Author: Tom Darby

Not being one to shy away from calling a spade a spade, nor a skunk, a skunk, if a man’s got a bucket labeled “truth,” he best not go to the online news site, Nevada Independent for a refill, lest he likes it full of holes and lies slicker than a greased politician at election time.

The tale begins with Democrats caterwaulin’ about Sigal Chattah, Interim U.S. Attorney for Nevada. The site claimed, with dramatic swoons and trembling lips, that she was cavorting with the Republican Party after her appointment, thereby violating all manner of Department of Justice codes and spells and sacred bureaucratic oaths.

They leaned hard on the claim that Miss Chattah attended a Nevada Republican meeting virtually and introduced like a homecoming queen to thunderous applause.

“Scandal!” they cried.

“Illegality!” they gasped.

And then—lo and behold—it turns out none of it happened. Not some of it. Not a detail or two. None of it.

Miss Chattah never called in. She was not a part of the meeting.

What was peddled by the Nevada Independent wasn’t inaccurate—it was pure political fiction, a bedtime story for angry leftists who can’t stomach the idea of a Republican doing anything besides getting tarred and feathered in their morning headlines. You might ask yourself, “How could such a lie go to print?”

That’s a fair question for an honest man. But we’re not dealing with honest folks here—we’re dealing with media lapdogs who’ll bark and yip at their master’s command, especially when that master wears a blue tie and talks about equity over breakfast.

And then there’s the reporters, bless their peeping little hearts, who weren’t even inside the meeting room. They claim they glimpsed an iPhone, a flash of light, a name mentioned, and then—poof!—a scandal conjured from the smoke like a rabbit from a cheap magician’s hat.

That ain’t journalism, friend. That’s theater. Bad theater, at that.

They say Miss Chattah’s continued presence as RNC committeewoman breaks DOJ rules. Maybe it does, maybe it don’t.

But if you’re going to accuse a woman of breaking the law, you’d best get your facts in a row before galloping off like Paul Revere with a lantern. Otherwise, what you’ve got ain’t news—it’s libel in ink-stained britches.

The media ought to retract the story. Not just quietly, like a mouse sneakin’ out the pantry, but loud and proud with a mea culpa as big as the lie itself.

Anything less is cowardice with a press pass.

And let’s be plain–if this is how the Nevada Independent means to practice journalism—pushing rumor like gospel—they might find themselves in court someday, lookin’ sheepish and sweaty in front of a judge who don’t take kindly to political hit jobs dressed up in borrowed virtue. It’s why the left and their lapdog media are losing credibility faster than a card cheat at a church picnic.

When the truth finally floats to the surface, liars tend to sink with the weight of their nonsense.

Belles, Bustles, and Bodacious Beauty

The fifth annual National Miss Curvy pageant unfolded in the City of Sin and Sequins, Las Vegas, like a Sunday picnic in a thunderstorm—loud, proud, and full of surprise.

The pageant, held in March—just as spring was beginning to flirt with the desert—saw curvy queens arrive from as far off as Guam, Texas, Colorado, and Washington. As the host state and not one to get outdone in hospitality or hip-swinging glory–Nevada sent its best and boldest, and by thunder, it paid off.

Two Nevada roses took the highest crowns this year–Neftali Cruz Nicolas, named National Miss Curvy 2025, while the effervescent and ever-eloquent Francisca “Franny” Ramos strutted away with the title of National Ms. Curvy Elite 2025.

If you’ve never seen a woman beam like a sunrise over the Sierra, then you ought to’ve been in that room.

There were gowns like waterfalls, sass by the bucketload, and enough confidence to float a steamboat down the Truckee. And don’t let the rhinestones fool you—these women had wit, charm, and a stage presence that would make Cleopatra drop her eyeliner.

The Miss Curvy Organization, which started as a whisper and is now a joyful shout, announced the next national competition will happen in Carson City come Spring 2026. It’s a good place for it—as the city has a tenderness for pageantry, politics, and other forms of well-dressed drama.

Wishing to keep up with the crowning glories, flirtations, and festivities of the Miss Curvy Organization? Follow them on Facebook.

But don’t say you ain’t warned if you find yourself smitten.

Why Laws Don’t Plug Leaks

Now, it’s a strange thing about water—man can harness it, hoard it, fight over it, and even try to legislate it, but he sure can’t make it.

And for all the bills and acts and official declarations made from the marble benches of Carson City, not one of them ever crawled down a pipe and fixed a leak. It’s known that you can’t patch a dry well with a committee vote.

Back in 2014, when the sun had its fist around Nevada’s throat tighter than usual, the farmers in Mason and Smith valleys found their wells sucking air. The good folks in Diamond Valley got told to either hatch a plan to manage their vanishing groundwater or kiss what’s left of it goodbye. That’s a hundred miles apart and two valleys in the same leaky boat—both having drawn more from the earth than Mother Nature ever deposited back.

The business of overdrawing the water account ain’t new. Nevada’s been writing water checks that it couldn’t cash for decades. You see, the state handed out more water rights than there is water to back’em—like giving out tickets to a sold-out show and then wondering why there’s a riot at the door.

In 2023, some enterprising lawmakers got the idea to buy back water rights—pay folks not to use the water they were legally allowed to use– called it “retirement,” as if those acre-feet of water had earned a pension. Senate Bill 36 and Assembly Bill 104 are the latest shots at this, giving willing water holders a chance to sell their rights and take a seat on the porch while the land dries up without them.

The state gave the retirement idea a trial run with a $25 million federal fund. Nevada’s politicians called it a pilot program—though the only thing flying was money out the door.

Folks signed up faster than expected because nothing says “dry,” like a check for $850 per acre-foot. Waterholders sold off their paper rights, which is a fancy way of saying they weren’t using the water anyway.

Paid for nothing, in some cases. That’s government efficiency for you—two men digging a hole, three writing about it, and four passing laws saying to fill it.

Meanwhile, lawmakers now wrangle over whether they should make the buyback system permanent or at least let it stagger along until 2035 before they pull the plug again. Ten years to fix what took a century to break?

That’s mighty optimistic—like putting a patch on a barrel of gunpowder and calling it a safe room.

There’s one thing all the hydrologists, ranchers, conservationists, and bureaucrats agree on–the problem ain’t going away with good intentions or recycled bill numbers. Nevada gets nine inches of rain yearly–if the clouds feel generous.

And of that, just a sliver finds its way back underground. The rest gets swept away by sunshine and wind like loose change on a gambling table.

And yet, half the state’s freshwater now comes from groundwater—water that used to sit beneath our feet before we got the notion to suck it up and sell it like soda. Experts say the basins are draining faster than a bottle in a bar fight.

And we know about experts–they’re the ones good a breakin’ everything and callin’ it fixed.

While legislation can frame a picture, it can’t paint the water back in. We can retire rights, redefine standards, and rewrite laws till pens run dry—and they still can’t make it rain.

And a law has never yet stood at the edge of a cracked basin, looked into the dust, and known the feel of drought. So, as long as we believe that paper promises can wet the roots, they’re liable to keep passing bills and watching wells go dry.

Truth be, you can’t fix a water crisis with a fountain pen, and that’s the kind of plain-spoken arithmetic any farmer could tell you—if he hasn’t already packed up and moved east.

Well now, it seems Senator Jacky Rosen—bless her ambitions and damn her judgment—has taken it upon herself to rescue the Republic from the clutches of Citizens United, that Supreme Court decision which, in her mind, turned every corporation into a cigar-chomping robber baron and every political donor into a demon with gold teeth and bottomless pockets.

The good Senator has introduced what she calls the “Democracy for All Amendment,” which sounds like something a schoolchild would scribble on a protest sign while standing outside a coumty courthouse with a juice box and a vague sense of injustice. The amendment, in theory, would overturn Citizens United and, for good measure, throw a lasso around any other judicial ruling that dared let folks spend their money telling other folks what to think.

Rosen assures that it’s all in the service of The People—those poor, plain souls she’s fond of when it’s time to campaign but somewhat forgetful of come budget season. She says, “billionaires like Elon Musk have been pouring unlimited amounts of dark money in an effort to influence elections.”

It’s reckoned that if Musk bought a coffee in Washington, she’d accuse the beans of being politically compromised.

But let us pause and examine the machinery here. Anything Rosen touches generally turns to fertilizer—and not the good kind, mind you.

It isn’t some high-minded crusade against corruption; it’s a knee-jerk reaction to Musk, plain and simple. The man sneezes, and half of Washington runs for cover while the other half writes legislation.

Her proposal won’t pass, of course. Constitutional amendments are about as easy to push through Congress as a greased pig through a keyhole.

But that ain’t the point. The point is to appear noble while doing nothing, to shout “Democracy!” while changing the subject from anything that actually might require effort or cost Rosen a donor.

So here we are–another show, another curtain call, another speech on the evils of money delivered by a politician who never once ran a campaign with a bake sale and some good intentions. If it weren’t so transparently cynical, it might be funny.

And if it weren’t so common, it might even be news.

Never wish to go meddlin’ in a man’s business unless he’s gone and made it the people’s business—like gettin’ hisself arrested and carted off to the Washoe County lock-up, which is precisely what happened to a pair of gents with names longer than a preacher’s sermon.

First up was a fellow by the name of Felix Nunez-Nevarez, who found himself acquainted with the long arm of the law in the wee hours of Friday, April 4th, at precisely 1:43 a.m.—a time when most honest men are either asleep or out chasin’ a mule they shouldn’t have let wander off. It does appear that Mr. Nunez-Nevarez had been driving with more spirits in hisself than a haunted house and tipped the scales over the legal limit. For his trouble, he earned himself a first-time DUI charge and a little note from the good folks at U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who asked the jailhouse to keep him warm on their behalf.

Not to be outdone in the department of poor judgment, another gent, Francisco Alvarado-Galicia, was booked the day prior—Thursday, April 3rd, at 2:19 p.m.—under an ICE hold. Now, just so we’re square on the facts–entering the United States illegally is a crime. Period.

That’s not opinion or poetry. It’s law.

Now, both men are still sittin’ in the Washoe County Detention Facility, likely ponderin’ their missteps and wishin’ they’d taken a different fork in the road. The moral of the story? Don’t drink and drive, and don’t sneak across borders like a game of hide-and-seek.

Uncle Sam might be slow to rouse, but when he does, he don’t miss.

But the Big One Still Waits to Show Off

It appears the earth beneath northern Nevada, like an old mule with a burr under its saddle, has taken to kicking now and again—not hard enough to bust up the barn, mind you, but just enough to remind you that it’s still there, sulking and waiting for its day in the sun.

Beginning early Sunday, a gaggle of earthquakes—some no bigger than a hiccup in a teacup—took to dancing their minuet beneath the sagebrush and sand. The most boisterous of the bunch hit at 2:22 a.m. when most respectable folks were asleep, and the rest were wishing they were.

That shaker measured a 3.4 on the seismograph scale, which, for the uninitiated, is about the geological equivalent of your Aunt Martha dropping a pumpkin pie in the kitchen and hollering about it.

The quake took place 14.5 miles southwest of Fernley and dug in about 30,183 feet beneath the crust, where it no doubt stews with its comrades like mischief-prone schoolboys in a cellar. A little while later—5:02 a.m.—a tremor, clocking in at 2.4, happened the same distance northeast of Virginia City as a retort.

Now, these weren’t lone wolves. A whole family reunion of miniature tremors, ranging between 1.1 and 1.6 in magnitude, came ambling through the same countryside over the next 24 hours, quiet enough that even the coyotes didn’t pause their howling–or whatever less cliché sound you fancy they make these days.

Farther afield, a modest 1.5 magnitude tremor tapped the earth’s shoulder 9.1 miles east-northeast of Yerington just before lunch on Sunday. It was polite enough to come and go without causing a stir, a trait many politicians could learn from.

According to the learned folk at the Nevada Seismological Laboratory—a fine bunch, though I suspect some of them could use a good shave and a vacation—more than two dozen tremors have visited the area within a 35-mile radius over the past 60 days. It’s a warning sign from Mother Earth as she practices her steps before the real cotillion.

Now, lest you grow nervous and wrap your fine china in bubble wrap, let me assure you: DOGE, bless its pixelated heart, will not prevent an earthquake from giving its best performance. When the Big One decides it’s time to take center stage, no cryptocurrency nor canary in the coal mine will hold it back.

Until then, sleep well and keep your boots near the bed. The earth may be old, but she still knows how to tap her foot when the mood strikes.

If you’re coming to the United States on a student visa, you best mind your P’s & Q’s and every consonant in between.

There’s a peculiar wind blowing through the halls of learning these days—a mean, sharp wind, bureaucratic in flavor and most disagreeable in effect. College presidents from Mankato to Tuscaloosa to UNLV are scratching their heads and tugging their whiskers to understand why the federal government is suddenly treating foreign students like they’ve stumbled into Vatican City without the Pope’s blessing.

At Minnesota State, Edward Inch—who seems to be in charge of the joint—reported that five international students had their visas yanked with no more explanation than a chicken gets before it becomes Sunday dinner.

It wasn’t always the way. Foreign students who got their Visa clipped early could still finish their studies, but now it’s wham-bam, pack your bags, and don’t let the airport scanner hit you on the way out.

One unlawful soul down at the University of Minnesota—a Turkish fellow—got picked up for a drunk driving conviction, and before he knew it, he got detoured out of the country. Another from Columbia, Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian activist and a green card holder, was scooped up for his involvement in pro-Palestinian protests.

And Secretary of State Marco Rubio says they’re targeting “potential criminal activity,” translated from government-speak, meaning anything from an overdue library book to Antisemitism, which is what Khailil was acting upon.

Universities are acting flabbergasted, not because they’ve never dealt with immigration issues, but because now the government ain’t telling them what’s going on. Of course, it ain’t the institution’s place to know since the agreement is between Uncle Sam and the cardholder.

Down at North Carolina State, two Saudi students packed their bags and fled the country after learning secondhand their legal status was toast. One of their housemates swore on a stack of TV Guides that the two boys weren’t political in the least—never even mutter about Gaza, much less march for it.

It’s the same in Texas, Oregon, Cornell, and more. Some students didn’t know they were persona non grata until immigration agents gave them a gentle tap on the shoulder—followed by a less gentle escort to detention.

Now, don’t mistake the tone. The law is the law, and a nation has every right to know who’s within its borders and why. But, we built our ivory towers to welcome the world’s best and brightest, and now, the time has come to yank the “Welcome” sign and put out one readin’ “Closed for Business.”

There’s a law–little known and little used, that says folks can get the boot for causing “serious adverse foreign policy consequences.” So, to all the wide-eyed foreign folks thinking of coming to study in the land of the free–bring your books, pack your hopes—but forget your foreign politics.

Meetings, particularly those with PowerPoint and weak coffee, might tickle your civic fancy. So, here’s one for you as the Attorney General’s office — that grand bunch of law-thinkers — is fixin’ to hold a training session, from 1 p.m. to 5 p.m., on April 10 about Nevada’s Red Flag Laws, which, in plain country English, means folks might soon know when and how to holler “Hold up!” before cousin Billy brings his squirrel rifle to Thanksgiving dinner again.

The law passed as a knee-jerk reaction after that tragic calamity in Las Vegas in October 2017—lets kinfolk, housemates, and peace officers file court papers to relieve firearms from anyone in crisis, temporarily as a way to keep your powder dry and tempers cooler than a Nevada night in December.

But then again, we all know ‘temporary’ government speak means ‘Never.’

The session ain’t just for lawyers and constables in polished boots. It’s for neighbors, too–the same ones who might hear angry voices through thin apartment walls or spot wild-eyed ramblings posted on the Internet and decide to tell Big Brother.

The idea is to give regular folks and the law alike a better handle on when to raise the flag, so to speak, and how to do it without stirring up a hornet’s nest of legal bother. So, if you’ve got a mind to understand this business — and maybe keep your neighborhood a bit safer — head over to TMCC.

Just remember–bring your curiosity, leave your sidearm at home because they like you disarmed and defenseless, and maybe pack a biscuit or two ’cause these meetings have a way of going long.

Tuesday, and I strolled into the Union Brewery Saloon that morning, where the dusty scent of antiques hung in the air, where folks traded stories like breathing.

At the bar sat a man, maybe a decade older than me. He looked like someone who had spent his life taking what the land offered without ever asking for more.

His straw cowboy hat was pushed back on his head, catching the light just right. The man was sipping on a Colorado Coolaid, his long, weathered fingers steady as he held the drink.

Sitting beside him, we started talking about growing old, engaging in idle chatter. I commented on his tennis shoes.

“I don’t wear boots anymore,” he said, his voice low. “They hurt my back something fierce. It makes it harder to get up in the morning. Used to be, I couldn’t take a step without a good pair of boots, but now the only things that fit me right are my hat and my suspenders. Everything else—well, it either needs to be replaced or enlarged.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, realizing we were both wearing our time and troubles like worn-out gear—those things that need fixing because they never stay new.

Seven Tigers Rescued in a Tale Stranger Than Fiction

Not to speculate on things that bump around in the bureaucratic night, but if ever there was a place fit for strange tidin’s and stranger people, it’s Nye County.

Art Bell, the late-night radio bard of all things curious and cosmic, used to call it “The Land of Nye”—a wink and a nudge to the biblical “Land of Nod,” where God exiled Cain. It’s reckoned Bell knew what was happening out among the sagebrush and secrets, and that’s the reason he bunkered up tighter than a tick on a hound.

Recently, the desert spit out another oddity–a posse of law and tiger wranglers descended on the sunbaked sprawl of Pahrump to relieve a feller by the name of Karl Mitchell of seven full-grown tigers he was keepin’ like a set of yard cats. That’s right—seven tigers, right out there where God intended tumbleweeds, not Bengal stripes.

Now Mr. Mitchell, whose name gets spoken in exotic animal circles like a warning on a medicine bottle, claims the tigers were gifts from none other than Joe Exotic. If you’ve seen Tiger King on the electric television, then you know Mr. Exotic is to animal husbandry–what a coyote is to calculus.

But Mr. Mitchell declared with a straight-enough face, “I love the animals and believe I have the right to keep them at my home.”

Bless its sunbaked soul, Nevada is one of only three states where you can keep tigers and whatnot without a full-blown safari license. But there are rules–kinda like fence posts—not hard to knock down if you know where to lean.

In stomped the good folks from Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge, from Arkansas, led by President Tanya Smith.

“We didn’t even know how many we were coming for,” Smith said, which is just the sort of thing you don’t want to hear on a tiger run. “Turns out it was seven. We got ‘em loaded up, sedated ’em with a little cocktail of melatonin, ketamine, and midazolam—sort of a tiger nightcap—and hit the road.”

The road, by the by, stretches 1,400 miles back to Arkansas, a trip made longer by storms, mountain passes, and the occasional romantic entanglement–one of the lady tigers was in heat. So they had to separate the boys and girls, like in junior high.

Dr. Kellyn Sweeley, the attending veterinarian, clarified the ketamine part of the protocol, though it might leave a tiger a bit green around the gills.

“We always use a dissociative when handling dangerous carnivores,” she said.

It’s not unlike sedating a politician—best done thoroughly.

The tigers were in small cages, filthy enclosures, with muscles wasting from disuse—”some of the worst I’ve seen,” according to Smith. It was, in her words, “the same stuff we see at these places,” which is a more damning indictment than a preacher’s glare.

A SWAT escort helped conduct the rescue because Mr. Mitchell wouldn’t go gentle. He raised a fuss, fought back, and found himself reintroduced to the Nye County jailhouse.

As for payment? There ain’t any. Not yet. Turpentine Creek’s footin’ the bill for now and hopin’ the good people of Nye County might loosen their purse strings or buy a round of kibble.

So here it is—seven tigers en route to green pastures–well, greener than a desert lot in Pahrump–a colorful cast of characters, and enough intrigue to make a man wonder if the Land of Nye is more than it appears. Maybe Art Bell did know something we didn’t. Maybe those late-night tales of government secrets, alien ranchers, and spectral housecats weren’t as outlandish as we thought.

After all, if a man can keep seven tigers in the desert and call it love, anything’s possible.