The Old Blog in the Desert

A Gold Medal in Losing

It takes dedication to hold onto last place for years, but Nevada has done it. According to the latest figures from the federal Bureau of Labor Statistics, the Silver State spent all of 2024 as the nation’s unemployment champion, boasting a jobless rate of 5.6 percent—the worst in the country. South Dakota, by contrast, was positively overflowing with gainful employment, posting a mere 1.8 percent rate.

For those keeping track, the national unemployment rate in 2024 settled at four percent, proving that while the rest of the country was doing passably well, Nevada preferred to blaze a trail—straight into economic uncertainty.

A separate report for December 2024 confirmed the trend, ranking Nevada dead last with a rate of 5.8 percent. Close behind in this race to the bottom was California at 5.5 percent, followed by Kentucky and the District of Columbia at 5.3 percent.

To prove that consistency is key, the Nevada Department of Employment, Training, and Rehabilitation reported that the January unemployment rate remained at 5.8 percent. The Reno-Sparks metro area, now generously expanded to include Lyon County, shed 600 jobs between December and January, while the Las Vegas area waved goodbye to 7,500.

Perhaps they all left to find work in South Dakota.

Looking at the rest of the West, Nevada still managed to be the dimmest bulb in the chandelier. California followed close behind, while states like Utah at 3.3 percent and Montana with 2.9 percent left little doubt that gainful employment was, in fact, possible west of the Mississippi.

The best five states in the nation were South Dakota, North Dakota, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Montana, where joblessness is a mere rumor. For those in Nevada still seeking work, take heart—at least the state is winning at something.

Ladies and gentlemen, gather ’round and hearken to the latest yarn spun from the bustling workshops and gilded ledgers of Comstock Inc., the enterprising outfit that has turned refuse into riches, waste into wealth, and, if we are to believe their grand proclamations, has a mind to set the very laws of nature on their head.

Mr. Corrado De Gasperis, the esteemed Executive Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, has emerged to deliver a sermon of prosperity so grand that one might suspect he had just struck oil in his backyard.

“We have done it all,” he declares, waving a mighty hand over his kingdom of scrap metal and sun-baked silver mines. “The metals are thriving, the fuels are burning bright, and by George, we’ve even figured out how to squeeze gold from the guts of old solar panels.”

Among the latest marvels: a highfalutin photovoltaic recycling operation that promises to leave not a speck for the landfill; a biofuel scheme so grand it makes old King Midas look like a pauper; and a mining venture that, if the tea leaves are correct, aims to wring every last ounce of treasure from the Comstock hills before the sun itself burns out.

One must admire the audacity. Take, for instance, the claim to have birthed an “endless oil well” from common weeds and twigs of this fine land. Why, it seems that by 2035, the firm plans to be pumping out enough fuel to drown a hundred fleets of steamships—a proposition so ambitious that even the specter of old John D. Rockefeller himself might tip his hat in begrudging respect.

And let us not forget the mines! The company has peered deep into the crust of Nevada and found that there remains yet more silver. With the air of a man who has never met a rock he couldn’t monetize, Mr. De Gasperis assures us that the Comstock district is poised for a revival, no doubt to the joy of every pickaxe-wielding optimist still roaming the sagebrush.

But perhaps the grandest trick of them all is the reverse stock split, that old alchemist’s maneuver by which ten things become one without a single soul growing a penny richer.

“Fear not,” they tell their eager investors, “for this is all part of a magnificent plan to enable our boldest aspirations.”

And what grander aspiration could there be than to cleave Comstock Inc. in twain, birthing one company of metals and another of fuels, each destined, so they say, for unbounded glory?

It is a fine tale of ingenuity and ambition, grand visions, and even grander fortunes—provided that the sun continues to shine, the investors continue to believe, and the mines yield just enough silver to keep the wheels of progress well-oiled. And if, perchance, the stars align just so, then perhaps, just perhaps, Comstock Inc. shall indeed carve its name into the annals of industry, somewhere between the Gilded Age tycoons and the dreamers who dared to bottle the wind.

Well, here we go again, folks. Attorney General Aaron Ford, a man who presumably collects paychecks from the fine people of Nevada, has once more saddled up with a posse of Democratic attorneys general to do battle—not for his constituents, mind you, but for the cause of keeping Uncle Sam’s payroll fat and happy.

This time, Ford and nineteen like-minded colleagues have filed a motion in Maryland to stop the Trump administration’s so-called “mass layoffs” of federal probationary employees. In what has been melodramatically dubbed the “Valentine’s Day Massacre,” the administration bade farewell to some 24,000 probationary workers, leaving Ford and his compatriots in righteous indignation.

According to Ford, Nevada is in a crisis, with state resources stretched thin to care for these newly unemployed workers. The fact that these folks were federal employees and thus not Nevada’s responsibility appears to be a mere technicality in Ford’s mind. He insists that Washington should have given states a heads-up before downsizing—because if there’s one thing bureaucracy needs, it’s more paperwork and delays.

But let’s not kid ourselves. It isn’t really about layoffs or struggling workers. No, this is just the latest skirmish in Ford’s ongoing war against the Trump administration—a war that conveniently aligns with his ambition to be Nevada’s next governor. He’s already made a name for himself by battling over government efficiency, birthright citizenship, and medical research funding. The man loves a lawsuit the way a prospector loves a gold strike.

Ford assures Nevadans that the state will take care of the laid-off employees—offering taxpayer dollars to do what the federal government will not. But he wants Washington to foot the bill, warning that Nevada will not be left “on the hook” for mass firings.

Meanwhile, his coalition of legal crusaders hails from the usual roll call of blue states, from California to New York, Vermont to Hawaii. They are advocating for government employees to remain in their positions, regardless of the need for their services.

Nevadans might reasonably wonder when their attorney general will have time to focus on Nevada itself. But fear not—he’ll be back soon enough, just in time to ask for your vote.

The morning started like any other—coffee thick as tar, dust in my teeth, and the same Mustang that had carried me across more miles than I cared to count. She was a fine little horse, as firm as a rancher’s handshake and twice as honest. Never spooked, never faltered, never let me down.

Then, in a heartbeat, she turned into a demon from some deep and unholy place. One second, I was in the saddle. The next, I saw sky, dirt, then sky again, my boots barely holding the line between me and a full-fledged obituary.

She bucked like she was trying to break every bone in my body, and it damn near succeeded—until she hit the ground, folding over backward with me under the pile, and didn’t get back up. The boys had themselves a hearty laugh—until they saw me pull a long tack from her hide right where the cinch cut tight.

The laughter died like a rattler under a bootheel. Someone had ‘burred’ my mount and done it with intent.

It took two days of quiet questions and hard stares before I got the truth. And when I did, I didn’t waste time with words.

Found that son of a bitch leaning against the corral, chewing his cud like he had no concept of justice or retribution. He smiled. I swung. His knees buckled before he even knew he was falling. Then I hit him again.

Teeth rained into the dust like chips off a busted beer bottle. The rest got swallowed—an unfortunate digestion problem, as unpleasant coming out as going down.

My Mustang got better with some doctoring. The bastard who’d put that tack under my saddle wasn’t so lucky. They hauled him off to the hospital, and by the time he returned, he was out of a job and out of the game.

They said he’d been kicked in the face by a horse. I never said otherwise.

Some things a man ought to know better than to do. And if he doesn’t? Well, life has a way of teaching lessons that last.

There is a peculiar way of handling justice up in Storey County, and if you ain’t familiar with it, let me explain: it’s a system so finely tuned that the innocent can be locked up before they’ve finished explaining themselves while the guilty strut about unbothered, tipping their hats to the sheriff as they pass.

Take the case of Melanie Lindsley, who, upon seeking protection from her soon-to-be ex-husband, Bryce Lindsley, was suddenly acquainted with the inside of a jail cell. You might reckon this was because of some compelling evidence against her, but you’d be sorely mistaken.

No, Melanie’s misfortune came courtesy of the Storey County Sheriff’s Office and District Attorney Anne Langer, who have turned the scales of justice into a most amusing seesaw—one that only tips in favor of whomever they please. Melanie, armed with sworn statements, evidence, and the testimony of multiple witnesses, reported nine years’ worth of stalking, harassment, and violence at the hands of her husband.

According to any reasonable observer, this would warrant an arrest. And it did—only the arrest was hers. Bryce Lindsley, meanwhile, who by the sheriff’s admission meets the legal criteria for stalking and harassment, remains as unburdened as a coyote with a chicken coop key.

You might think that once her felony charges got dismissed—on account of being built upon a foundation of thin air–it would be all over. But no, dear reader, that would imply a desire for fairness in Storey County, and there is little evidence to support such a notion.

Instead, DA Langer has elected to pursue a misdemeanor charge against Melanie with the enthusiasm of a hound on a butcher’s trail. Some say this is because she aims to preserve her perfect conviction record, but I suspect she merely enjoys a good lost cause, provided it ruins the right sort of person.

And what of Sheriff Michael Cullen? A man elected on the promise of reform appears to have misunderstood his role, thinking “reform” meant refining the art of indifference. His office, fully aware of the laws, has opted to ignore them, proving that legal statutes in Storey County have all the weight of a feather in a strong breeze.

Meanwhile, Judge Eileen F. Herrington, in keeping with the local tradition, denied Melanie’s most recent attempt at a protection order—despite the evidence, despite the police report, despite common sense itself.

“This is not just about me,” Melanie has said, and she’s right.

It is about every woman who has sought justice only to find herself staring at it from behind iron bars. It is about every victim forced to prove their suffering while their abuser enjoys the comfort of impunity.

In a move that might make even the most seasoned politician raise an eyebrow, Nevada Assemblymembers are asking Governor Joe Lombardo to give a second chance to those unfortunate federal workers fired by the Trump administration. The request comes in the form of a letter penned by Speaker Steve Yeager, Speaker Pro-Tempore Daniele Monroe-Moreno, and Assembly Majority Floor Leader Sandra Jauregui, which, if nothing else, is proof that some things in politics never change.

In their missive, these fine folks express concern for the state’s 20,000 federal employees who’ve found themselves without a paycheck, let alone the healthcare that often comes with the job. The trio, no doubt acting out of genuine concern, suggest that the Governor might take a page from the playbooks of states like Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New Mexico, who have already taken it upon themselves to reabsorb the displaced workers into state roles.

Now, we find that Lombardo is not one to bow to the demands of the Legislature. His office responded faster than a jackrabbit running over asphalt on a hot day, reminding everyone that Nevada has been the picture of economic prosperity—if you consider leading the nation in employment growth and adding over 30,000 workers to the labor force a sign of success.

And while the Governor didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for the federal employees in question, he did encourage them to get in line like everyone else and apply for state employment, where they can continue serving the state in a manner that, no doubt, will make them as useless as they were in their previous jobs. Lombardo’s camp also took a moment to remind the Legislature that their job is to pass laws, not to grandstand for the political spotlight.

Maybe we all just started hiring each other.

No Real Danger Found

Dusty as Dayton may be, and where the biggest threat to one’s peace of mind is the occasional tumbleweed drifting by, an incident has stirred the pot. A young scholar, perhaps influenced by too many adventure novels or an overactive imagination, found themselves with a “kill list”—the sort of thing one would expect from a villain in a dime-store novel, not a student on a bus.

Wednesday morning, the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office came to investigate a report of this list, discovered, of all places, on a school bus belonging to the Lyon County School District. The authorities, ever vigilant, quickly tracked down the young person responsible for the list, and following a good old-fashioned heart-to-heart, they came to a conclusion that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud–the child has no access to a firearm and posed no immediate danger to the good people of Dayton.

The LCSO has assured the public that while the investigation continues, there’s no need to be alarmed—just a case of youthful folly and imagination running wild. Of course, as is often the case in these matters, the investigation involves other children, and so, much like a good mystery novel, some details remain behind closed doors.

After this brush with the law, one can only hope this youngster will channel their creativity into something more harmless—perhaps a list for better things, like a wish list for more homework.

A Grand Exchange of Leprechauns

Ever the land of bold enterprise and creative economics, Nevada has set its sights on a new and exotic trading partner: Ireland. Yes, that misty emerald isle where poetry flows like whiskey and the cows outnumber the citizens.

Speaker Steve Yeager and Assemblymember PK O’Neill, struck by a fit of international enthusiasm, are championing a bill to create a Trade Commission between Nevada and Ireland, a venture no doubt inspired by a late-night reverie over a pint of Guinness and a map of the Atlantic.

The grand aim of the Commission is to cement relations between the Silver State and the Shamrock Shore.

According to Yeager, AB160 is an “incredible opportunity” to “expand trade, create new business partnerships, and create jobs for Nevadans.” One might pause here to ask what exactly Nevada and Ireland have to trade, but such questions only dampen the spirit of progress.

For his part, O’Neill is as equally enthused, calling the legislation a “smart investment” for Nevada’s future. It suggests that Nevada’s economy—built upon gambling, mining, and the occasional alien conspiracy—was in desperate need of Irish intervention.

Perhaps the Commission will ensure a steady flow of stout and storytelling to Las Vegas while guaranteeing a robust supply of slot machines for the pubs of Dublin. It is a bold stroke of statesmanship, a bridge of commerce spanning the Atlantic.

And if nothing else, it will ensure that Nevada and Ireland remain forever linked, if only in the bewildered musings of those trying to figure out what they have to offer one another.

Ain’t this a curious tale straight out of a dime novel—except it’s all too real. Picture this: a fella by the name of Jairo Paredes-Cota, a 41-year-old teacher with a rather unsavory reputation, was apprehended by U.S. Marshals and ICE on Thursday in Reno as if he were a runaway horse caught in a corral.

The man, a fugitive wanted down south in Mexico for some awful deeds involving a young one—something about a teacher at the Indigenous Community University in Sinaloa misbehaving—was nabbed without so much as a squawk on East Plumb Lane. Paredes-Cota’s legal troubles, however, don’t stop with his alleged misdeeds in Mexico.

Oh no, indeed.

Paredes-Cota, the upstanding citizen that he is, got hisself expelled from the United States for violating immigration laws. But somehow, like a bad penny, he managed to turn up in Reno, leaving law enforcement scratching their heads.

It was the Mexican authorities who, after some time, called in the U.S. Marshals for help back in February, pleading for assistance to bring this errant soul to justice. And wouldn’t you know it? The long arm of the law came through once more.

Of course, we have the always-eloquent Nevada Attorney General, Mr. Aaron Ford, stepping forward with his two cents. Now, Mr. Ford insists that Nevada has no illegal alien problem.

“No sir,” he said.

According to his estimation, the folks crossing borders to come here are “hardworking family people” who “contribute to Nevada’s economy and society as a whole.” An optimistic view of things, if you ask me.

He seems to have a penchant for defending the less savory elements that wander across our borders. Meanwhile, U.S. Marshal Gary Schofield, a man with a keen sense for justice, made a statement worthy of a hero’s ballad.

“This arrest reflects our commitment to protecting victims and removing dangerous individuals through strong collaboration across the state.”

Strong words. One wonders if Mr. Ford, in all his wisdom, would care to weigh in on this collaboration.

The U.S. Marshals are always looking for tips and are eager for anyone with knowledge of the whereabouts of wanted criminals to come forward. They’ve even made it easy for you with a nifty hotline at 1-800-336-0102, or you can send your whispers over the web at www.usmarshals.gov/tips.

As it stands, Mr. Paredes-Cota is sitting pretty in ICE custody, awaiting his return to Mexico. It’s safe to say his run from justice is over—for now, at least.

It was inevitable, I suppose. You don’t dive into the shark-infested waters of journalism without expecting to come out a little chewed up, and this time, I got the treatment: a pink slip, a half-debouched editor howling in some ancient, forgotten dialect, and an office chair sailing through the air like a demented frisbee.

Fired. No golden parachute or farewell parade—just a swift boot from Rat-Face, the rodent they called an editor. Ol’ Rat-Face, his mustache that drooped like a dead thing by noon, had it in for me from the get-go. It wasn’t just professional friction; this was personal—a vendetta, a seething, verminous hatred.

It started with petty stuff—files disappearing, corrections showing up like unwanted guests in my copy, my assignments handed off to some snot-nosed kid whose writing was as compelling as watching paint dry.

Then it got ugly.

My paycheck? Evaporating faster than sweat in Death Valley. Rat-Face thought $160 a week was too much; he cut it down to $100 like it was nothing.

“You understand, right?” he said, preening that pathetic mustache.

“Yeah, I understand you’re a goddamn lunatic,” I shot back, slamming my hands down on his desk.

Rat-Face just blinked–those soulless little eyes of his. “We all make sacrifices for the paper.”

I went over his head, taking it to the real bosses. “We’ll get back to you tomorrow,” they said, with the sincerity of used-car salesmen selling you a lemon.

Tomorrow never came. Instead, three hours later, Rat-Face storms in, frothing like a rabid weasel.

“You think you can go over my head?” he screeched, his mustache dancing like a mad puppet. “You think you’re better than me?”

“I know I am, Rat-Face,” I said, lighting a cigarette for dramatic effect.

It escalated. I threw something out on social media—a harmless gripe, a whisper into the digital void—but Rat-Face, the vigilant rodent, pounced. He fired me on the spot. “Bad optics,” he said, suddenly playing the PR game like he wasn’t just a barely literate editor.

So there I was, a week and a half later, driving through my old beat, flipping off the billboards, reliving the whole circus in my mind. Some stops were nostalgia, others a reminder of the madness I was leaving behind.

I pulled into a gas station where the attendant looked like he’d been mummified mid-shift, his eyes like marbles in molasses. “You look like a man on a mission,” he mumbled, handing back my change with the enthusiasm of a stoned sloth.

“I just got fired from the worst newspaper in the country.”

“Sounds like freedom to me.”

I thought about that as I gassed up, staring at the sun-cracked asphalt, waiting for it to swallow me up. The air was thick with the buzz of the absurd.

My next stop was the diner–a place stuck in time since Eisenhower was in office. The waitress, who probably served during Prohibition, dropped a cup of coffee in front of me that could double as engine oil.

“Ain’t seen you in a bit,” she said, under her towering beehive.

“Got canned. Rat-Face finally gnawed through my last nerve.”

She smirked. “That little man’s been scared since you walked in. Heard he nearly wet himself when you lit that cigarette.”

“I like to think I left a mark.”

I chugged the coffee and hit the road, the taste of freedom and failure mixing like a Molotov cocktail at the end of the world in my mouth.