The Old Blog in the Desert

If there’s one thing a ballplayer hates, it’s scraping by on a narrow margin. The Douglas Tigers must have had that thought in mind when they took the field against Fernley on Thursday, leaving no doubt as they ran roughshod over the Vaqueros in a blistering 12-2 victory.

The Tigers’ bats, which had been relatively tame in their previous outing, erupted in this contest, pounding out runs with a vengeance. Titus Gocke manned the mound with the confidence of a seasoned gambler holding a full house, striking out seven over five innings while allowing no earned runs.

Meanwhile, Colt Cummins made himself right at home on the basepaths, reaching safely in four of his five plate appearances, belting a triple, knocking in a run, and scoring twice—the most runs posted since last April. Not to be outdone, Jared Peters kept pace, crossing home plate twice and reaching base in four of his five trips.

With this triumph, Douglas extends their record to 2-0, while Fernley, now stuck in the mud of a three-game losing streak and sitting at 1-4-1. The Vaqueros, desperate to turn their fortunes, will need to tighten their defense, as they’ve been giving up an average of 8.7 runs per game—hardly the kind of generosity that wins championships.

Next up, Douglas looks to keep the good times rolling against McQueen at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday. Fernley, meanwhile, has a date with Wooster at 10:00 a.m., where both teams will be searching for redemption.

The Wooster Colts, who are none too pleased after being trampled 12-2 by Damonte Ranch in their season opener, now saddle up for a road showdown against Fernley. History is not on their side, as the Mustangs have run them down in their last eight meetings.

Still, Wooster showed some life at the plate, with four players notching hits. Chris Ballard and Malik Vaden made their presence known, each scoring a run, with Vaden flashing some speed by swiping two bases.

Still licking its wounds from its latest thrashing, Fernley needs some fight to break free from their slump. The last time they locked horns with Wooster, the Vaqueros came up short in a 4-3 heartbreaker.

With this latest tilt set on their home turf, Fernley will be banking on a little home-field magic to right the ship.

Nevada’s Storey County is the runt of the litter in size, yet the Reno Tahoe Industrial Center (TRIC) houses some of the largest manufacturing outfits this side of the Rockies. And now, it seems, the county wants more than a handshake and a shiny new fire truck when the next big fish swims into its waters.

That’s the spirit behind Senate Bill 69, a proposal to put local governments in the loop when corporate giants come knocking. Storey County lobbyist Will Alder insists it’s high time the county finds recognition for something beyond its “hokey Western” charm.

“Nevada is advanced manufacturing nowadays,” he proclaims as if trying to talk some sense into those still picturing nothing but tumbleweeds and saloons.

The bill’s origins trace back to the Great Tesla Land Rush of 2014 when the state rolled out a billion-dollar welcome mat in tax incentives, property tax modifications, and who-knows-what-else. In return, Storey County received, in Adler’s words, “a fire truck.”

Not exactly a king’s ransom. So, when Tesla returned for another $330 million in tax breaks three years ago, Storey County decided not to be caught napping again.

“We have semi-trucks, they weigh more,” Adler points out, discussing the deep deliberations that ought to happen before a company moves in.

This time, Storey County struck a deal with Tesla to help foot the bill for reinforcing roads—a rare instance of corporate cooperation rather than a government scrambling to play catch-up.

Under Senate Bill 69, a county representative would finally have a proper seat at the table rather than being the cousin nobody remembers until the will gets read. As things stand, counties are given a mere 30-day notice before a major project barges in, kicking up dust and demanding infrastructure.

That, Adler argues, is no way to plan for the future. Of course, not everyone is keen on this newfound county empowerment, and soon, the opposition will have its say before the Senate Committee on Revenue and Economic Development.

Whether this bill passes or gets shuffled into the grand legislative junk drawer remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure—Storey County may be small, but it’s learning how to throw its weight around.

Silver City’s Most Delicious Auction Returns

On the evening of Friday, March 14th, at precisely 5:30 p.m., the citizens of Silver City—those with good taste and those with merely large appetites—will assemble at the historic Silver City Schoolhouse at 385 High Street to engage in a spectacle that combines high-stakes gambling, culinary mastery, and the noble art of charitable giving. For the fifth consecutive year, the Silver City Preservation Society, a group dedicated to preserving civilization in this remote outpost, will host its Annual Pi Day Pie Auction.

For those unfamiliar with Pi Day, get enlightened. Pi (π) is that mysterious and interminable number, beginning with 3.14 and meandering into infinity, much like an old-timer telling a story with no apparent end. It is a mathematical curiosity for the higher purpose of celebrating that most perfect of foods—the pie.

At this event, dozens of pies—sweet and savory, large and small, round and–well– round—shall be auctioned. The finest bakers of the Comstock have been laboring day and night to produce these marvels of flour, butter, and ingenuity. Those who know the Comstock know this–there are bakers in these parts who could make even a hardened prospector weep for joy at the mere scent of their crusts.

It is not some dreary, dignified affair where people whisper their bids in hushed tones—oh, no! It is a live auction, where the strong of heart and deep of pocket go head-to-head in a battle for supremacy, waving their hands and hard-earned dollars in the air with reckless abandon.

It is a contest of wit, will, and appetite, and it moves with the speed of a riverboat poker game about to be broken up by the authorities. Within two hours, the pies are gone, the money raised, and the town left in sleepy satisfaction.

All proceeds from this noble exercise in indulgence go to the Silver City Preservation Society, a fine institution that maintains the old schoolhouse, fosters community planning, operates a volunteer library, and brings forth a variety of cultural, educational, and artistic endeavors, all aimed at keeping Silver City from sliding back into the wilderness. So, Bring your wallets, appetites, and best poker face because bidding will be fierce, fortunes will be made and lost, and waistlines will vary.

Bid high, bid often, and—beware of that one pie that always goes for an outrageous sum. It is said to possess near-mystical properties or an ungodly amount of butter.

It appears that Attorney General Aaron Ford’s roster of “upstanding citizens” has gained yet another sterling member, one Rodrigo Valdovinos-Hernandez—who, now that the law had some say in the matter, ought to be somewhere south of the Rio Grande, rather than gracing the fair streets of Las Vegas with his continued presence.

Mr. Valdovinos-Hernandez—also known as Rodrigo Tejada-Valdovinos, or simply Rodrigo Valdovinos, for those who enjoy variety in their aliases—was discovered last May by ICE officials, no doubt in the middle of his industrious contributions to society. They found him thanks to the fine efforts of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, who had arrested him on state charges, presumably interrupting some noble enterprise.

It was not Mr. Valdovinos-Hernandez’s first uninvited stay in the United States. No, he had already been escorted out of the country twice—once in September 2009 and again in November 2012.

Yet, like a homesick tourist with an unfortunate sense of direction–he kept finding his way back. One might think that after two formal goodbyes, he would take the hint. However, persistence is a virtue.

His time in the U.S. has not been without its adventures. With three felony convictions under his belt—including attempted burglary and possession of a stolen motor vehicle—one might suspect that he harbors a fondness for other people’s property. Despite these minor legal inconveniences, he managed to secure yet another guilty plea, this time for the crime of simply existing where he ought not.

After a leisurely 18 months in federal custody—an all-expenses-paid retreat, courtesy of the American taxpayer—he will be freighted back to whence he came.

More Rascality Suspected

In the grand tradition of outlaws discovering that their enthusiasm for mischief is no match for the long arm of the law, one Christopher Symes found himself rudely interrupted late Monday night when a well-armed assemblage of the law took an interest in his whereabouts.

Authorities allege that Symes, alongside a collection of kindred spirits, undertook a bit of uninvited wealth redistribution in Elko, using the persuasive qualities of a firearm to make their case. While no doubt thrilling at the moment, such antics have an unfortunate tendency to attract the attention of individuals tasked with maintaining civilization, namely the Elko Police Department Crime Suppression Unit and the Nevada Division of Investigations.

With the suspect’s location sniffed out in Spring Creek and the nature of his alleged enterprise deemed sufficiently violent, the Special Weapons and Tactics Team (SWAT) roused from its slumber. The body of law enforcement, known for their enthusiasm, made their introduction just past 10:30 p.m. and persuaded Mr. Symes to accompany them elsewhere, presumably without gunplay.

Authorities, ever diligent, suggest that more arrests are in the offing, proving yet again that crime may be many things—exciting, lucrative, and even fashionable—but seldom is it a solitary pursuit. Those possessing any intelligence regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Symes’s fellow adventurers are encouraged to share their knowledge at 775-777-7310.

In the grand old tradition of kicking troublesome cans down the road, the Supreme Court plans to referee a dispute over where to pile up America’s surplus of nuclear leftovers. On one side, you have the federal government and a private outfit keen on stacking spent uranium in the open country of Texas. Texas Governor Greg Abbott is objecting to Uncle Sam’s latest scheme to turn his state into a glow-in-the-dark pantry for radioactive odds and ends.

The whole business traces its roots back to the ever-elusive search for a proper resting place for America’s atomic junk. Once a grand vision for permanent storage, the Yucca Mountain project got torpedoed by the citizens of Nevada, who decided that turning their backyard into a uranium burial ground was not on their list of civic improvements. That left the Nuclear Regulatory Commission scrambling for other options, which led to the bright idea of “temporary” storage in the wide-open spaces of Texas and New Mexico—temporary, of course, like an old sofa dumped in the desert is “temporary.”

At the heart of the matter is the legal right of states to protest when the federal government decides the state in question makes a fine dumping ground. The Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals ruled that the NRC overstepped its bounds in approving a Texas site, a decision that now stands in contrast to other courts that gave the NRC a free hand. The Supreme Court will now decide whether the Lone Star State and its neighbors get a say in the matter or whether the federal government, like a pushy dinner guest, can leave its mess wherever it pleases.

With the long memory of a government agency tasked with justifying its power, the Justice Department argues that the authority to handle nuclear waste has been in place since the Eisenhower administration. Opponents, including Republican and Democratic politicians and oil and gas interests, counter that storing radioactive fuel atop the Permian Basin—the golden goose of American energy—is about as wise as storing gunpowder in a blacksmith’s shop.

New Mexico’s governor, Michelle Lujan Grisham, finds herself in rare agreement with Abbott, both unwilling to see their states serve as America’s nuclear attic. Meanwhile, a chorus of concerned lawmakers, including Senator Ted Cruz, warns of the security risks posed by leaving highly radioactive material just sitting out in the countryside like an oversized, uranium-flavored piñata for any mischief-maker with bad intentions.

And so, the Supreme Court finds itself faced with deciding what to do with things no one wants. The fate of these nuclear waystations now rests with nine justices, who will determine whether the law permits this game of radioactive hot potato—or if Congress must first be bothered to say so explicitly.

Dayton’s Latest Arrest

Well, it seems that our good friend Quincy Lee Grubenman of Dayton has found hisself tangled in a predicament that could make even a cat think twice about chasing its tail. On the first Saturday of March, the Lyon County Sheriff’s deputies were doing their regular work, which, as fate would have it, included pulling over Mr. Grubenman on U.S. 50 near Retail Drive.

It wasn’t a fancy car he was driving, nor a particularly memorable one—just an unregistered contraption that seemed to have the same lawful presence as a windblown tumbleweed. But that wasn’t the most curious part of this little saga.

No, what caught the eye of our ever-vigilant deputies was the revelation that Mr. Grubenman, a man not unfamiliar with the law’s less friendly side, was allegedly not in compliance with his sex offender registration requirements.

Now, to make sure you know, when you find yourself on that list, the rules are clear as day—you’ve got to keep your registration up to date, just like you might keep your dog vaccinated or your shoes tied. Failing to do so is something the law doesn’t take kindly to, and neither did the deputies that day.

So, in a move that would’ve left any poker player thinking twice about their hand, Mr. Grubenman was arrested and carted off to the Lyon County Jail, charged with the felony of failing to register. One can only imagine what stories he’ll tell in there, though I suspect the deputies might have a few stories of their own to share about him.

There’s a lot to be said for a swift apology—mainly that it should come with a clause protecting the apologizer from cruel and unusual punishment. Last night, in a lapse of judgment that I deeply regret, I was short with my wife. This morning, she brought me a cup of coffee, which I naively accepted as a peace offering.

Sensing an opportunity to restore domestic tranquility, I said the magic words: “I’m sorry for losing my temper, last night.”

She smiled, said, “You’re forgiven,” and strolled away, leaving me with what I assumed was a fresh start to my day.

Then I took a sip.

Friends, I have tasted the ocean. I have swallowed seawater after being knocked over by a wave. And yet, nothing in my life had prepared me for the briny abomination that assaulted my taste buds.

I enjoyed it without complaint.

And thus, I learned two valuable lessons: First, forgiveness in marriage is a dish best served with a pinch of quickness. And second, if your wife brings you coffee after an argument, ask her to take the first taste.

The sky was gray over Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Fernley as the wind stirred the flags. The ceremony brief, its significance felt.

The Nevada Veterans Coalition had come together to honor those who had served and then forgotten by their families. The crowd, few in number, stood silent as the Patriot Guard Riders marched in with the flags.

In remembrance, the names read as the columbarium wall echoed them solemnly.

The ceremony was simple: a three-volley salute, Taps, and Amazing Grace. Then, the folding of the flag—neat, sharp, deliberate. It was presented, as always, to a member of the community who was humble enough to accept it.

Diane Mckillip took the flag, her hands steady. She had come from Sparks.

She knew the men who had worn the uniform. Her grandfather had been in the Navy, her father in the Marines, and an Uncle had flown in Korea.

She stood, quiet, at the edge of the pavilion, taking in the weight of it all.

The narrator, Sharon Serenko, spoke with a voice that echoed in the stillness. She thanked the veterans for their service and reminded those who had come to remember that each gravestone told a story—one that needed hearing.

She called it a privilege, and it was clear she meant it.

The ceremony ended as it had begun. Simple. No fanfare.

Just a quiet remembrance. A nation’s gratitude in a small act of respect.

The veterans laid to rest for February included Air Force Sgt. Patrick Mooney, Army Pvt. William Gryder, Spc. 4 Jeffrey Keltner, Ralph Leonardi, Pvt. Ronald McLarnan, 1Lt. Thomas O’Brien, Pfc. William Shipley, Navy SR Daniel Alvey, EMC Melvin Burrow, SM3 Thomas Dougherty, CS3 Ronald Huff, SN Philip Rupert, MM2 Mario Secchi, and U.S. Marines Gunnery Sgt. Richard Harold and Cpl. Richard Machado.

Veterans laid to rest in January included Air Force Airman First Class William Dickey and Airman Second Class George Kell, Army Pfc. Randolf Chandler, Sgt. Dennis Chrisman, Sgt. Walden Crawford, Spec. Fourth Class Leonardi Fontes, Sgt. Carl Huycke, Pfc. Andrew Pullos, Jordan Sanchez; Navy Lawrence Flattem, IC3 Robert Hell, MM2 Darrel Kelly, AWC Jerry Jenkins, SA Carey Petty, ETN3 David Ruhl, and John Winter.

Dust to dust. Amen.

Well, it appears Senator Jacky Rosen is at it again, and this time dusting off a five-year-old event to stir up some more fear and hoopla to push through a bill that’ll have all the finesse of a bull in a china shop. Her latest venture? A ban on high-capacity magazines, those contraptions she deems so dreadfully dangerous.

According to Rosen, any magazine holding more than ten rounds is just a ticking time bomb waiting to go off in the hands of the wrong person.

The bill, dubbed the Keep Americans Safe Act, promises a noble-sounding buyback program for those wicked high-capacity magazines, along with the grand authority to send law enforcement after anyone caught with one and take those gadgets away, presumably with the precision of a deer hunter and the grace of a stampede.

But here’s the thing–Rosen–bless her heart, still doesn’t seem to understand the simple concept of “shall not infringe.” The Founding Fathers, those fellows who set up this nation and wrote the Constitution, might have been less charitable in their views of federal overreach than our dear Senator.

You see, they didn’t put the words “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms” for decoration. And here’s the kicker—while Rosen’s busy invoking the shadow of that sad day in Las Vegas on October 1st, 2017, what she’s missed is that most Nevadans see that whole tragedy a little differently.

Instead of a lamentable mass shooting, many folks around here think it was just another one of those federal gun-running operations gone awry. So, while Rosen tries to pull the wool over your eyes with the same old fear-mongering, most folks who’ve lived here more than a week can tell you it wasn’t the magazines that made the mess.

And until she can wrap her head around that, all this talk about “commonsense legislation” rings hollow.

It’s clear that she’s trying to take a five-year-old tragedy and use it as a cudgel to push her pet project, but it’s not fooling anyone around here. We’ve seen enough of the government’s meddling to realize that they’ve got their hand in the cookie jar, and it’s not always for our benefit.

Rosen can try all she wants, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before she convinces Nevadans that a federal ban on magazines is the solution to what’s gone wrong in this country.