The Old Blog in the Desert

A Comedy of Errors in Immigration Policy

It has come to my attention that our good and magnanimous Republic—so long known as a beacon of hope, charity, and common sense—has once again set itself upon fixing what’s not broken and breaking what was working just fine. The latest chapter in our grand national comedy concerns the halting of services to so-called refugees, or rather, illegal aliens, who had been arriving in these United States with a frequency unseen in three decades, encouraged by do-gooders of every political stripe who took it upon themselves to rehome foreign wanderers as though they were stray housecats in need of a warm hearth.

More than 160,000 well-meaning but woefully misguided Americans signed up to resettle these newcomers through the Welcome Corps, a venture that appears to be equal parts charity and hobby. Over 800,000 arrivals from distant lands—Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Ukraine, and Afghanistan—were admitted under a scheme called humanitarian parole, suggesting a favor done rather than a right earned.

Such was the state of things until President Donald Trump, with a characteristic absence of patience for bureaucratic flimflammery, promptly slammed the door on the whole affair, suspending the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program for ninety days—an event that sent nonprofit organizations into a fit of distress, much like a shopkeeper realizing he has been handing out goods on credit with no hope of repayment.

In Nevada, where more than 8,000 such persons found placement in the last fiscal year, agencies like the Northern Nevada International Center (NNIC) found themselves suddenly instructed to cease operations for over 100 illegal aliens who had already arrived in the Silver State. Once flush with taxpayer money, the organizations are looking to private charity, an arrangement that might have been advisable at the start.

Catholic Charities of Southern Nevada suffered under this new reality, though it’s difficult to discern whether they were more concerned for the so-called refugees or their payroll. Their employees, formerly occupied in resettlement services, have now been reassigned to related tasks, ensuring that at least the business of providing for the non-taxpaying populace continues in some capacity.

Meanwhile, the Department of Homeland Security, perhaps in a rare moment of self-awareness, admitted that the previous administration had rather abused the humanitarian parole system. Secretary of State Marco Rubio, taking the novel approach of asking whether government actions serve the interests of actual American citizens, issued a statement suggesting that every dollar spent must justify itself by making America safer, stronger, or more prosperous—criteria which, one assumes, disqualify quite a few of the programs currently siphoning taxpayer funds.

NNIC officials, however, lament the predicament of their clients, insisting that illegal aliens contribute some $20 million annually to the Northern Nevada economy, though one must assume that such calculations do not include the cost of housing, feeding, and providing medical care for them.

Private citizens who had taken it upon themselves to usher in foreign newcomers are disappointed.

Sponsors are left scrambling to explain to their sponsees that the great welcome wagon derailed. Some, like Clydie Wakefield, a retired teacher from Utah, took it upon himself to lobby lawmakers to reinstate the program, clinging to the hope that their moral righteousness will outweigh the realities of national security and fiscal responsibility.

One such sponsor, Chuck Pugh of Pennsylvania, gathered a bipartisan group—including, he assures us, even a Trump supporter—to bring an Afghan family to Philadelphia. He now finds himself with money raised and no one to spend it on, much like a man throwing a party to realize the guests are getting sent away.

Thus, the great machinery of government rolls on—sometimes forward, often backward, and occasionally in circles—while the American taxpayer foots the bill, and the grand question remains unanswered: What, precisely, is the duty of a nation? To its citizens first, or to the great mass of the world that would pour in if given the chance?

The latest developments suggest that, at least for now, common sense has won a round. But as history shows, it is always a temporary victory.

The Fernley Vaqueros had a score to settle, and with a 61-50 victory over the North Valleys Panthers on Friday, they proved that payback is best in the postseason. The last time these two squads met, in January, the Panthers snatched a 51-48 win. But when it mattered most, the Vaqueros turned the tables.

The night belonged to Taylor Tollestrup, who put up a performance of 28 points and 13 rebounds, a career-high for the rising star. Jaelece Wasson added 13 more to the tally, while Fernley’s relentless work on the offensive glass ensured that North Valleys never got too comfortable. The Vaqueros pulled down ten offensive rebounds, marking their eighth straight game with at least eight second-chance opportunities.

On the other side of the scoreboard, Ivy Williams did everything in her power to keep North Valleys afloat, nearly logging a double-double with 22 points and nine boards. She also extended her streak of two or more steals per game to 21 contests. Annika Hester chipped in with 14 points and seven rebounds, but their efforts weren’t enough to hold off the surging Vaqueros.

North Valleys may have dominated the offensive boards with 14 rebounds, but their postseason dreams came crashing down anyway. With the loss, they dropped to 22-5 and have no more games scheduled.

As for Fernley, it was their fifth win in their last six games, boosting their record to 21-6. However, their playoff run hit a wall shortly after, as they fell 63-31 to Churchill County on February 15.

For now, the Vaqueros can take pride in knowing they got their revenge when it counted most.

The Unpardonable Sin of Doing Both

The esteemed members of the Nevada press corps, those tireless scribes who keep a watchful eye on the machinations of the Legislature, awoke on the morning of February 4 to a most curious communication from the Legislative Counsel Bureau (LCB). With the solemnity of a royal decree, the email informed them that, owing to the recent passage of Assembly Concurrent Resolution 1, they must now register themselves with the LCB if they wished to enjoy the “privilege” of wandering the sacred floors and chambers of the Senate and Assembly

.

The notion of registration itself was no novelty, but the idea of codifying such a thing raised the inevitable question: Why now?

Why had the great minds of the Legislature taken it upon themselves to inscribe into law what had previously been a mere matter of custom? The answer lay in the actions of one Drew Ribar, an unsuccessful Assembly candidate, businessman, and, by all accounts, a man who does not take rejection lightly.

It appears that Mr. Ribar, undeterred by his failure at the ballot box, had set his sights on another means of influence. Having been denied the honor of serving as a legislator, he now wished to assume the twin mantles of journalist and lobbyist—one to report the news and the other to shape it.

When the rules of ACR1 informed him that he could not be both the fox and the hound in the political hunt, he took his grievance to the courts, seeking a federal order that would force the Legislature to grant him both credentials.

To understand the full measure of this man’s indignation, one must know a little of his past. A self-proclaimed “staunch conservative,” Ribar had previously found himself in the news for an unsuccessful primary challenge against Assemblyman P.K. O’Neill of Carson City.

When not campaigning, he had also made headlines for his opposition to drag queen story hours, a pastime that ultimately led to his temporary expulsion from the Washoe County libraries—an exile one imagines he bore with the stoic dignity of an Old Testament prophet cast out by a wicked king.

Finding himself barred from claiming both a lobbyist’s influence and a journalist’s access, Ribar has cried foul, claiming this denial of credentials tramples upon his right to free speech.

“Historical precedent is obviously there,” he declared, reasoning that if a man should wish to push a bill while simultaneously documenting his efforts, then surely no reasonable person could object.

The press is generally expected to observe the doings of government rather than participate in them, in his estimation, a distinction too trivial to merit concern.

The LCB’s general counsel, Kevin Powers, had a different interpretation. In an email exchange shared by Ribar, Powers explained that under Nevada’s Lobbying Act, a man could not be an unpaid lobbyist and the press.

The Legislature, it seemed, held the quaint belief that journalism and lobbying, much like fire and gunpowder, were best kept separate. Powers, perhaps wisely, declined to comment further on the matter, as the letter from the LCB’s legal division made its position clear: allowing a man to claim both exemptions would be “unreasonable and absurd.”

And so, the matter stands. Whether the courts shall grant Mr. Ribar the dual role he so ardently desires remains to be seen. For now, the Legislature appears set in its ways, unwilling to let a man both whisper into the ears of lawmakers and then report on his persuasions as though he were a neutral observer.

There are rules to these things even in Nevada, where the wild Mustang roams free, and the line between a lobbyist and a reporter is not to be crossed.

Man Arrested in Methamphetamine Case

It’s mournful when a man sets his sights on fortune and, finding the honest roads too dull or the hills too steep, takes the downward path instead. Such is the case of one Matthew Stuart, a resident of Yerington, who now finds himself a guest of the Lyon County Sheriff’s Office, courtesy of his alleged ventures in the trade of illicit substances.

The Lyon County Sheriff’s Office, in concert with the Yerington Police Department, had been keeping a keen eye on certain unsavory activities in the area. During the fine month of February, they took it upon themselves to investigate a flourishing enterprise in methamphetamine trafficking. Their inquiries led them, on the 24th, to Bridge Street, where they executed a search warrant with all the vigor and resolve of men determined to rid their fair town of vice and villainy.

They found an embarrassment of riches, though of the sort that leads not to prosperity but to penitentiary accommodations. The haul included no less than 431 grams of methamphetamine, three pounds of marijuana, 95 grams of concentrated THC, and—just to round out the inventory—an illegal firearm because no enterprise of this nature is complete without one.

As a consequence of this ill-advised venture, Mr. Stuart now enjoys the dubious distinction of facing a remarkable array of charges, including, but not limited to, being an ex-felon in possession of a firearm, trafficking in methamphetamine at an impressive level, possession of said methamphetamine with the entrepreneurial spirit of sales in mind, and similar ambitions regarding marijuana. He’s also accused of dabbling in the production of concentrated cannabis and, in a particularly grievous misstep, endangering a child in the process.

For these alleged offenses, Mr. Stuart’s bail is at the eye-watering sum of $142,500, a sum that might have served him better had it been accumulated through honest toil rather than through enterprises so contrary to the good order of society.

The Nevada Senate Judiciary Committee, that august and deliberative body dedicated to the art of lawmaking and the science of frustration, convened on Wednesday to hear testimony on a bill (SB142) from Sen. Fabian Doñate of Las Vegas. It would let working folks keep more of the money they earn before creditors descend upon them like vultures at a prairie dog convention.

At present, the law permits garnishment of wages down to a pittance so meager that even the most miserly of landlords would find it beneath contempt. Doñate’s bill seeks to raise the portion of wages protected from garnishment from a scandalous $400 to a slightly less scandalous $850, a sum which, in this era of inflation and unrepentant rent hikes, might keep body and soul together—if only barely.

Now, for those unfamiliar with the workings of wage garnishment, it is essentially a polite way of saying that a judge can compel an employer to hand over a chunk of a worker’s wages to creditors, whether for unpaid bills, alimony, child support, or some other regrettable financial entanglement. Presently, Nevada employs three differing mathematical formulas to determine how much can be pilfered from a paycheck, ensuring the process remains convoluted.

Under Doñate’s proposal, $850 in weekly disposable income would be entirely exempt from legal pickpocketing. And for those earning more, the percentage taken would be less draconian than before. Additionally, this exemption would adjust every three years with the Consumer Price Index.

The necessity of such protections becomes evident when one considers that Nevada, always eager to be in the upper echelons of dubious statistics, boasts the third-highest debt collection in the nation. As of 2021, nearly 40 percent of all civil filings in the state are for debt collection, for either the financial misfortune of its citizens or the predatory enthusiasm of its creditors. Nationally, in jurisdictions where data is available, over 70 percent of these lawsuits end in default judgments, meaning that defendants rarely even have the privilege of making their case before a judge before their pockets get turned inside out.

Of course, not everyone is thrilled with this proposal. A representative from the Nevada Credit Union League, which counts 400,000 members among its flock, expressed concerns that the bill might hinder the ability to lend money. No doubt, the notion that working people might need a little breathing room before being squeezed dry is a radical one in some circles.

It is worth noting that the state legislature did pass a bill in the last session that would have required debt collectors to provide itemized letters explaining outstanding balances upon request. But Governor Lombardo vetoed the measure, despite its bipartisan support, proving once again that common sense in politics is as rare as an honest gambler in a Virginia City saloon.

During the hearing, Doñate assured those present that he is working on an amendment to the bill and will engage with “all stakeholders,” which, in the language of lawmakers, means that the final product may end up so diluted as to be unrecognizable. Nevertheless, for those Nevadans whose wages are vanishing like smoke in a high desert wind, there remains a glimmer of hope—however faint—that the law may soon take a gentler hand with their hard-earned coin.

The SS United States is off the coast of Florida now. Once the fastest on the ocean, the great ship is under tow toward its watery grave. It left Philadelphia last week and will soon become the largest artificial reef in the world off the coast of Okaloosa County.

As a child, I came to this country aboard this ship in 1962. It was strong then, bright and full of life, its steel halls filled with voices, its decks lined with men and women who believed in something.

Now it is gone. We saved a British flagship, but not this one, not an American ship.

It does not seem right.

Tugboats push it along, guiding it down past the long Florida coast. They will bring it to Mobile first, strip it down, and gut it so it will sink clean.

They will scrape off the paint, take out the asbestos, tear away the engine room, and when it is ready, they will send it to the bottom. They say it will take a year.

They do not know where they will sink it, but it will be about twenty miles off Destin. Out there, it will settle on the sea floor, where fish will move in, and divers will come to look at what is left.

Again and again, departure got delayed. The Coast Guard wanted to make sure it would safely tow.

Then the wind came, hard and strong, and held it back. But on Tuesday, February 19, it left.

Built in Newport News from 1950 to 1951, it sailed for the first time on Thursday, July 3, 1952. It went from New York to France and England.

It was fast, faster than any other, and still holds the record for the fastest transatlantic crossing. It was American through and through, the last great passenger ship made here.

It was 53,000 tons. From keel to funnel top, it stood 175 feet high. It could hold nearly two thousand passengers and over a thousand crew.

If war came, it could carry 14,000 troops. Four American presidents, Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, and Marlon Brando, walked its decks.

But time took it.

The airlines came, and in 1969, the owner could not keep up. It passed from hand to hand.

It became a museum in 1996, tied to the dock at slip 80 in Philadelphia. It sat there, waiting.

In October, Okaloosa County bought it for ten million dollars. They say it will bring in three million a year.

They say there will be a museum on land too. They talk about the future, about what it will become, but I can only think of what it was: the ship that carried me here–sinking.

I have always believed that there comes a time when every cowpoke finds themselves on a hoss they cain’t ride, no matter the size of the outfit or the number of times that same horse ridden till its head hung low. I have found mine.

His name was Lucifer. I did not name him.

Had I done so, I might have picked something softer, like Beelzebub or Old Scratch. But Lucifer he was, and Lucifer he remained, a name that suited him as a saddle suits a porcupine.

It weren’t as though I was some greenhorn fresh off the coach. I had spent a respectable number of years in the saddle, busting broncs and guiding cattle across lands so dry even the rattlesnakes carried canteens.

I had thrown a leg over more horses than I could count, which is to say, more than ten. And yet, Lucifer stood there staring at me with a look that made me suspect he had studied philosophy and concluded that humanity was a mistake best rectified by his four hooves.

“You sure you want to do this?” asked Jed, a man whose primary occupation was laughing at the misfortunes of others.

“Ain’t no horse alive I cain’t ride,” I said, with the confidence of a man soon disabused of such notions.

“Well, then,” he said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice that sizzled upon hitting the dust, “I reckon today’s the day we find out if there’s a horse that can ride you.”

Lucifer waited as I swung into the saddle, which should have been my first clue that things would go poorly. A horse worth his salt bucks a little when you mount to remind you of your place in the world.

But Lucifer stood still as a graveyard at midnight. I no sooner settled in than he let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, and then the devil went to work.

I will not bore you with the technicalities of bronc riding except to say that I did none of them. Instead, I dedicated myself to an artistic interpretation of flight, my trajectory suggesting that I had taken up astronomy.

I soared, I tumbled, I prayed. I landed.

Jed strolled up to where I lay, half-buried in dust and regret. He leaned over me, hands on his knees. “You stick the landin’ real nice,” he said. “Like a sack of flour.”

For his part, Lucifer wandered off a few paces and turned to regard me with an expression of mild disappointment as though he had expected more entertainment from the affair. Then he flicked his tail and began cropping hay, insult added to injury, as it suggested the whole thing hadn’t been worth his full attention.

I lay there, considering my options. Option one was to ride ever again and to find a new profession, such as banking or peddling notions. Option two was to accept my fate and prepare for a life of ridicule and derision at the hands of my so-called friends. Option three was to get up, dust myself off, and pretend it had not happened.

I chose option three.

I climbed to my feet with the dignity of a man who has fallen in public and is trying to pretend he meant to do it. I brushed myself off, set my hat back on my head, and turned to Jed.

“I declare, Jed,” I said, “I do believe Lucifer’s got a powerful dislike for me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t take it personal,” Jed said. “He’s got a powerful dislike for everyone. But I’d say you’re special—he saved somethin’ extra just for you.”

“Mighty kind of him.”

Jed grinned. “You wanna try again?”

I looked at Lucifer, who was looking at me with the patience of a schoolmaster waiting for his most troublesome pupil to realize he had brought the wrong answer to the lesson. I reckoned I learnt my lesson.

“You know, Jed, I believe I have demonstrated my ability to ride this horse just fine,” I said. “The trouble is, he refuses to demonstrate his ability to be ridden. I think we have reached an impasse.”

“So that’s a no?”

“That is a most emphatic no.”

And so, I lived to ride another day, though I made sure it was on a horse with fewer opinions. But to this day, when I pass through certain towns, I find that old-timers remember me not for my skills, victories, or even my handsome and rugged visage.

No, they remember the day I took flight and left my dignity somewhere in the dust, courtesy of a horse named Lucifer.

If you’ve ever looked at a bull and thought, “I wonder what that fella’s working with under the chassis,” then, by gum, do I have the festival for you. Come Saturday, March 15, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., the fine folks of Virginia City will once again throw caution–and good sense–to the wind for their 34th annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry—a gathering so profoundly Western that

the bulls are keeping their legs crossed.

Billed as one of the West’s largest St. Patrick’s Day shindigs, this festival is not for the faint of stomach. The day’s festivities include the infamous Rocky Mountain Oyster cooking competition, where brave chefs go elbow-deep in a delicacy that separates the men from the vegetarians. Competitors will vie for the coveted ‘Best Of’ and ‘People’s Choice’ awards, proving once and for all who can work the most magic with… well, you know.

“Virginia City’s Rocky Mountain Oyster Fry is more than just a food festival—it’s a testament to our community’s knack for keeping with tradition while encouraging fun and creativity,” said Todd Tuttle, tourism director, who presumably has an iron constitution. “With multiple activities throughout the day and plenty of merchant shops to visit along the way, this event is truly one of a kind.”

And what better way to wash down a plate of—you guessed it—deep-fried bovine jewels than with a drink in hand? The St. Paddy Made Me Do It Saloon Crawl kicks off at 11 a.m., ensuring that even the most hesitant participants can find the courage–or at least the inebriation–to take part. Designated drivers get special cups because, let’s face it, this kind of bravery should probably come with a chaperone.

At high noon, C Street will erupt in a sea of green as Virginia City’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade marches through town, featuring floats, marching bands, and folks who have had enough whiskey to believe their outfits qualify as festive instead of downright absurd. Attendees are encouraged to dress in their most spirited attire, which, given the town’s history, could mean anything from traditional Irish garb to someone’s great-grandpappy’s old prospector getup.

So, if you’ve ever wanted to eat something you can’t quite make eye contact with beforehand, this is your chance. Bring an appetite, a sense of humor, and maybe an alibi if anyone asks what you were up to during the weekend.

Witch Hunter Sent Packing

It was a fine day for reason and justice when the Nevada Commission on Ethics review panel gave a polite but firm boot to an ethics complaint lodged against former Lyon County School District Superintendent Wayne Workman. This bit of drama, stirred up by one Joe Hart, a reporter of the inquisitive variety with KRNV, came about after Workman transitioned from superintendent to the district’s newly minted employee relations administrator—a position so fresh you could still smell the paint drying on the title.

Hart, ever the vigilant watchdog, filed his complaint in October, no doubt with all the fervor of a man convinced he had uncovered the crime of the century. In its wisdom, the Commission took a long, hard look at the allegations, interviewed district staff, examined the facts with the care of an old prospector panning for gold, and concluded that nothing improper happened.

Workman received official word of his exoneration on Thursday, and one could imagine him tipping his hat in satisfaction.

“That complaint was thoroughly investigated with the information I supplied,” Workman said in a manner befitting a man who knew he had done nothing worth the trouble.

“The Commission interviewed multiple staff members at the school district and they investigated the facts of the matter… and it was completely dismissed. There was no evidence that showed any inappropriate inactivity.”

Now, “inappropriate inactivity” means Workman was not lounging about, twiddling his thumbs, and collecting an undeserved paycheck. No, he had done things right—submitted his application, interviewed like any other hopeful soul, and secured the position through the district’s standard hiring process.

Superintendent Tim Logan, a man no doubt weary of such needless hullabaloos, confirmed that Workman’s hiring was as proper as Sunday church sermon.

“We’ve used the same hiring process for all candidates,” he said, in what one imagines was a tone of mild exasperation. “I personally was not on his committee.”

The Nevada Commission on Ethics, that venerable body tasked with sniffing out the scent of impropriety in public service, released a letter Thursday that all but patted Workman on the back.

“The facts do not establish credible evidence…” the Commissioners wrote in the measured language of bureaucracy, which is saying: “There’s no there, there.”

And thus, the great scandal of Lyon County, which might have kept some awake at night clutching their television remotes, was laid to rest.

“It has been frustrating there’s been this witch hunt,” Logan remarked, shaking his head at the sheer waste of time.

Workman, after all, is not some opportunistic interloper but a man with 18 years of service to the district, an educator of considerable experience, and a fellow growing weary of being dragged through the mud for doing his job. With the case dismissed, one might hope that the business of educating children could proceed unimpeded by baseless accusations.

Hopefully, Workman, for all his troubles, might at least get a moment’s peace before the next tempest in a teapot comes brewing.

In a turn of events that might have left even the most seasoned scoundrels shaking their heads in admiration or pity, one Mr. Miky Sears, aged 53, found himself on the wrong side of the law after a traffic stop on Saturday led to a most enlightening discovery.

The Carson City Sheriff’s Office Special Enforcement Team, ever vigilant against the high-speed pursuits of fate, pulled over Mr. Sears at the intersection of Goni Road and College Parkway. The man, doubtless offering the sort of pleasantries one extends when caught in an inconvenient moment, was soon advised of the nature of his predicament—speeding, though that would prove to be the least of his troubles.

Enter Cash, a particularly astute K9 officer, whose olfactory talents would soon cast a most unfortunate light on Mr. Sears’ travel arrangements. A free-air sniff of the vehicle—one presumes Mr. Sears had little say in the matter—led to a positive alert, prompting detectives to engage in impromptu housekeeping.

Their efforts found reward when they uncovered precisely 29.63 grams of methamphetamine nestled comfortably inside a cleaning container with a “false bottom.” Whether Mr. Sears had hoped the irony of his storage choice would serve as some form of poetic camouflage remains unknown.

With his day already taking an irreversibly sour turn, Mr. Sears got an escort to Carson City Jail, where authorities had yet to finish their inquiries. A subsequent search warrant for his residence yielded an additional 141.36 grams of methamphetamine inside a trailer on his property, bringing the total to 170.99 grams—a figure that, while impressive, was unlikely to win him any accolades in polite society.

Now booked on an array of charges, including possession of a controlled substance–third offense, mind you–intent to sell–also third offense–trafficking–second offense–and being, for lack of a better term, a habitual criminal, Mr. Sears has no doubt found himself with ample time to reflect upon the events of the day.