embraced with the urgency it deserves or merely added to the great pile of neglected promises remains to be seen. But one thing is known—while the radiation may have been invisible, the neglect is plain to see.

The fine legislators of Nevada are once again engaged in the noble pursuit of rearranging deck chairs on a ship they set adrift years ago. Assembly Bill 48, now making its rounds in the statehouse, proposes a grand solution to the scourge of bullying.

Instead of sending the poor, battered child off to a new school like an unwelcome houseguest, the school board may now, if kindly asked, shuffle the bully instead. It’s a remarkable stroke of wisdom, akin to relocating the fox when he gets too enthusiastic about the chicken coop.

Now, while these lawmakers pat each other on the back for their high-minded efforts, one cannot help but wonder if they have considered the time-honored approach—one that predates government committees, education codes, and the ever-expanding rulebooks of modern civilization–called teaching your child to fight.

Before the pearl clutchers take to their fainting couches, let’s clarify. Not brawling. Not hooliganism. No. It is the fine, upright tradition of self-defense—an education in standing one’s ground when some pint-sized highwayman deems it his right to pummel another child for sport.

There was a time when a youngster–after receiving an ill-tempered shove, understood that the correct response was not to file a grievance with the school board but rather to plant their feet, square the jaw, and make it abundantly clear that they are not to be treated as a doormat.

Now, of course, we live in enlightened times. Bullying reports in Clark County alone number 15,000 a year, with 6,000 of them dismissed as the kind of schoolyard nonsense that once sorted itself out on the playground without a tribunal.

The proposed law would allow parents of the offending party to request their child get transferred, a curious notion indeed, as bullies are rarely known for their eagerness to leave their carefully cultivated fiefdoms. Meanwhile, the real victims are left waiting for salvation from a policy that treats them as something to be relocated rather than empowered.

One wonders if the honorable legislators have ever seen a bully meet an unexpected right hook. It is an educational moment far more effective than a stack of bureaucratic policies.

There is great talk these days about preparing children for the real world. Well, here is a lesson worth teaching: Some will test you, push you, and take from you, and at times, the best course of action is to introduce them, firmly and without hesitation, to the consequences of their actions.

If Nevada wishes to curb bullying–it might look at a more pragmatic approach. Rather than drafting another bill to shuffle the problem from one building to another, perhaps parents should do what parents once did—teach their children to stand up for themselves and tell politicians to leave the child-rearing to mom and dad.

But Not If These Folks Have Their Way

Some folks think that the way to secure the blessings of liberty is to restrict it at every turn. Nowhere is this more evident than in Nevada’s latest legislative mischief, where Democratic lawmakers have taken it upon themselves to propose new restrictions on the good citizen’s right to bear arms—never minding that the Constitution, that old inconvenient document, plainly says they ought not to.

Leading this latest crusade is Assemblymember Sandra Jauregui, who has introduced Assembly Bill 105, a measure that would make it unlawful to carry a firearm within 100 feet of an election site. They claim it is to ensure the integrity of the voting process, though one would be hard-pressed to find an instance where an upstanding, armed citizen has threatened the ballot box. The bill generously allows for law enforcement officers, private security, and those keeping their firearms tucked away in their carriages—so long as they do not “brandish” them, which, one suspects, is subject to interpretation by those who already distrust the commoner’s right to self-defense.

Not content with merely hemming in the rights of responsible adults, Jauregui has also introduced Assembly Bill 245, which would prevent anyone under the age of 21 from purchasing or possessing a semi-automatic shotgun or rifle. Curious that a young person, at 18, may be sent off to war, entrusted with defending the nation, but here in Nevada, these lawmakers would see him unfit to keep so much as a scattergun at home.

Politicians think a person gains wisdom and responsibility upon blowing out the candles on their 21st birthday, but such enlightenment is not determined by the calendar.

Meanwhile, State Senator Julie Pazina has introduced Senate Bill 89, which aims to prohibit firearm ownership for those convicted of “hate crimes.” Now, hatred is an ugly thing, to be sure, but it is an even uglier thing when the law becomes a tool of caprice, where definitions shift like sand in the wind.

The bill seeks to prevent those convicted of offenses based on race, religion, or a host of other characteristics from owning a firearm for ten years—a fine notion until one considers how broadly such crimes may be defined. Today, a crime of hate is one thing; tomorrow, it may be merely disagreeing with the prevailing orthodoxy. And in that case, the right to self-defense becomes subject not to law but to the whims of those in power.

It bears mentioning that these measures resemble bills passed in 2023 and vetoed by Governor Joe Lombardo. One would think that such a rebuke would deter these fine legislators from wasting more time on ill-fated schemes. But common sense is not so easily imposed upon those who fancy themselves the architects of a safer world—no matter how many freedoms they must strip away to build it.

The battle between liberty and those who would curtail it is never quite settled. And if history has taught us anything, it is that when the people surrender their rights bit by bit, they never return without great toil and sacrifice.

These bills sit in committee, their fate uncertain.

A Peculiar Notion

Common sense is a commodity in short supply, and nowhere is that more evident than in the peculiar case of Nevada’s wrong-way drivers. One would reckon that barrelling down the highway against traffic ought to be frowned upon by the law—perhaps even earn a feller a visit to the local hoosegow. But no, dear reader, in the fine state of Nevada, a gentleman can take it upon himself to go careening headlong into oncoming traffic, and the worst he might face is a fine, assuming he survives the encounter.

It wasn’t always this way, but in their boundless wisdom, the legislators of 2021, in the name of what they called Social Justice, saw fit to downgrade wrong-way driving from a crime to a mere civil infraction—something akin to jaywalking, only with considerably more carnage. The reasoning, they claimed, was to keep people out of the criminal justice system, though it appears no one gave much thought to the people who would soon be out of the justice system entirely—namely, the victims.

Now, after a rash of deadly crashes, including the heartbreaking case of little Jaya Brooks, who lost her life in December at the hands of a wrong-way driver, lawmakers are scrambling to undo their prior blunder. Enter Assembly Bill 111, introduced by Republican Assemblymember Brian Hibbetts, who seems to have made the shocking discovery that driving the wrong way at high speed ought to be, at the very least, a misdemeanor crime.

“Every time I mention it, I get the wide-eyed, deer in the headlights look like, ‘Oh my God. What do you mean it’s not a crime?’ Well, it’s a civil matter,” Hibbetts explained, as though describing some ludicrous fiction instead of the actual state of Nevada law.

His bill, aptly named Jaya’s Law, seeks to restore wrong-way driving to its rightful place among punishable offenses—something that, to any reasonable person, ought not to have needed fixing in the first place.

Jaya’s father, Jan Brooks, testified before the Assembly Judiciary Committee, his words a testament to the kind of grief no parent should endure.

“I can’t express how much pain I walk around with that will never go away,” he said. “Of course, this bill won’t bring my daughter back, but if we can save others from going through this, that’s all I care about.”

Hibbetts laid out the grim numbers for lawmakers–731 wrong-way driver reports in 2024 by the Nevada Highway Patrol, with 634 in Las Vegas alone last year. No one spoke against the bill during the hearing. Perhaps even the staunchest defenders of the 2021 reforms knew better than to stand in front of this speeding carriage.

The committee has not yet voted on Jaya’s Law, but one would hope they do so with greater prudence than their predecessors. For if a man may drive full tilt against traffic and face nothing more than a fine, then we are no longer governed by reason but by folly—a condition too common in the affairs of men.

There ain’t a spot of land in this stat

e that some bureaucrat or businessperson doesn’t have an eye on, and if there’s a way to wrangle it loose, rest assured there’s a feller in a fine suit with a pen at the ready. Tuesday marked the Trump administration’s deadline to reconsider the boundaries of various national monuments, a task that involves poking and prodding at millions of acres of native land here in Nevada, looking for anything worth digging up, burning down, or hauling away for profit.

The University of Nevada, Reno’s Office of Indigenous Relations counts 21 federally recognized tribes in the state, stewarding over 1.6 million acres of tribal land. But there’s a chance some of those acres may soon have less to steward.

Not everyone likes the idea of a “review.” Nevada’s Congressional Democrats put pen to paper in protest, but it’s the local tribal groups that have raised the most ruckus, and rightly so.

Mathilda Guerrero Miller, a voice for Indigenous advocacy, did not mince words, calling the review “a corrupt, coordinated land grab” meant to turn public lands into private fortunes. One can hardly blame her for the sentiment.

After all, President Trump’s previous trimming of two national monuments in Utah set a precedent that has Nevada tribes eyeing their lands with no small amount of dread. It includes Avi Kwa Ame and Gold Butte in southern Nevada, which have been under the care of native peoples for longer than the United States has existed.

“These are the lands and the things that my ancestors have taken care of since time immemorial,” said Guerrero Miller. “Tribal nations are actively paying attention. Community members are actively paying attention, and they’re angry.”

As if the stew needed another spoon stirring it, Nevada Governor Joe Lombardo has tossed his request into the fray, petitioning state legislative leaders to pry loose more of Nevada’s federally held lands for housing. Of course, in a state where the federal government owns 87 percent of the sand, one might argue the land is already well and spoken for. But there’s always a way to shift things around if the right people want it bad enough.

And so the old game continues–land stolen once might as well get stolen again, parceled off in neat little squares to whoever’s got the fattest purse and the best lawyers. The people who have cared for it the longest, well—they’ve seen this before.

And if history is any teacher, they’ll be the only ones still here long after the boom and bust have run their course.

Now,

I ain’t one to put much stock in Hollywood doings, but it seems the silver screen moguls have set their sights on a tale fit for the twilight hours—none other than the life and times of our old bud, Art Bell, the late-night oracle of the weird and wondrous. A man who made his home in the fine metropolis of Pahrump, where the air is dry, the mysteries plentiful, and spent nights whispering ghostly truths and unearthly fiction into the ears of the American public.

Word has it from the folks at Deadline that a mighty bidding war is afoot, with Universal, Warner Bros., and Amazon all looking to stake their claim on Bell’s story. And who do they reckon to step into the role of the midnight storyteller? Paul Giamatti.

For them unfamiliar with Bell’s peculiar corner of the airwaves, he was a man who kept company with a most unusual breed of guest. He welcomed time travelers, Bigfoot slayers, witches with dark secrets, fellers predicting the end of days, and peculiar government types who’d whispered about flying saucers and men in black. Even the occasional high-class visitor, such as Regis Philbin or Leonard Nimoy, found their way to his microphone, though they may have been more terrestrial than his usual crowd.

The man’s departure from this mortal plane was as fitting as his life—a Friday the 13 exit, in 2018 at 72. It was an occasion marked with no small amount of eerie significance–as if the universe had decided to give him a sendoff in proper fashion.

From the humble airwaves of KNYE-FM 95.1 in Pahrump, Bell’s Coast to Coast AM reached some 500 stations across the country, cementing his legend as the great bard of the bizarre. His contributions did not go unnoticed—by 2006, the Nevada Broadcasters Association saw fit to honor him, and two years later, the National Radio Hall of Fame did the same.

Now, this cinematic undertaking falls into the hands of Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett, the duo known as Radio Silence, who’ve built themselves a reputation scaring the bejesus out of folks with films like Ready or Not, the recent Scream revivals, and last year’s Abigail. If ever there were men suited to tell the tale of a man who spent his life in the dark, speaking of things that go bump in the night, these may be the fellers for the job.

One can only hope the movie does the man justice—though I reckon if it doesn’t, he might find a way to haunt them.

Grandma always said, “Get out of the kitchen if you can’t stand the heat.” But what happens when the whole state’s turned into a roaring oven and there ain’t no door to run through?

That’s the question Nevada lawmakers are wrestling with as they take a gander at Assembly Bill 96—which would require the two most populous counties in the state to start planning for extreme heat before the sun bakes folks like yesterday’s cornbread.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of strolling through Las Vegas or Reno in the summer, you know it ain’t a cool mountain breeze. These cities are heating up faster than a two-dollar skillet on a campfire, and last year alone, Clark County saw 526 heat-related deaths—a mighty jump from the 294 recorded in 2023.

More folks are keeling over from the heat than from traffic accidents. That got lawmakers thinking–if we throw millions at keeping folks from crashing into each other, maybe we ought to spare a nickel to keep them from dropping dead on the sidewalk.

The bill, backed by Assemblymember Venise Karris, would make Clark and Washoe counties include “heat mitigation” plans in their development blueprints. That means more shady spots, cooling stations, and less asphalt that soaks up heat like a blacksmith’s anvil. Other cities in the Southwest, like Phoenix, already have fancy offices dedicated to keeping people from frying like eggs on Main Street.

Of course, not everyone is keen on the idea. Governor Joe Lombardo put the kibosh on a similar bill in 2023, claiming there wasn’t enough evidence that all this development was to blame for the rising temperatures.

Never mind the U.S. Geological Survey, which found nearly half of Las Vegas covered in heat-absorbing roads, buildings, and sidewalks, or the study that showed trees—yes, trees—can cool the air by nearly 45 degrees in certain parts of town.

Despite the evidence, the bill still has a few hills to climb before it sees daylight.

It appears the North Lyon County Fire Protection District has learned the hard way that counting on the federal government for financial stability is about as wise as balancing your monthly expenses on the chance of finding a gold nugget in your backyard. Having placed their trust in the fleeting generosity of Washington, they now find themselves tightening their belts, reducing daily staffing levels, and coming to terms with the notion that money given freely today often disappears like a politician’s promise tomorrow.

Effective immediately, the district has decreed that no fewer than four firefighters and one battalion chief shall be on duty each day—an admirable attempt to maintain services while steering clear of fiscal ruin. According to their official release, the reasoning is to “ensure fiscal responsibility while maintaining essential service to the community,” which is a polite way of saying, “We spent money we didn’t really have, and now we must make do with less.”

The previous budgets, it seems, were propped up by one-time financial windfalls—The American Rescue Plan Act (ARPA) of 2021 and mutual aid billing—that, much like a drunken prospector’s last dollar, were never meant to last. The district now acknowledges that these sources are not sustainable, which is a bit like realizing, after a lavish spree, that the purse is empty and the bartender expects payment in real money.

And so, with fewer hands to hold the hoses, North Lyon marches forward, a living demonstration of the dangers of trusting fickle government schemes instead of plain old-fashioned prudence.

Dayton Falls in Playoff Clash

The scent of playoff glory filled the air, but only Fernley grasped it. In a contest that could have swung either way, the Vaqueros held firm and eked out a 44-43 triumph over the Spring Creek Spartans. Victory is nothing new to Fernley, who have now strung together eight consecutive wins.

Spring Creek gave them all they could handle, with a team effort on offense. Snowdon Bear Williams led the charge with 15 points in a blistering six-for-eight shooting performance. Not far behind was Scott Bylund, who made his presence known with a double-double, tallying 10 points and hauling down 12 rebounds.

With the win, Fernley remains an immovable force on their home court, marking their eighth straight triumph at home and boosting their season tally to 21-6. On the other hand, Spring Creek sees their record dip to 20-7.

Both squads now turn their sights to the playoffs. Fernley will lock horns with Democracy Prep Agassi Campus at 8:00 p.m. on Thursday, facing an opponent that has rattled off at least 55 points in their last 12 outings. Meanwhile, Spring Creek braces for a clash with Mater Academy East Las Vegas at 4:40 p.m. Mater Academy is riding high, gunning for their 13th straight victory—a feat Spring Creek will be determined to prevent.

While Fernley and Spring Creek battle on, Dayton saw their playoff dreams dashed on Friday. Despite a remarkable regular season, the Dust Devils couldn’t summon the same magic in their postseason opener, falling 67-56 to Spring Creek. Their struggles against the Spartans continue, as they have dropped seven straight meetings.

Spring Creek’s sophomore sensation Scott Bylund led the charge, delivering a 21-point, six-rebound performance while steadily increasing his scoring output over the last three games. Tayden Francis also chipped in with 11 points and six boards to fortify the Spartans’ offensive front.

The loss leaves Dayton’s season in the rearview mirror with a final record of 16-8. Spring Creek, however, rode their momentum into the next round, only to fall short in a razor-thin 44-43 loss to Fernley on the 15th. With the dust settling, all eyes now turn to the battles ahead, where the stakes grow higher.