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With Lawyers for Scenery

The grand and ongoing spectacle of the Murdoch empire’s implosion reached its theatrical climax in a Nevada courtroom, where the fate of Fox News, that mighty purveyor of conservative hand-wringing and lucrative advertising, hung in the balance.

Any illusions of a peaceful family accord crumbled under the weight of decades of betrayal, ambition, and good old-fashioned spite. There sat Rupert Murdoch, a venerable 92, hunched in a Manhattan boardroom in March 2024, staring across at his son James, the family’s prodigal disappointment.

The occasion? A deposition, though the true drama unfolded not in the lawyer’s questioning but in the not-so-subtle missives Rupert himself was texting to his counsel.

“Have you ever done anything successful on your own?” one such inquiry read. Another: “Does it strike you that everything that goes wrong is always somebody else’s fault?”

James, one assumes, had to marvel at the audacity of a man who had spent a lifetime spinning entire news cycles out of inconvenient scapegoats. Rupert, ever the strategist, suspected James was conspiring with his sisters to wrest control of the Murdoch empire upon his death and turn Fox News into something dangerously close to USAID-funded journalism.

He had long pitted his other son, Lachlan, against James, ensuring that his chosen heir would uphold the grand tradition of profit-first, integrity-later reporting. A deep dive into this family psychodrama traces James’ long, tragic struggle to win his father’s favor, from his early days of being mocked at Sky Broadcasting to his efforts in making Star TV profitable.

Every triumph by James came with a fresh betrayal as Rupert dangled the crown only to snatch it away at the last moment. The company, Rupert had decided, was best run by men in the mold of Roger Ailes—self-styled pirates with a fondness for truth and full-throated outrage.

The saga features all the hallmarks of a proper dynastic unraveling: a second wife accused without evidence of being a Chinese spy, a family “constitution” abandoned faster than a Murdoch-backed political endorsement, and Zoom calls where legal teams outnumbered relatives. The December meeting to discuss the trust saw Rupert stiffly reading from a script, while the Reno courthouse showdown required carefully orchestrated arrivals to prevent any accidental fraternizing.

The fatal blunder? Rupert structured the family trust to give each child equal voting power. A decision he likely rued as Nevada Probate Commissioner Edmund Gorman ruled in favor of James and his sisters, leaving Rupert and Lachlan’s grand scheme in tatters.

James was in tears on the stand while recounting one last betrayal over a Disney deal. Ever consistent, Rupert responded to an invitation for a holiday reunion with a referral to his lawyers. And so, the Murdoch fortune enters a holding pattern, awaiting its inevitable fate—divided evenly among four heirs who have spent a lifetime at war.

If the Money Holds Out

Once famous for silver strikes and sagebrush, Northern Nevada now fancies itself the promised land of the almighty data center. And if you believe the fine folks at NV Energy, this stretch of desert may soon play host to an electrical grid so large it would make Prometheus himself tip his hat in admiration—assuming, of course, that all goes according to plan, which, as history has often reminded us, it rarely does.

Doug Cannon, the president and chief prognosticator of NV Energy, recently shared his vision.

“It is absolutely foreseeable,” he declared with all the confidence of a man not personally footing the bill, “that the electric grid in Northern Nevada could double, triple, even quadruple in size.”

In plain speech, “foreseeable” means something a man can see with his own two eyes, but in the realm of industry and finance, it is more akin to tossing a coin into a well and hoping the water rises to meet it.

The cause of all this excitement is none other than the booming data-storage industry, which has taken a particular shine to the fine, sunbaked lands east of Reno-Sparks. A Denver outfit called Tract has declared it will rain down a hundred billion dollars upon Storey County over the next decade, while another concern, Vantage, has pledged a comparatively modest $245 million—small change, really, for a business that guzzles electricity the way a parched prospector guzzles whiskey.

But before you get too giddy imagining a future lit up like the Vegas Strip on New Year’s Eve, there is the small matter of producing all that power. NV Energy has made it abundantly clear that it will not rush into things.

No, sir.

They will build their empire of power lines only once the data-storage industry has put its money where its megawatts are. As Mr. Cannon sagely warns, it would be a terrible shame if NV Energy poured billions into new infrastructure only for these data companies to suddenly vanish like a mining town after the gold runs out, leaving good, ordinary folks of Nevada to pick up the tab.

It is no idle concern, as opposition to these data centers is already taking root. The Reno Planning Commission has proposed a temporary halt on new data center permits within city limits, and the Sierra Club’s Toiyabe chapter has thrown its hat into the ring, appealing the approval of a new center near North Virginia and Stead Boulevard. But worry not—out in Storey and Lyon counties, where the land is still wild and the local officials still welcoming, the march of progress continues unhindered.

Of course, the real question remains–where will all this power come from?

NV Energy places great faith in the Greenlink West project, a grand $4.2 billion scheme that aims to string a 350-mile transmission line between Las Vegas and Reno. Once complete, it promises to deliver a mighty 4,000 megawatts of clean energy, enough to keep the lights on in some 4.8 million homes. But as impressive as that may sound, Mr. Cannon concedes it still won’t be enough to satisfy the insatiable hunger of the data industry.

So, what about nuclear power? A fine thing, nuclear energy—clean, constant, and feared by many.

Cannon acknowledges its merits but assures Nevadans that NV Energy has no immediate plans to pursue it. “Let someone else take those development costs,” he says, with the shrewdness of a man who knows when to let another gambler take the first roll of the dice.

He does keep a watchful eye on newfangled small modular reactors, which promise to stack up neatly like poker chips and provide flexible energy solutions. But, alas, these require water too—a resource Nevada has in about the same quantity as a Sunday school picnic has whiskey.

And so, as the grand vision unfolds–a power grid of unprecedented size, a desert teeming with humming servers, and an industry promising untold billions—all balanced on the careful calculations of persons who, if history is any guide, will either be hailed as visionaries or remembered as those who bit off more than they could chew.

Either way, it promises to be a show worth watching.

It was a case of déjà vu for the boys from Sage Ridge on Friday night, as they once again found themselves on the losing end against Smith Valley, just as they had back in January. This time, however, they came heartbreakingly close, missing the mark by a single basket in a 42-41 defeat at the hands of the Bulldogs.

The Bulldogs had a hot hand in sophomore Madison Slater, who lit up the scoreboard with 24 points. Not to be outdone, Teagan York chipped in with 11, ensuring Smith Valley walked away with their fourth straight victory.

For the Scorpions, the loss brings their season record down to 8-6, while the surging Bulldogs now boast a 12-6 mark.

There was little time for Sage Ridge to lick their wounds, as they were back on the hardwood almost immediately, only to be handed a lopsided 61-17 loss against Pyramid Lake on the 1st. Smith Valley, likewise, wasted no time keeping their momentum going, steamrolling Virginia City 58-27 the same day.

It’s been a rough stretch for Sage Ridge, but if there’s one thing you can count on in basketball, the next game always brings another chance.

Tall Tales and Tragedies

Saturday, February 15, 2025

Murder, Mischief, and Melancholy in the Silver State

155 Years Ago – The town of Empire found itself in the middle of a most uncivilized disagreement when one William A. Ducker found himself shot stone dead by a fellow known as George Price, who hailed from some Scandinavian persuasion. The dispute originated over a game of cards—proving once again that a bad hand is sometimes the least of a gambler’s troubles.

140 Years Ago – The solemnity of history called upon Carson City’s businesses to down their shutters and doff their hats in honor of fallen soldiers from Fort Churchill. From 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., or thereabouts, the city was to be devoted to mourning, to convince the dearly departed that Nevada still held them in the highest regard.

120 Years Ago – The good Parson Davis, determined to save souls with a more melodious racket, introduced an instrumental quartet to accompany the organ at the prison chapel. The captive congregation, normally more acquainted with the rattling of chains than the harmonies of hymns, was said to have appreciated the effort. The warden has yet to say if anyone moved to salvation or closer to the door.

60 Years Ago – Governor Grant Sawyer found himself in hot water with southern Nevada’s Negro leaders, who accused him of selling them “down the river” with his civil rights bill. The Governor, we assume, did his best to assure them that the only river in question was the Colorado and that he had no intention of pushing anyone into it.

40 Years Ago – Sen. Paul Laxalt, R-Nev., took it upon himself to remind the world that “chaos cannot be tolerated” at Lake Tahoe—though chaos, being notoriously hard of hearing, remained undeterred. Nevertheless, the Senator vowed to intervene in the Tahoe Regional Planning Agency, ensuring that, if there were disorder, it would at least be well-documented.

Sunday’s Dispatch: The Curious, the Macabre, and the Mystifying

155 Years Ago – Miss H.K. Clapp, a most enlightened instructor, took to teaching English to some thirty Chinese scholars. Miss Babcock assisted, along with a few more advanced students, hoping that linguistic proficiency might improve the Celestials’ fortunes—or at least their ability to read the contracts that so often found them in unexpected servitude.

140 Years Ago – The remains of Nevada’s forgotten soldiers were reinterred with the full solemnity of the occasion. Business houses were closed, flags lowered, and the entire population of Carson City, along with delegations from every town, made the ceremony a sight to remember. Even the Capitol took on a mournful air, though some suspect that was merely the usual disposition of those within.

120 Years Ago – A miner named Joe Ward suffered a most unfortunate accident involving a missed hole in the Goldfield district. Though he had clung to life, hopes of his recovery faded, and by last evening, efforts to save him were for naught. While some would call this the natural course of mining life, Joe Ward would have preferred a second opinion.

60 Years Ago – Fire Chief Les Groth tallied the past year’s infernos at a record-breaking $225,000, with the Copeland Lumber Yard alone accounting for $120,000. However, in a rare turn of justice, a person was apprehended on February 14. The man was convicted of 17 counts of arson, proving once again that while fire may be quick, it is not always faster than the law.

40 Years Ago – A Zephyr Cove man found himself in a manslaughter case, while a Carson City driver got arrested for a fatal DUI incident. Two persons perished, marking another day in which the laws of man and the laws of physics agreed that recklessness behind the wheel is a most unwise endeavor.

Tuesday’s Reflections on the Absurd and the Alarming

155 Years Ago – A lively debate on women’s suffrage drew an audience from the Adelphi and Nonpareil Clubs and the city’s leading ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Ellis argued in favor with vigor, while Mr. Davies countered with such wit that one could almost forget he was opposing the thing altogether. Mr. Waits followed, making a most reasoned case, though whether it reasoned anyone into agreement remains uncertain.

140 Years Ago – Virginia City was abuzz over the discovery of gold-bearing steer teeth. The unfortunate bovine took a drink from a gold-rich spring near Truckee, proving that even the livestock of Nevada had better luck than most of its miners.

120 Years Ago – A Golconda saloon brawl took a most serious turn when William Henderson got struck on the head with a bottle. His prognosis was grim, which should serve as a reminder that while whiskey is known to cause headaches, it is generally advisable to keep it inside the bottle rather than applied directly to the skull.

60 Years Ago – The Nevada Legislature opened its 53rd session under Democratic control for the first time in 28 years. William D. Swackhammer was named house leader, a title as formidable as the name itself, though whether he lived up to either remains a matter of legislative record.

40 Years Ago – The Assembly Government Affairs Committee gave tentative approval to a bill allowing governing bodies to hold closed meetings with legal counsel concerning lawsuits. The public, of course, was assured that this was entirely in their best interest and not at all an attempt to keep them blissfully uninformed.

And thus, dear reader, we close this chapter of Nevada’s curious history, where fortunes are made, lost, and occasionally found in the teeth of a steer.

There comes a time, dear reader, when a man must look upon his fellows and, with a heavy heart, sever ties with those who persist in proving themselves as impervious to truth as a frog to feathers. These are the sort of folks who bask in the warm, comforting glow of ignorance, like pigs luxuriating in mud—except that pigs, to their credit, usually know where the mud ends and the trough begins.

Such individuals take to propaganda the way a duck takes to water, swallowing it down with a gusto that would make a pelican blush. Spoonful by spoonful, they are fed their daily dose of polished pretense by the same media that wouldn’t recognize an honest day’s reporting if it came up and bit them on the seat of their trousers.

But oh, how they revel in it! The wallop of it, the zing, the righteous sensation of being entirely, emphatically wrong, yet convinced beyond all reason that they are the paragons of enlightenment.

To argue with such a person is to wrestle with a tar baby—entertaining for spectators, perhaps, but maddeningly futile for the participant. It is best to walk away, head held high, and let them enjoy their blissful ignorance, untroubled by facts or the pesky nuances of reality.

So, cut those ties, my friend, and let them wallow. Wide is the world, and the truth is durable, while fools are plentiful—you’ll never run short of them.

The snow had been falling hard for a day and a half. Six feet in thirty-six hours.

Heavy, wet, and dangerous. The kind that slid, that buried men.

At 11:30 Friday morning, two ski patrollers were on Lincoln Mountain, working avalanche control.

The job was simple. Set the charges.

Watch the snow move. Keep the mountain safe.

Then the mountain came down.

One found, shaken but whole. The other was not so lucky.

They pulled him out and got him to Mammoth Hospital. He was still breathing, but he needed more than what they had there.

They flew him out.

The mountain was closed by noon. No lifts. No runs.

Just silence and snow.

Nevada’s Next Governor?

Hilary Schieve—Reno’s self-declared champion of business, a maestro of municipal maneuvering, and a potential future contender for the governor’s seat. But before we all start dusting off our campaign signs and practicing our best “I voted” selfies, let us take a moment to ponder the legacy of this fine steward of public trust.

In 2012, Schieve took her first steps into the political arena, stepping into the City Council after a brief career in the resale clothing business. Some might say there’s no better preparation for public office than swapping out second-hand Levi’s, but it seems the business of running a city is quite different from running a Plato’s Closet.

She ascended to the mayor’s office in 2014, and what a ride it has been!

Three election victories, one term-limit loophole, and enough developer, casino, and PAC money to make a Vegas bookie blush. Naturally, none of this came without the help of well-placed friends, including Jessica Sferrazza—the daughter of a former mayor, top lobbyist, and occasional political Houdini who attempted and failed to eliminate term limits before slipping into a lucrative gig with a developer she once helped.

Schieve’s political reach extends across more committees and boards than a seasoned poker player’s winning streak. Whether it’s tourism, transportation, housing, or stadiums, she’s had a hand in them all—regardless of whether or not she’s had a clue what she was doing. But governing, like poker, is not always about knowing the game—it’s about knowing who’s at the table.

Now, like any ambitious politician, Schieve has had dreams of expanding her powers. In 2017, she sought to elevate herself from mere mayor to a “strong mayor” with veto authority—backed by her good friend, career political fixture Tic Segerblom. The state Senate approved, but alas, the Assembly did not. A setback that did not stop her from declaring her unshakable support for term limits–provided they did not apply to her.

Her hiring practices have raised more eyebrows than a prospector who found fool’s gold in a casino. When the time came to appoint a police chief, she overlooked qualifications in favor of a union leader who had—coincidentally, I’m sure—donated $10,000 to her campaign. Later, when Reno needed a city manager, Schieve dispensed with the formalities of applications and interviews, bestowing the role upon Jackie Bryant, an act of executive efficiency.

Then there’s the question of money—both the city’s and hers. In 2017, she boasted of saving Reno taxpayers $10,000, which was quite a feat considering she also spent $10,000 on a State of the City party. This particular brand of math has left many wondering if Reno’s finances are handled with the same meticulous care as a gambler’s last nickel in a slot machine.

Schieve has also shown an enthusiasm for the digital frontier, backing blockchain initiatives and attempting to turn Reno’s beloved Space Whale sculpture into an NFT—because nothing says “civic duty” quite like speculative digital art investments. Unfortunately, like many who jumped on the NFT and Bitcoin bandwagon, she rode the market straight into the ground, only to find herself securing a mortgage modification right before the 2022 election.

Coincidence? Perhaps.

A stroke of financial genius? Unlikely.

Her leadership during times of crisis has been equally remarkable. When riots broke out in 2020, causing $600,000 in damage, Schieve’s response was having police stand down—because nothing discourages criminal activity quite like a hands-off approach. Then came COVID-19, during which she arbitrarily decided which businesses were “essential” and which were not, ordering shutdowns without legal basis, bankrupting small businesses, and sending out secret observers to impose fines.

There’s no word yet on whether those same observers were available to check in on the rising cases of alcoholism, depression, and suicide that followed.

And now, with talk of a gubernatorial run on the horizon, one must ask—does the state of Nevada need more of this brand of leadership? With a track record of fiscal mismanagement, political favors, and economic misadventures, Schieve has left her mark on Reno. Whether that mark is a badge of honor or a warning sign depends on whom you ask.

So, as we reflect on the legacy of Mayor Hilary Schieve, let us remember that the road to higher office is paved not with good intentions but with well-connected allies, generous donors, and a steadfast belief that the rules apply to everyone—except, of course, those writing them.

Now, With Extra Red Tape

The Silver State, known for its glittering casinos and vast desert landscapes, has decided it needs fewer psychologists. While the rest of the country has recognized that mental health services are in crisis, Nevada has taken the bold step of adding an extra, pricey, and now mostly discredited test to keep potential psychologists from helping its struggling citizens.

Nevada ranks dead last in the nation for youth mental health services, which seems fitting for a state that prides itself on high-stakes gambling—except here, the stakes are people’s well-being. The controversial test, the EPPP-2, was supposed to be a nationwide requirement in 2026, but after backlash, the national board that created it decided to back down. In a stroke of regulatory genius, Nevada stubbornly refuses to drop the requirement, making it the last holdout, clinging to a test criticized as racially biased and lacking scientific validity.

For those keeping score at home, here’s how the system works: First, you shell out $800 for the standard psychology exam (EPPP). If you pass that, Nevada demands you fork over another $450 to $500 for the EPPP-2.

And if you fail? That’s another few hundred bucks each time you try again.

No wonder prospective psychologists are opting to get licensed anywhere else.

Adding to the absurdity, Nevada already has a statewide mental health provider shortage. According to UNLV and Brookings Mountain West, the state needs 235 more mental health professionals to meet the bare minimum. And yet, rather than making the path to licensure easier, Nevada is making it more difficult—a move that would make sense if the goal were to ensure people stay mentally unwell enough to keep gambling away their rent money.

Nevada’s stance on this exam is backward from the national push for uniform licensure standards. But then again, why should Nevada follow a logical path when it can instead charge its already underpaid, overworked mental health professionals extra fees for a test that does nothing but create bureaucratic headaches?

Governor Joe Lombardo, to his credit, has issued an order to streamline licensing. However, Nevada’s Board of Psychological Examiners seems determined to prove that unnecessary regulations are as much a part of the state as slot machines and overpriced buffets.

Studies show that minority applicants face significantly higher failure rates for the EPPP-2, which has raised concerns about increasing racial disparities in the profession. If Nevada was hoping to create a psychological workforce that looks nothing like the people it serves, mission accomplished.

In short, Nevada’s approach to mental health policy is like trying to fix a leaky boat by drilling more holes in it. If the goal is to remain at the bottom of mental health rankings, the state is succeeding spectacularly.

Meanwhile, Nevadans seeking help will have to settle for slot machines and self-diagnosis—because–at this rate, licensed psychologists might become as rare in the state as an honest game of three-card monte.

In yet another triumph of modern law enforcement, officers in South Lake Tahoe have courageously apprehended a most heinous criminal—a man wearing body armor. That’s right, not robbing a bank, not brandishing a weapon, not assaulting an innocent bystander—just the unspeakable act of trying not to get shot.

The villain in question, one Gabriel Evans, is no stranger to crime, having dabbled in such pastimes as bank robbery, domestic violence, and assault with deadly weapons. Now, however, the authorities have finally nailed him for the gravest offense of all–possessing level 3 body armor, an item so dangerous that it can stop bullets but, apparently, not the long arm of California’s bureaucratic justice.

The South Lake Tahoe Police Department, in a display of investigative prowess rarely seen outside a detective novel, suspected Evans might have body armor and launched an immediate investigation—because nothing threatens public safety like a felon choosing not to be riddled with holes. After an exhaustive search of his storage unit, their suspicions were confirmed.

Shortly thereafter, Evans was at Lake Tahoe Community College, where he attempted to make a daring escape—by getting on a bus. Yes, when confronted by officers, this career criminal resorted to the most cunning of getaway plans–public transportation.

To think of the mayhem that might have ensued had he successfully reached his destination—a library, perhaps, or a local coffee shop. Fortunately, the ever-vigilant officers of the SLTPD foiled this nefarious scheme, and Evans was in custody before he could commit the unthinkable crime of sitting on a bus.

One must applaud the priorities of the modern justice system. In an era where the streets teem with unpunished looters, repeat offenders get let off with a slap on the wrist, and certain officials seem more concerned with plastic straws than violent crime, we can all rest easy knowing that the state has devoted its resources to ensuring that convicted felons remain perfectly defenseless.

The Nevada Office of Traffic Safety has delivered some uplifting news, provided your definition of “uplifting” includes a 7.14 percent decrease in people meeting their maker on the state’s highways. January 2025 saw a mere 39 souls depart this world via Nevada’s roadways, compared to last year’s 42, which means, in government math, we are all but immortal now.

Naturally, the bureaucrats are not content with this minor triumph over the Grim Reaper. No, they are aiming for what they call “Zero Fatalities,” a noble goal if ever there was one, though history suggests that as long as there are automobiles, there will be those who insist on using them in ways neither God nor Henry Ford intended.

Still, they press on, urging citizens to avoid such novel methods of self-destruction as drunkenly careening down the highway, texting, and launching themselves into oncoming traffic with the reckless abandon of a caffeinated squirrel.

Of course, the state acknowledges that its 2025 data is “preliminary,” meaning that some forms and reports still await the magic of bureaucracy for proper tabulation. It seems even in death, one cannot escape paperwork.

For those who believe in personal responsibility—a rare and endangered species these days—the message is this–Buckle up, keep your wits about you, and resist the urge to conduct physics experiments at 80 miles per hour. The government, after all, cannot save you from yourself, even though it will try, with slogans, pamphlets, and very sternly worded reminders that “zero is the only acceptable number” when it comes to highway fatalities.

Now, if only they applied that philosophy to government waste.