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As I gazed into the reflecting glass this morning, I spied a face I almost failed to recognize—the countenance of a younger, more optimistic version of myself.

The sight summoned forth a memory that had lain hidden in the recesses of my mind like an old coin lost behind the cushions of a sofa. It was the day I earned my food handler certificate—a prestigious parchment that, in the right hands, meant access to the hallowed grills of McDonald’s on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.

Having conquered the rigorous examination of sanitary wisdom and burger-flipping acumen, I had an entire afternoon with nothing to do but squander it.

The valley wind blew sharp and cold, but it carried a kind of freedom in its bite. My VW Bug, a noble steed of dubious reliability, awaited me in the parking lot. I fed it the last ten-dollar bill from my wallet, an investment of faith that it might carry me somewhere worth going.

Three blocks east, I discovered the new aqueducts—a marvel of modern engineering, though a bit dry on spectacle. There, I perched upon a wall and watched as the dust devils frolicked in the basin below, each a miniature tempest, spinning and whirling like dervishes drunk on the desert air. It was a fine enough pastime, but I tired of it before long and returned to my chariot, which remained where it was left, indifferent to my comings and goings.

Sitting on the sidewalk with legs crossed and feet in the gutter, I felt as content as a prince surveying his dominion. That’s when my hand chanced upon a Roosevelt-headed dime minted in 1967. I turned it over in my fingers, the small coin glinting in the sun.

The year tugged at my memory–1967–when we moved into our new home and my sister was born. A fine year, as I recalled, unmarred by the complications of adulthood or the indignities of gainful employment.

Then came the epiphany: the dime, this Rooseveltian relic of the Johnson administration, was all I had money-wise. Nary a fund in the bank, no jangling coins in the car’s ashtray, no secret cache buried in a coffee can. Just this dime.

But if I’d expected despair to descend upon me like a hungry buzzard, I was sorely mistaken. Unlike that illustrious sage, Mark Twain, who once contemplated throwing himself off a wharf in San Francisco for want of a coin, I felt no such melancholy.

My circumstances were simple: I had completed my military service, severed ties with most of my family, and counted but a few friends. Yet, for all that, I felt richer than Croesus.

As I turned the coin over in my palm, admiring its luster and imagining the small miracles it might perform—a phone call, perhaps, or a fraction of a cup of coffee—a shadow fell across my reverie. A flatfoot, resplendent in municipal authority, stood before me.

“You can’t sit here,” he said, suggesting that sitting on sidewalks was a crime on par with horse thievery or jaywalking. “It’s loitering.”

I rose with an exaggerated courtesy, brushed off my trousers, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Apologies, Officer,” I said, tucking the dime into my pocket. “I was merely reflecting on the nature of wealth and the absurdity of human existence. But since that, too, appears to be prohibited, I’ll take my musings elsewhere.”

With that, I climbed into my trusty VW Bug and drove off with ten cents to my name and the world before me.

The great state of Nevada has taken a bold step toward innovation—or, depending on your perspective, lunacy—with Assembly Bill 20. The piece of legislative craftsmanship proposes that the Department of Motor Vehicles be allowed the privilege of slapping personalized medical condition symbols on driver’s licenses and ID cards, presumably to ensure that no citizen goes unclassified.

Yes, friends, in a world where we can’t use our driver’s license to prove we are who we say we are at the ballot box, we can be conveniently sorted by our ailments. No longer must the DMV be limited to the crude efficiency of a single symbol denoting a medical condition; now, with individualized codes, your card can function as both identification and a handy pocket-sized medical dossier.

Why stop there? Perhaps they’ll include your dietary restrictions and emotional triggers to round things out.

The DMV can only affix a single, mysterious symbol to indicate a medical condition, a practice that, while already questionable, at least afforded a shred of ambiguity. Under the proposed bill, each affliction— an allergy to peanuts, a tendency toward melancholy, or an unfortunate case of gout—may receive a distinguishing mark.

Imagine the possibilities–a little storm cloud for depression, a sneezing emoji for allergies, or maybe a tiny skull and crossbones for those with serious ailments.

The measure doesn’t stop there. In a move toward modernization, the bill also aims to streamline how the DMV pesters vehicle owners about their liability insurance.

Instead of sending an official-looking letter that gets promptly ignored, the department will now have the option of bombarding citizens with emails. The same folks who ignore paper notices will leap into action at the sight of an urgent DMV email—nestled somewhere between a phishing scam and an offer for discounted auto warranties.

Not everyone is thrilled with this grand vision of bureaucratic efficiency. The Libertarian Party of Nevada has taken a firm stance against the proposal, pointing out that a driver’s license—already a highly requested form of identification—could become an involuntary medical file accessible in places where no reasonable person would expect to see their medical history.

After all, do we want the bouncer at the local saloon scrutinizing our license for a diagnosis before letting us in?

The bill, first introduced on February 4, continues to wind its way through the legislative process, with another hearing scheduled for February 20. One can only hope that, amid all this effort to catalog our conditions, someone remembers that the DMV’s primary function is to regulate drivers, not moonlight as a branch of the medical profession.

It appears that the grand and glorious body of lawmakers in Nevada, never ones to let well enough alone, have once again taken to the noble pursuit of fixing things unbroken and breaking things that were working just fine. Enter Senate Bill 100, a measure so bristling with penalties and bureaucratic muscle that a man might find himself clapped in irons for so much as misplacing a voter registration form.

Under its provisions, public officers who dawdle too long over their election duties may discover themselves the proud recipients of a felony charge, a distinction heretofore reserved for more celebrated scoundrels. And should some hapless county clerk run afoul of the great and powerful Secretary of State, said official may be banished from his post by judicial decree, presumably to wander the sagebrush in search of redemption.

But this, dear reader, is mere child’s play compared to the peculiar horror of SB 102. This fine specimen of legislative invention appears to labor under the delusion that questioning an election is an offense so grave as to warrant eternal political exile.

Should a fellow dare to wonder aloud if all was fair in the ballot box, he may soon find himself stripped of the right to hold public office, as though he had committed some high crime against the Republic rather than the far lesser sin of exercising his vocal cords. The Democrat-controlled offices of the Secretary of State and Attorney General would have the power to prosecute at will, ensuring that political discourse remains as one-sided as a Nevada poker game with a marked deck.

Thus, in the spirit of progress, Nevada marches backward, ensuring elections shall henceforth be conducted with all the efficiency of a man attempting to saddle an unbroken Mustang with a twine—while simultaneously warning any citizen against expressing so much as a skeptical brow without fear of swift and merciless reprisal.

Gather ‘round, for I bring tidings of a most harmonious nature!

Our dear friend—who, by no fault of her own, is also a celebrated country music songstress—Lacy J. Dalton, shall be gracing the stage come Friday, February 21, at that hallowed hall of culture and calamity, Piper’s Opera House. She shan’t be alone in this endeavor, for David John of the Comstock Cowboys shall be riding alongside her, and they aim to deliver an evening of song fit to charm the gold fillings right out of your teeth.

Ms. Dalton dubbed the concert “Still My Valentine,”—an event promising more sentiment than a widow’s lament and more twang than a screen door in a windstorm. Those with the good sense to attend shall get treated to the rare spectacle of two fine entertainers, making historic Virginia City all the finer for their presence.

The doors shall swing open at the respectable hour of 5 p.m., with dinner to follow at 6 p.m.–that’s supper for those of you raised right–and the performance commencing at 7:30 p.m.—which is just about the time when respectable folk settle in for the night but the rest of us commence to livin’.

Should you wish to secure your place at this auspicious gathering, you may procure your tickets online, or if you prefer transactions conducted with a proper handshake and the scent of whiskey in the air, you may obtain them at the famed Bucket of Blood Saloon.

And should you wish to keep up with Ms. Dalton’s further adventures, you may follow her on that modern miracle known as Facebook—though I reckon if Mark Twain had such a contraption, he’d have never gotten a thing done.

The Nevada Division of Outdoor Recreation (NDOR) has unveiled a new website, ndor.nv.gov, designed to enhance the public’s access to Nevada’s great outdoors—by first requiring them to stay indoors, fire up their computing contraptions, and navigate a digital landscape before setting foot on an actual one.

In what can only be a masterpiece of modern irony, NDOR’s latest innovation offers an interactive hub filled with information on parks, trails, waterways, and public lands—presumably for those who enjoy reading about nature more than experiencing it. The site promises to make trip planning easier, though some might argue nature itself has a way of being found without the aid of government web design.

Beyond maps and directions, the website also touts NDOR’s efforts to promote outdoor recreation as an economic driver, ensuring that even in the wilderness, the specter of commerce is never too far behind. Conservation efforts are listed alongside grants for outdoor education programs because what is an unspoiled landscape without a well-funded committee to study it?

Denise Beronio, Administrator of NDOR, heralded the launch, declaring, “The launch of our new website represents a major step forward in making outdoor opportunities more accessible and beneficial for all.”

It is unknown if the mule deer and mountain lions will also find the interface intuitive.

The public is encouraged to explore the website and revel in the information. And when they’ve had enough digital nature, they might even step outside and see the real thing.

A New Tax Notion Rides into Town

The venerable sport of tax tinkering is alive and well in the Nevada Legislature.

Assemblywoman Natha Anderson has saddled up a fresh proposal to rearrange the arithmetic of property assessments. This enterprising scheme, known as AJR1, aims to upend the traditional method of taxation, ensuring that when a man parts ways with his land, the taxman is ready at the gate with a brand-new ledger and a sharp pencil.

Under the present arrangement, Nevada calculates property taxes based on land value and the cost of improvements, subtracting a modest sum each year for the wear and tear inflicted by time—1.5 percent annually, up to half a century. Partial abatements act as a damper, preventing taxes from ballooning like a politician’s campaign promises.

But fear not, for AJR1 proposes to snip away at these kindly considerations. Depreciation, that small mercy granted to the weary homeowner, would vanish the first year after a sale, and any improvements would be judged afresh as if age and entropy were mere fictions.

To soften the blow—or perhaps to ensure the townsfolk don’t take up pitchforks—the grand revision includes a tax refund program for those who have achieved the ripe age of 62 or find themselves beset by disabilities, provided they reside in the home taxed upon. The measure debuted in the Assembly on January 22, though it appears to be loitering in the halls of government, awaiting its next move.

Whether it rides triumphantly into law or led out the back door remains to be seen, but one thing is for sure–when it comes to taxes, the rules may change, but the payer remains the same.

The Trials of Travelers in Silver Springs

Citizens of this grand and free republic, take heed!

The Nevada Department of Transportation, in its boundless wisdom and fatherly concern for your well-being, has decreed that the great thoroughfare known as U.S. 50 shall henceforth be a most deliberate and vexatious impediment. Beginning Wednesday, February 19, and extending through the merry days of March–or until the good Lord himself intervenes–all who dare traverse the stretch near the Lahontan River Campground shall find themselves at the mercy of a single-lane closure, a most industrious workforce, and a temporary signal of dubious reliability.

The bridge—now undergoing a reconstruction of such importance that even Julius Caesar would nod approvingly—shall be reduced to a solitary passage, with traffic alternating in a manner that will surely test the patience of even the most saintly among us. The stoppages shall persist through all hours of the day and night, a democratic inconvenience shared equally by all.

To further prolong the agony, a reduction in speed to a snail-like 25 miles per hour shall be imposed, lest some reckless soul attempt to escape too swiftly from this bureaucratic marvel. Thus, dear travelers, steel your nerves, pack provisions, and prepare for a journey of uncommon delay, all in the noble pursuit of progress.

A Comedy of Errors in Three Acts

Ah, my dear reader, let us wade through the murky waters of Nevada’s 2024 General Election lawsuit with a careful step, lest we slip upon the banana peels of bureaucratic folly and land squarely upon the hard pavement of misgovernance.

To commence, we gaze upon the grand spectacle of November 8, wherein Washoe and Clark Counties engaged in an arithmetic performance so bewildering that it would have made a Mississippi riverboat gambler blush. The tally of mailed ballots suffered a most curious evaporation—28,869 of them, to be precise—vanishing faster than a silver dollar in a con man’s hand.

With all the conviction of a schoolboy caught filching apples, the Secretary of State attributed this discrepancy to a “copy and paste” error by Clark County. Meanwhile, not to be outdone in the fine art of blame-shifting, Clark County declared the fault lay with the Secretary of State’s office. Thus, the affair was neatly settled, like a drunken brawl where both parties agreed it was the other fellow’s fault.

Then came November 11, a date destined to be remembered not for valor but for vexation, as the 41,489 counted mailed ballots, a most perplexing 39,935, had failed to mark a choice for President. Now, such restraint in voting would be commendable if we were discussing a church picnic’s potato sack race, but in a national election–it raises a question or two. Either the ballot scanning machines possessed the eyesight of a bat in daylight, or some unseen hand had meddled in the affairs of the Republic with the dexterity of a pickpocket at a county fair.

And then, as if to crown this majestic pyramid of confusion with a final absurdity, the Clark County Board of Commissioners, on November 15, declared all was well and certified the election results with the confidence of a man selling a wooden leg with a termite problem. But alas, the mirage did not last long, for by November 30, statistical analysis uncovered a curious symmetry betwixt votes for Trump and Harris, indicating that randomness—the very foundation of honest elections—had been cast aside like an old campaign poster. The ‘Cast Vote Record’ was molded into an unnatural shape, much like a fish tale that gets longer with each telling.

Now, the U.S. Constitution, in its wisdom, guarantees a Republican form of government, not a vaudeville act where votes appear and disappear with the caprice of a stage magician. The legitimacy of elections must rest upon a foundation as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar, not upon the shifting sands of bureaucratic incompetence and statistical curiosities. If the people of this Republic are to govern themselves, they must first trust that the vote they cast is the vote that counts, lest we find ourselves governed not by the will of the people but by the whims of those who count the ballots.

If you ever go to Virginia City’s Tahoe House and gander above the office door, you’ll see an antique shotgun. And if you asked who owned the piece, Shelly McGregor’s name would come up.

Should you ask, “Who is this McGregor woman?” a local might squint at you sideways and say, “Shelly? Oh, she’s the gal with the scattergun and the luck of a two-legged dog in a footrace.”

They’d mean it kindly, but facts are facts, and Shelly’s marksmanship—or lack thereof—is the stuff of legend.

Shelly didn’t own that scattergun for protection, per se. She owned it because it came down through her family like a stubborn curse, and it seemed a shame to waste a good heirloom—even if said heirloom had a habit of hitting everything except its intended target. “I don’t need to hit what I aim at,” Shelly declared. “I just need to scare it bad enough that it runs away!”

This philosophy worked wonders until the day she decided to hone her skills.

It was a warm spring afternoon when Shelly set her sights on improving herself—or, at the very least, improving her chances of survival if a bear ever wandered too close to town. She tacked a paper bullseye to a venerable oak tree that had stood unbothered for a century and stepped back thirty paces.

Squinting one eye and then, inexplicably, closing the other, she muttered, “Here goes nothin’!” and pulled the trigger.

The oak tree stood unscathed, its bullseye still flapping mockingly in the breeze. But thirty feet to the left, and considering every life choice that had brought him to the unfortunate moment, stood a mule named Percival.

Percival, a mule of solid constitution and questionable judgment, had been nibbling sage shoots in blissful ignorance when Shelly’s buckshot re-routed his day and lifespan. With a mournful bray, Percival staggered, tottered, and then collapsed with the theatrical flair of an overworked actor in a fourth-rate tragedy.

Word spread faster than wildfire on a windy day, and it wasn’t long before Elias Bramble came stomping onto the scene. Elias was a wiry man with the disposition of a cactus and a shotgun slung over his shoulder that was considerably friendlier than he was.

“Shelly!” he hollered, his face redder than a boiled beet. “What in tarnation have you done to my mule?”

Shelly, to her credit, attempted a diplomatic approach. “Now, Elias, let’s not jump to conclusions. I was aiming at the bullseye, and your mule—well, he just sort of… volunteered.”

Elias squinted at her like he was calculating the odds of getting away with murder. “You call this a volunteer program, Shelly? Looks more like mule assassination to me!”

A heated debate ensued, where Elias made a compelling argument: You killed my mule, so you owe me a new one. Finding herself outmaneuvered in logic and firepower, Shelly eventually handed over a fistful of dollars in exchange for the late Percival.

Shelly had the mule dragged home, her wallet lighter, and her pride considerably bruised. She tried to make the best of it, telling a neighbor, “Well, it just goes to show—if you can’t hit what you aim at, you might as well hit somethin’ worth talkin’ about.”

What Could This Mean for Nevada?

Ain’t it a sight to behold? In the grand spectacle of the 2020 General Election in Arapahoe County, Colorado, where 354,267 ballots got cast, a peculiar thing happened—something so improbable, it might make even the most seasoned gambler pause his hand. A solid three percent of those votes, tallying up to 10,628 ballots, showed a voting pattern so synchronized between Republicans and Democrats that it would make you wonder if they were all reading from the same hymn book.

Now, it wasn’t just the usual partisan squabble on the ballot. No, sir. It was stranger as these two sworn enemies of the political landscape—those red and blue comrades—voted in perfect lockstep on Proposition B, a measure looking to do away with the Gallagher Amendment in Colorado’s state constitution. It’s curious, considering that these folks typically can’t agree on the color of the sky, let alone taxes.

And here’s where it gets downright uncanny. The correlation between the votes was a staggering 0.99—a statistical number so high, you’d think someone had been cooking the books. For you and me–it means they were just about as in sync as two folks singing a duet in perfect harmony, with barely a whisker’s difference in how they felt about the proposition.

It wasn’t a mere fluke of nature; it was more than 20 standard deviations from the norm. If it had been a poker hand, the odds of such a thing happening would’ve made a straight flush look like child’s play.

Now, despite the strange spectacle, Proposition B passed with a convincing 57 percent of the vote, and Arapahoe County played a mighty hand in securing that win. But hold on, this wasn’t just any old election.

Oh no, a whopping 46,062 votes seemed to have been moved around, shuffled in a way that would make a seasoned dealer proud, all to give the measure that final push. You won’t find this kind of thing happening in most places as Republicans and Democrats typically line up in opposing columns but voted together at 43 percent each in opposition to the measure, creating a voting pattern about as unusual as a hen laying a square egg.

Now, it ain’t just Arapahoe County that’s raising an eyebrow. This peculiar harmony in voting was spotted in other parts of the nation, too. In Nevada’s Washoe and Clark Counties during the 2024 General Election, synchronized voting was seen too. The ballot measures addressing things like ranked-choice voting and abortion access saw the same unusual pattern of Republicans and Democrats singing from the same sheet of music.

It’s enough to make a fella wonder if there’s an algorithm behind all this, pulling the strings in ways that might fly under the radar of your average election auditor. Some are even talking about the possibility of widespread algorithmic election fraud—a notion so outlandish, you might think it belongs in the pages of a dime novel. But if these voting patterns are any indication, it’s a question worth asking.

As the good people look toward coming elections, you can bet the issue of election integrity and the role of programmable electronic systems will be at the forefront of many heated discussions. With all this new evidence, folks are starting to believe we don’t have a fair and transparent education system.