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It seems the city of Reno is on a growth spurt and not the kind you see when your toddler eats an entire cake for breakfast. No, this is a grown-up growth, the sort you might expect from a place that’s somehow managed to sneak a few extra folks under the radar while the rest of us were busy minding our business.

According to some freshly minted data from the Economic Development Authority of Western Nevada (EDAWN)—which sounds official enough to make even a politician blush—Reno’s population has shot up by a whopping 90,280 since 2013. And hold onto your hats because another 61,500 are expected by 2033, meaning Reno will be as packed as a Vegas buffet line on New Year’s Eve.

Now, one might wonder where all these new folks are coming from. Maybe they’re fleeing California, or it’s just the siren call of Reno’s economy—after all, they say it’s a “no state income tax” sort of place, and who to turn down a little extra pocket change?

If you’re wondering what the good people of Reno are doing to keep the wheels of this busy city turning, look no further than the booming trade, transportation, and utilities sector. Since 1990, the share of Nevadans employed in this area has nearly doubled, jumping from 34.5 percent to 58.9 percent.

That’s a lot of folks hauling stuff around—whether it’s goods, services, or just the occasional casino buffet truck. If Reno’s economy were a vehicle, that sector would be the engine—and folks, it’s running like a finely tuned car, or at least like a pickup truck with good brakes.

Leisure and hospitality are also alive and well, which is no surprise to anyone who’s been to a Reno casino, hotel, or any establishment where you can throw dice at a table and hope for a little good fortune. Government jobs are growing because who wouldn’t want a cushy job where you can justify sitting in an office and calling it “economic development”?

Meanwhile, mining—the backbone of the state for many years—has taken a backseat. Since 1990, it’s been shrinking like a pair of jeans after an unfortunate encounter with the dryer.

The silver rush may have turned to dust, but don’t worry, Reno’s economy is still running full steam ahead. It looks like we’re trading mines for gigabytes—and the only thing harder than finding blue mud these days is finding someone who knows what a “silver rush” even is.

So, as Reno’s population grows and industries evolve, the city’s future looks brighter than a neon sign on Virginia Stree. Just don’t forget to bring your wallet because growth doesn’t come cheap.

Well, it seems the good folks over at the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals have decided to protect us from the horrors of prematurely viewing mugshots — as if seeing the face of an alleged wrongdoer before their conviction is akin to waterboarding them in public. The court has ruled that releasing mugshots could be “punishing” individuals not yet convicted, which, they say, violates the 8th Amendment’s prohibition of cruel and unusual punishment.

Quite the stretch, if you ask me. But, as I say, we live in an age of sensitivity.

As a result of this judicial wisdom, both Washoe and Lyon counties here in Nevada have taken up the new cause of fairness. The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office, known for their weekly “Mugshot Monday” feature on Facebook — the local equivalent of a reality TV show, without the plot or the drama — has decided to scrap the tradition in favor of a more mundane “arrest statistics” report. Yes, that’s right: no more mugshots, just dry numbers.

Who needs a face when you can have a statistic?

Washoe County, not one to get behind in the race for justice and fairness, has decided to follow suit — somewhat. Their District Attorney’s office will still release mugshots after the accused gets convicted.

We can all rest easier knowing that, once convicted, they’ll be happy to share those pictures. After all, there’s nothing quite as freeing as knowing you’ve been convicted of something before your face makes it into the public eye.

And yet, not every sheriff in Nevada is buying into this “don’t judge a criminal by their mugshot” philosophy. Some counties will keep things as they’ve always been, insisting that the Ninth Circuit’s ruling is the latest trend for overruling in an appeal.

After all, why should we stop showing mugshots when so many of us rely on them for entertainment and the occasional gossip? It’s almost as if these mugshots are part of our collective community spirit.

Now, if you’re wondering if this will make a difference, let me assure you, it’s all a bit like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Some will insist it’s a noble step toward fairness and justice, while others will keep right on posting mugshots.

The Ninth Circuit’s ruling might be as influential as a Nevada dust storm, but it’s bound to stir up a little more than a breeze.

In a matter of tragic consequence, a Carson City man is now behind bars, charged with the murder of a Minden resident following a deadly shooting in Gardnerville Thursday night.

At approximately 10:40 p.m., a flurry of gunfire echoed through the otherwise quiet streets of Kingslane Court, prompting a swift response from the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office. Upon their arrival, deputies found 27-year-old Charles Edward Wilkinson lying dead from apparent gunshot wounds.

Authorities have identified 25-year-old Gary Allen Dillishaw as the suspect in the shooting, alleging that he was the one responsible for Wilkinson’s untimely death. Dillishaw, following the incident, fled the scene and was believed to be armed and a serious threat to public safety.

Not wasting a moment, law enforcement across the region swung into action.

By Friday morning, around 6:15 a.m., officers with the Mineral County Sheriff’s Office apprehended Dillishaw after a brief vehicle chase. He was quickly transported and booked into the Mineral County Jail, where he now faces murder charges.

The community waits as the justice system prepares to take its course, with many left wondering about the circumstances that led to such a senseless act.

It seems the fine city of Henderson has found itself in a bit of a pickle, and at the center of this briny affair is none other than Chief of Police Hollie Chadwick. According to a proclamation—delivered, one imagines, with all the solemnity of a judge at a hanging—Chadwick has been placed on administrative leave and given an option that is hardly an option at all–resign within 21 days or be forcibly escorted from the premises.

In its infinite wisdom, the city has declined to elaborate on the precise nature of Chadwick’s sudden predicament, leaving the public to speculate with all the enthusiasm of old-timers at a general store. Meanwhile, Deputy Chief Itzhak Henn has been installed as the acting chief, though he, too, has been struck with a curious affliction that renders him unable to comment on the matter.

Chadwick, who first took the reins as chief in May of 2023, had been a fixture of the Henderson Police Department for 21 years, working her way through various leadership roles, including overseeing SWAT operations—a fact that makes her current predicament all the more ironic. Yet, despite her apparent fall from grace, her photograph still beamed down from the city’s official website as of Thursday.

When pressed for comment, the Henderson Police Department proved as talkative as a clam, deferring all inquiries to the City of Henderson’s communications office. It seems the city’s manager, Stephanie Garcia-Vause, holds the keys to the administrative kingdom, wielding the power to hire and fire as she pleases.

And if history is any guide, Chadwick is not the first to find herself at odds with city hall. Two of her predecessors, LaTesha Watson and Patrick Moers, each found cause to file lawsuits after their untimely departures in 2023 and 2018, respectively.

Whether Chadwick will follow in their litigious footsteps remains to be seen. Henderson has a habit of showing its chiefs the door–and seldom does it swing back the other way.

The Headless Elk and the Pursuit of Justice

It is a rare and dismal occasion when a man must set down his morning coffee and reflect upon the peculiar brand of scoundrel loose upon the land. Yet here we are, faced with the sad affair of two noble elk, cut down in their prime, not by hunters—who at least carry the dignity of lawful sport—but by villains of the lowest sort, whose sense of decency appears to be as absent as the heads they removed.

According to the Nevada Department of Wildlife, the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation has now put up a bounty—a $2,000 reward—for any information leading to the apprehension of these midnight butchers. One might assume such a sum would be enough to loosen the tongue of a witness or, at the very least, set an honest man to thinking whether he has seen anything of consequence.

The first of these ignoble deeds occurred over Labor Day weekend when a bull elk was found near the railroad tracks in Uvada, just a stone’s throw from Utah. Game wardens suspect a spotlight was used—an old and underhanded trick—and the head was carried away like a trophy while the rest of the animal was left to rot, serving no man, beast, or table.

It is worth noting that a short distance away, an archery hunt was in progress, where they engaged in the legal and time-honored pursuit of game. Whether our poachers were drawn to the thrill of unfair advantage or lacked the patience for lawful endeavor remains unknown.

The second case, no less egregious, saw another bull elk gunned down near Reed Cabin Summit in early December, likewise left to waste with only its antlers missing. It seems these miscreants possess no particular appetite for meat, only the grim satisfaction of destruction.

A proper hunter, if they have even a scrap of honor, will tell you that such acts are not merely illegal—but an insult to the very tradition of the chase. It is one thing to hunt for food, for conservation, or even for sport, but it is quite another to lay waste to a creature of the wild and then abandon it as though it were an old pair of boots. Even those who have never spent a day in the wilderness can surely recognize the sheer wastefulness of such an act.

As it stands, the Nevada Department of Wildlife has little in the way of clues, save for the fact that these crimes took place suspiciously close to the Utah border, raising the notion that the perpetrators may have slunk back across state lines, hoping to avoid the long arm of Nevada’s game wardens. But, as history has shown, men who steal what belongs to the public seldom escape justice forever.

For those inclined toward civic duty—or perhaps just a few extra dollars in their pocket—the state has set up a hotline and a modern invention called the NDOW Tip app, where concerned citizens may submit anonymous tips, photos, or videos. With any luck and perhaps a nudge from a guilty conscience somewhere, the culprits will get found, and Nevada extended grace.

Until then, let it be known far and wide: there is little respect for a man who slays an animal for nothing but vanity and less still for one who lacks the courage to answer for it.

In Clark County, where the air is hot, the land is dry, and the rent is always too high, a curious phenomenon took hold: landlords discovered that it was far more convenient to let their buildings rot into the ground than to lift so much as a finger to repair them.

This week, county officials made the arduous trek to the statehouse, where they regaled lawmakers with tales of substandard living conditions so harrowing that even the most indifferent property owner might feel a twinge of shame—if, of course, shame were still in stock at the general store.

The trouble, it seems, is that the law allows landlords to pay a fine instead of making repairs, which is like giving a burglar the option of paying a small toll rather than ceasing his trade. Assembly Bill 211, now under consideration, proposes a novel approach: instead of shutting down the buildings and sending hundreds of tenants into the desert to find shelter under sagebrush and discarded mattresses, a third party could step in and force the repairs.

Assemblymember Venicia Considine, the bill’s sponsor, painted a picture that would tug at even the hardest of hearts. There were seniors trapped in their homes due to months-long elevator failures, apartment complexes crawling with health code violations, and, in one particularly grisly case, a pool so neglected that it became the final resting place for untold numbers of unfortunate feral cats.

Clark County Chair Tick Segerblom described the maddening process of trying to persuade a landlord—presumably through pleading, cajoling, and sternly worded letters—to fix a 200-unit building, only to be met with the landlord’s steadfast refusal. “I have 200 people in a building that actually can be fixed,” he lamented, “and the landlord refuses to fix it and refuses to do anything.”

Opposition to the bill, naturally, came from the Nevada State Apartment Association, whose representatives cautioned that property owners must have “due process” and a “reasonable opportunity” to correct violations. One might suppose that multiple notices, months of inaction, and desperate pleas from tenants qualify as “reasonable opportunity,” but the reason is often a scarce commodity in the landlord trade.

For now, the committee has taken no action, leaving the fate of AB 211—and the residents of these crumbling tenements—in limbo. Whether the law will shift in favor of human decency or continue to bend toward the comfort of absentee landlords remains to be seen.

Nevada Schools, Immigration, and Children Learning in Peace

It appears, dear reader, that the great state of Nevada finds itself in a struggle most peculiar—namely, whether or not gentlepersons of the federal persuasion should be allowed to prowl about schoolhouses, peering over primers and interrogating young scholars on matters of nativity. One might think that a child’s chief worry in school ought to be arithmetic, not whether a man in a government-issued hat will haul his parents away before lunchtime.

But, alas, this is the age in which we live.

A certain Ms. González, an Assemblywoman, has proposed a bill—AB217—to spare children and their kin from such unpleasantries. The bill, in its essence, instructs immigration officials to keep their business outside school gates unless they arrive bearing a proper warrant or a court order, much like a gentleman caller seeking permission before entering a parlor. More than that, it forbids school employees from tattling to the authorities about a student’s household affairs unless there’s a pressing reason to do so.

It is well known that laws of this nature do not pass through the Legislature without some degree of commotion. For there is always a stout fellow somewhere, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, lamenting the downfall of civilization should the government be asked to temper its enthusiasm. But Ms. González, undeterred, has made her intentions plain: She means to provide immigrant families a sense of security, lest schoolhouses become the latest hunting ground for those with a fondness for deportation.

The bill comes as the nation finds itself in a curious state, where the laws of yesterday may be tossed out by breakfast and rewritten by suppertime. And nowhere is this uncertainty felt more acutely than in Nevada, where many families now wonder if schools—once a refuge for learning—might become something quite the opposite.

To illustrate the point, Ms. Arce, a devoted school staffer, tells of children who whisper of immigration officers like they were bogeymen lurking beneath their desks. “Although sometimes the children take it as a game,” she notes, “it is a fear that can affect them psychologically.”

And who among us would disagree? It is one thing to fret over a spelling test and quite another to fret over whether one’s father will be home for supper.

Meanwhile, school officials in various counties have issued letters and proclamations saying a student’s information isn’t for sharing with federal agents without due cause. No doubt, this will reassure some, but others may find cold comfort in promises made in ink when laws, as we know, are written in sand.

Adding to the excitement, AB217 also seeks to forbid school police officers from employing chemical agents or stun devices on students—a matter which, one might assume, should hardly need legislation. Yet here we are, in a time when it is necessary to instruct the constabulary that pepper-spraying children is, perhaps, bad form.

Nevada, however, is not alone in this crusade. Other states, too, have taken up the fight. In Oklahoma, legislators contemplate whether schools should inquire about a child’s citizenship before allowing them the privilege of grammar lessons. In New York, teachers have taken to sending cryptic messages to one another at the sight of immigration officers, much like villagers warning of approaching highwaymen.

And so the debate rages on. The Nevada State Education Association affirms that children should attend school without the nagging fear of unexpected government intrusion. It is a modest demand, yet it has the air of revolution.

As for Ms. González’s bill, it remains whether the Legislature will take up the matter with all due haste or if it will get lost in the shuffle of more pressing concerns, such as the proper allocation of funds for road repairs. In either case, one can only hope that Nevada’s children may, in the end, enjoy the rare privilege of attending school without looking over their shoulders.

We’ll Take Your Tire, Your Tax Burdened, Your Corporate Refugees

The great state of Delaware—long the favored haunt of corporations seeking shelter from the storm of responsibility—has taken a mighty blow to its supremacy, thanks to its own Supreme Court. The case at hand involved TripAdvisor’s parent company, which, in a fit of wisdom rarely observed in the business world, determined that it would be far better off under the generous embrace of Nevada law, where the burdens of liability are as light as a feather, and the consequences of mismanagement regarded as mere theoretical inconveniences.

“Nevada is proving itself a smart investment for businesses,” declared Secretary of State Aguilar, who has, no doubt, already commissioned the finest quill to sign the wave of new incorporations he expects to arrive by sundown. “With our business-friendly laws, our commitment to efficiency, and our unparalleled customer service, there is no finer place for a corporation to call home.”

Of course, some meddlesome minority shareholders took umbrage at this noble migration and filed suit, grumbling that it violated some solemn duty. The Delaware Supreme Court, after much profound contemplation and the consumption of many cigars, determined that Nevada’s supposed benefits were too vague and unproven to warrant judicial scrutiny. In other words, Delaware has declared that it will not be in the business of telling companies where they can or cannot flee so long as the paperwork is in order and the lawyers get their due.

The court, in the solemn and stately manner of all judicial bodies, delivered the following wisdom:

“If one expands one’s gaze beyond the mere rights of litigation, it becomes clear that the courts are in no position to measure the finer points of corporate governance across different jurisdictions. In this case, we must refrain from questioning the decisions of directors, who, as we all know, never act in self-interest and always have the well-being of their shareholders close to their hearts.”

Aguilar, naturally, took great delight in the ruling.

“I’m mighty grateful the Delaware Supreme Court has come to its senses and ruled in favor of corporate freedom,” he said, presumably while preparing a telegram reading, “COME ONE, COME ALL,” to be dispatched posthaste to every boardroom in America.

For many years, Delaware has been the grand and venerable temple of corporate law, where companies could do as they pleased with minimal interference from the unwashed masses who had the misfortune of owning shares. But recently, a chorus of disgruntled executives—among them the great and powerful Elon Musk—have begun muttering darkly about Delaware’s courts being too partial to shareholders. Their suspicions were confirmed last year when a Delaware judge took a scythe to Musk’s modest and reasonable $55 billion compensation package, reducing it to the unthinkable sum of zero.

Meanwhile, the wise and forward-thinking stewards of Dropbox have already abandoned Delaware’s increasingly unfriendly shores in favor of Nevada, citing the unpleasant phenomenon of litigation, a plague afflicting all who would rather spend their days issuing press statements than answering to a jury.

And so, with this ruling, Nevada stands ready to welcome all corporations seeking a home where laws are friendly, liabilities are scarce, and shareholders are seen but not heard. Whether this be the beginning of an exodus remains to be seen, but one thing is for sure–Aguilar will be waiting with open arms, a fountain pen, and a freshly inked business license.

The fire popped like a rifle shot, but no one flinched. I leaned back against the log, feeling the warmth creep up my boots. The others sat close, their faces half-lit, half-hidden in the orange wash of the flames.

“Listen, boys,” I said. “I ain’t much good at hunting deer.”

Joe glanced up from his flask, one eyebrow raised. “What’re you getting at?”

“I’ll dress ‘em,” I said. “I can skin ‘em, quarter ‘em, all that. But I can’t bring myself to shoot ‘em anymore.”

The fire hissed as if it didn’t care. The others shifted a little, boots scraping against dirt. Will finally broke the silence.

“Why not?” he asked.

I studied the ground, the way the firelight flickered against the pressed shape of my boots in the dirt. The words didn’t come easy, but they had to come.

“Once you’ve killed men,” I said, “hunting don’t feel like much fun anymore.”

Joe stopped mid-swig, his flask hovering in the air. The others went still. They weren’t looking at me, but I could feel them waiting.

“You mean in combat?” Will asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. The Corps.”

“The Marines,” Joe said. He said it like a statement, not a question.

“That’s right,” I said. “You do that kind of killing, and it gets into your bones. Stays there.”

They passed the flask around again, letting the silence do most of the talking. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t in a hurry to hear what they thought of it.

Finally, Will spoke up. “You telling me you’d starve before you’d kill something to eat?”

I shook my head, slow and firm. “No,” I said. “If it came to starving, I’d do it. I’ve done worse things to stay alive. But I don’t have to now. And I don’t feel the need. That’s all.”

Joe took another drink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Well,” he said, “if that’s how it is, that’s how it is.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s how it is.”

No one argued. The fire kept talking, the sparks jumping into the black sky like they wanted to escape. The night wrapped around us, heavy and cold, and none of us said much after that.

The Great Egg Swindle

It is a well-worn custom in the noble profession of politics that when a calamity befalls the common folk—be it flood, famine, or the sudden skyrocketing of egg prices—the first order of business is not to fix the problem but to locate a suitable scapegoat and dress him in horns.

Thus, we find ourselves observing a most amusing spectacle: the very architects of Nevada’s current egg predicament, those distinguished gentlepersons, who in 2021 hatched a law with the reckless enthusiasm of a fox redesigning the henhouse, now crying foul and casting blame upon a man who had not yet stepped foot into the Governor’s mansion when their handiwork took effect.

Assemblyman Howard Watts’ bill was supported proudly by Speaker Steve Yeager and officially signed into law by Governor Steve Sisolak, marking a notable example of legislative error. And yet, here the Democrats stand, indignant, wagging their fingers at Governor Joe Lombardo as though he had single-handedly stormed every chicken coop in the state and demanded tribute in yolks.

To witness this performance is to appreciate the boundless creativity of our public servants. Having set fire to the barn, they now declare that the new owner is to blame for the smoke. The remedy is another law, crafted with equal care and forethought, expected to produce consequences just as unexpected as the last.

In the meantime, the ordinary citizen, standing in the grocery aisle and pondering whether he must now take out a second mortgage to afford a breakfast omelet, may take solace in this one certainty that when the next great misadventure befalls Nevada, those responsible will be safely ensconced behind a podium, decrying their handiwork and seeking yet another scapegoat upon whom to pin the tail.