The Old Blog in the Desert

In Nevada, where the sun don’t ask permission to fry a man like a flapjack, the price of gasoline has taken a polite little tumble. A gallon of regular now fetches $3.87, which is four cents less than it did just last week–about enough to make a feller smile before he remembers he still can’t afford pie after dinner.

It is an improvement from last year when you couldn’t fill your motorcar without feeling like you’d got waylaid by highwaymen. Back then, it was $4.60 a gallon, and people considered takin’ up hitchhikin’ as a profession.

John Treanor, a spokesman for the AAA–an outfit that knows more about car trouble than Job knew about misery–reckons folks are stirring out of their winter dens now that the weather is fairer.

“More people gettin’ out and about is nudgin’ the prices upward,” he said, squinting into the middle distance like a man who’s seen too much.

He also allowed that the price of crude oil is loafing at a lowly $62 a barrel, compared to a loftier $82 this time last year.

Meanwhile, the Energy Information Administration–that wellspring of figures nobody understands–reports that gasoline demand has hopped from 8.46 million barrels to a lively 9.41 million a day. Being a fickle mistress, supply dropped from 234.0 million barrels to 229.5 million. Nevertheless, gasoline production puffed along respectably at 10.1 million barrels a day, like a steamboat captain who’s a little behind schedule but determined to make up for it with bluster.

In Las Vegas–where fortunes rise and fall quicker than a drunkard’s promises–gas averages $3.87. Up yonder in Reno, where the air’s clear and the poker faces sterner, it’ll set you back $4.16. In the rest of the Union, the going price is $3.17, creeping upward by a hair’s breadth but still a ways south of last year’s gouging.

On the oil front, West Texas Intermediate crude oil prices slipped down $1.40 to rest at $62.27 a barrel–a mighty tumble from the highfalutin’ prices of yesteryear. U.S. crude inventories are nudging upward like a man who’s had too many chili beans they’re still a good five percent shy of where they ought to be.

As for the electric contraptions–those motorcars that run on lightning and wizardry–the price for charging has held steady. Thirty-four cents per kilowatt hour nationally and thirty-seven cents in Nevada. If nothing else, it’s good to know one part of modern life that ain’t swimmin’ around like a cat in a rain barrel.

In the bright, painted halls of Pinecrest Academy down in Henderson, where the floors shine slicker than a politician’s promise, Governor Joe Lombardo declared he’s goin’ to fix Nevada’s schools–this time for real.

He called it the Nevada Accountability in Education Act, a name so dressed-up it needs a bonnet and parasol. According to the Governor, the new law will see to it that if a school district don’t do its job, it’ll be shaken up, rattled loose, and maybe even handed over to the government itself–which, in these parts, is about as comforting as handing a chicken coop to a fox with a necktie.

“After delivering the largest investment in K–12 education in Nevada’s history,” the Governor said, puffing out his chest like a prize turkey, “we owe it to our communities to match that investment with real results–and real accountability.”

He spoke about not letting a child’s fate get chained to the family’s income or the sorry corner of a city they were born in–a noble notion, sure as sunrise.

He mentioned opportunity scholarships, too–a golden ticket for a few lucky children to leap over the fence and escape the government-run paddock.

“All the students in the front here are currently utilizing opportunity scholarships,” Lombardo said as the chosen few beamed like prize pumpkins at a fair.

The Governor talked about open enrollment, charter school funding, school choice, and sprinkling a few prizes on excellent teachers–if they’re still around after the politics, paperwork, and pestering.

Now, you might think, hearing all this, that the sun is about to break over Nevada’s educational horizon. You might even think, dear reader, that salvation is nigh, but you’d be wrong.

Because while the Governor is busy making speeches and cutting ribbons, the unions still sit fat and sassy at the table, and the Democratic bosses still clutch the purse strings with fists tighter than a miser’s on Christmas Eve. As long as those two remain, Nevada schools will stay right where they’ve been for years–at the bottom of every list that matters and the top of every list that shames us.

The Governor means well, no doubt. But fixing Nevada education without breaking the back of the union stronghold is like trying to patch the Hoover Dam with chewing gum.

And as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets behind the Sierra, not a blessed thing will change.

It appears the great Tesla chase has taken a curious turn, and the boys in the suits have gone and moved the goalposts while the game was still afoot. This week, the Trump administration, no stranger to ruckus or favor trading, threw a mighty fine lasso around the neck of the federal crash-reporting rules and yanked’em clean off the books — at least for some.

Under the new order handed down by the Transportation Department, automakers who deal in half-smart machines–known among the learned as “Level 2 systems”–can now keep many of their fender-benders to themselves. And who might be riding highest in that buggy?

Why, none other than that much-hunted fox of a man, Mr. Elon Musk.

You see, Mr. Musk, who has been squealing louder than a stuck pig about the “unfairness” of having every ding and scrape pinned to his good name, now finds himself in a twisted position.

Thanks to these rules, Tesla can trumpet a spotless record without the bother of every little bump making the evening news. It’s a fine thing for stock prices — which jumped like a frog on a frying pan, nearly 10% in one day — and a finer thing still for Mr. Musk, who’s still getting hunted by regulators, rivals, and the high-minded folk of polite society with a fury fit for a witch trial.

Critics, including Wall Street types and other men with softer hands than farmers, said the new rules smell of favoritism, like last week’s fish. They point out that while Tesla gets to walk around the mud puddles, full-self-driving outfits like Waymo — backed by the mighty Alphabet family — still have to slosh through everyone, boots and all.

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, filled with lawyers who can say something’s fair while holding a thumb on the scale, insists nobody’s gettin’ special treatment. “No ADS company is hurt,” they said, which is the kind of talk a man uses when he just sat on your hat and tells you it improved the fit.

In truth, under the old rules, Tesla accounted for more than 800 of 1,040 reported crashes in a year — a mighty big chunk of the pie. The new rules politely look the other way unless the car is wrecked to the point it needs a tow, unless the unfortunate driver meets the Grim Reaper, or unless the airbags make their sudden, uninvited appearance.

Meanwhile, Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy–a man who talks about China like it’s the Big Bad Wolf waiting to blow our little houses down because he knows it will–said this is all to beat the Middle Kingdom at the self-driving game. “The stakes couldn’t be higher,” he said.

Musk, never shy with a compliment for himself, has long argued that his Teslas are safer than a Sunday stroll and that if the bureaucrats would only stop peeking through his keyhole, they’d see he’s saving lives, not endangering’em. Maybe so. But the hunt is far from over.

Tesla’s sales have taken a whipping lately, with Mr. Musk’s habit of sidling up to some of Europe’s far-right flamethrowers and cozying into President Trump’s cost-cutting cabal. His fortunes now ride on the promise of driverless Teslas filling the streets like tumbleweeds in Austin, Texas, come June.

Waymo’s already there, waiting, wagging its tail.

Mark my words–they’ll keep hunting Musk until they catch him, or he slips the noose for good. Either way, the chase itself is the thing, and America, God bless her, does love a good foxhunt.

There is a force more dangerous than evil. The force, unlike evil, cannot be reasoned with, exposed, or fought directly. It spreads silently, blinding people to the truth and rendering them immune to logic. That force is stupidity.

Stupidity is a weightier threat than evil because it is not merely an intellectual failure but a profound moral and social crisis. I tried to awaken people, speaking out against hatred, blind obedience, and indifference to cruelty. I believed that presenting clear evidence would make people see the truth.

Yet, no matter how undeniable the facts, people have refused to listen, and so I have watched my nation—descend into a mob of cowards and criminals. Friends and neighbors surrendered their morality, not because they were evil, but because they stopped thinking, and now I realize the true enemy is not malice but stupidity.

Evil can be confronted, exposed, and defeated. Even the worst people, deep down, know their actions are wrong, carrying a sense of unease or guilt. Evil contains the seeds of its destruction.

Stupidity, however, is impervious. It is immune to logic, blind to reason, and deaf to truth. It does not engage or debate—it simply refuses to acknowledge reality. You can argue with a malicious person, but a stupid one dismisses facts, mocks arguments, and remains utterly convinced of their rightness. As Martin Luther King Jr. echoed, nothing is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.

The most terrifying aspect of stupidity is its unconscious nature. Those who act foolishly often do not realize it, believing they are right with unshakable certainty. No evidence or rational explanation can sway them; they double down, becoming more rigid. Mark Twain warned, “Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.”

When confronted, they resort to dismissive slogans like “whatever” or “I don’t care,” avoiding the reality of their ignorance. It makes them frustrating to talk with, akin to narcissists, as they are unlikely to change.

Stupidity’s danger extends beyond individuals, spreading like a sickness within society. It infiltrates groups, movements, and systems that demand obedience. I have learned that the power of one depends on the stupidity of the many and that mass stupidity accompanies authoritarianism.

People do not lose their intelligence—they surrender it, trading independent thought for a sense of belonging. They repeat without question.

Once a person surrenders their mind–there is no limit to their reconditioning. They commit evil without seeing it as such, spread lies while calling them truth, and destroy lives, convinced they are on the right side of history.

Stupidity is not just frustrating—it is a weapon wielded by those who know how to manipulate it. Most chillingly, reason cannot counter willful stupidity.

Stupidity does not question itself, feeling no doubt or shame. It moves with absolute confidence, becoming an unstoppable force in service of whatever it follows.

Ordinary people, many intelligent and educated, have surrendered their ability to think and now follow without thought. Stupidity is not an intellectual defect but a moral failure. A brilliant mind can still be foolish in action.

Conversely, someone intellectually slow can be profoundly wise and moral. Intelligence and wisdom are distinct, and stupidity stems from a lack of moral courage.

One is not born stupid—one becomes.

Stupidity arises when a person surrenders their responsibility to think, a transformation that is not merely personal but social. It thrives in groups where independent thought is discouraged, and people conform without question.

My observation is that ordinary people are willing to become unthinking followers. They are not inherently evil or unintelligent but stopped questioning, becoming tools of a greater agenda.

George Orwell’s 1984 depicts a similar phenomenon where Big Brother brainwashes people to limit their thoughts, rendering them incapable of critical thinking. Likewise, I have noted that when power rises, stupidity spreads.

Under political or ideological authority, people relinquish their independence, accepting slogans, propaganda, and oversimplified explanations. They no longer see the world as it is. The stupid person does not think for themselves yet sees themselves as correct, resisting facts and logic with catchphrases that possess them.

To avoid stupidity, one must refuse to stop thinking. Always question and challenge authority when necessary, rejecting ideas that cannot withstand scrutiny. Stupidity thrives when people conform without thinking. When tempted to agree with a group for ease, pause and ask whether you are thinking independently or following the crowd.

History shows that unquestioning masses lead to disaster. Friedrich Nietzsche criticized this herd mentality, urging rejection of blind conformity to become a true intellectual.

Stupidity often stems from propaganda, misinformation, and emotional manipulation. Leaders who rely on it appeal to emotions, promote simplistic solutions, and discourage independent thought.

Ideas that resist questioning are likely manipulative. Reality is complex, and truth is inconvenient.

Easy answers or single-cause explanations are usually lies. Movements demanding unquestioning loyalty are dangerous. Wisdom comes from embracing nuance and resisting oversimplification.

Instruction alone cannot overcome stupidity alone—it requires liberation. The person trapped in a manipulative system must liberate their thinking to free the mind.

True wisdom comes from internal liberation, breaking free from fear, unblinking loyalty, and unquestioning obedience. It requires a lifelong commitment to intellectual and moral independence.

Misinformation, herd mentality, and unquestioned loyalty to political figures, ideologies, and narratives discourage critical thought. If we do not actively fight for independent thinking, we risk being ruled by stupidity.

The choice is ours–stay alert, stay critical, stay free.

Authorities are searching for 15-year-old Alisa Petrov, who exited a train in Provo and was asking strangers for a bus ticket to Las Vegas.

Alisa is described as 5-foot-3, weighing 122 pounds, with brown eyes and long light brown hair. She wore baggy jeans and a black hoodie while carrying a blue backpack with a yellow stripe.

Anyone who sees Alisa or knows her whereabouts should contact the South Jordan Police Department at 801-446-4357 or Nevada Child Seekers at 702-458-7009.

Every man’s got a day of reckoning. Some find it on a battlefield, others at the altar, and a select, unlucky few—such as myself—find it standing at a bar in Virginia City, having discovered they’ve spent the better part of four years answering to a Spanish word, the meaning of which I had no clue.

Virginia City, Nevada—now here’s a place that still wears its history like a moth-eaten coat–threadbare, dusty, and full of old coins and small regrets. It’s a town where whiskey is cheaper than bottled water, and a man can still vanish without a trace if he ducks fast enough and no one particularly cares to look for him.

One of my saloons of choice sits near the end of C Street, nestled between a souvenir shop and a sign advertising “Mine Tours,” run by a fellow who’s never been within ten feet of blue mud. The saloon is as reputable as a coyote in a henhouse, and the same could be said of the regulars, myself included.

But what kept me coming back—aside from a misplaced sense of belonging and the house special–which is just whiskey with a name—was the bartender. She was sharp as a hornet and twice as likely to sting if you gave her reason.

From the first time I staggered in, she greeted me with a smile that could disarm a taxman and a chirpy, “What’ll it be, Mr. Basura?”

I didn’t know what the word meant, but it had flair. It rolled off the woman’s pink little tongue–like an affectionate nickname.

So I puffed my chest and tipped my hat each time she said it. I’d nod, grin like a simpleton, and order the usual, feeling mighty proud of myself.

Weeks passed into years. I became a fixture on the third stool from the end, just left of the jukebox that only played Merle Haggard and the ghosts of other dead cowboys.

With every drink came that same melodic, “What’ll it be, Mister Basura?”

And each time I heard it, I imagined it came with admiration. Lord help me, I thought she liked me.

Then came the day of my enlightenment. It was a Tuesday afternoon.

Nursing a bourbon, I watched a pair of college kids from Reno walk in—fresh-faced, full of knowledge, and just dumb enough to wander into my kind of place. They sat beside me, ordered craft beers, and made small talk with me like I was some local flavor instead of just a man too ignorant to leave.

My favorite Senorita greeted me in her usual way. “What’ll it be, Mister Basura?” she said, sliding me a double without waiting for an answer.

One of the kids blinked. “She just call you basura?”

I nodded proudly. “Yep. Spanish for boss. We got a thing going.”

The two exchanged a look—the kind reserved for spotting a dog wearing rain boots.

“Uh, sir,” the youthful female said, gentle as a nurse breaking bad news, “basura doesn’t mean boss. It means…garbage. Like, literal trash.”

It hit me–like a safe full of unpaid bar tabs. She had been calling me trash to my face. With a smile. With cheer. With the consistency of a woman utterly unbothered by my presence.

Stunned, I sat there, the whiskey suddenly bitter in my mouth. My world tilted as the jukebox started playing “Mama Tried.” I realized I’d been strutting around with all the confidence of a man standing on a rug others knew would get yanked.

The next night, I returned wearing my good hat—the one still holding a vague shape—and squared up to the bar like a man demanding answers.

She met me with that same smile and the same cursed greeting. “What’ll it be, Mr. Basura?”

“You know,” I said, as polite as a man can be when trying not to sound wounded, “I’ve recently come to learn something troubling about that word you use for me.”

She blinked, then leaned in just a little. “Which word?”

“Basura,” I said, tasting it like something sour. “I used to think it meant ‘boss.’ But I was corrected. Apparently, it means trash.”

Her eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. “Mmm,” she said. “That’s the one.”

I swallowed hard. “So…you’ve been calling me garbage this whole time?”

She poured my drink without answering, then set the glass down gently.

“Honey,” she said, sweet as syrup and twice as thick, “If I wanted to call you boss, I’d charge you rent.”

Then she turned, just like that, to take the next man’s order, leaving me to marinate in shame, confusion, and bourbon. And yet—I still go to that bar. Because, well, habits are stubborn things.

If I ain’t liked, I’ll settle for tolerated. So, I sit on my usual stool, tip in cash, and never ask for anything more complicated than a straight pour. And still, I get greeted with the same line, and I smile right back, fully aware of what it means.

It’s no longer a mark of pride but a badge of honor in its strange way. After all, not everyone gets a nickname, and if mine means trash, well, at least I’m her trash.

And that’s got to count for something, though I wonder what the Spanish word is for ‘pathetic.’

Now, it came to pass that Governor Joe Lombardo did on a Wednesday, April 23–which is not the finest day in history but will do in a pinch–put his name to a bill most solemn and proper. Said bill makes it the business of every good Nevadan to mark January 27 as International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

The Governor, not one to loaf about in such a grave matter, gathered about him a company of Holocaust survivors–folks whose very presence tells a story weightier than words. With their witness, he signed his name in stout black ink, fixing it in law for as long as Nevada has a memory.

By this new decree, Governor Lombardo is obliged each year to send forth a proclamation, stirring the people to remembrance–not only of the Holocaust, which tore the world’s heart in two–but of other dark miseries where hatred ruled–and humanity forgot itself. The newspapers, town criers, brass bands, and public officials–who sometimes need reminding more than most–are also commanded to spread the word, lest time and forgetfulness do what cruelty could not–silence the truth.

Memory, like liberty, must be kept polished and aired out, or else it grows rusty and useless before a man knows it.

It ain’t every day the government sets aside a spell to holler up a prayer for the common man who got himself chewed up by the gears of industry, but come April 28–that’s precisely what the Nevada Occupational Safety and Health Administration–known to friends and enemies alike as Nevada OSHA–and the Safety Consultation and Training Section (SCATS) will do. Both outfits, being snugly tucked inside the Division of Industrial Relations–which itself is within the Nevada Department of Business and Industry–will gather to honor those laboring souls who met their end whilst sweating to make a dollar, not only in the sagebrush reaches of Nevada but clear across the country.

They call it Workers Memorial Day–a title that sounds for all the world like it got dreamed up at a potluck dinner by some bright-eyed Bolshevik who had just finished reading Karl Marx and thought, “Why not?”

It happens each year because back in the bold year of 1970, Congress signed off on the Occupational Safety and Health Act, declaring with great fanfare that every laborer, from the pinstriped accountant to the fellow wrestling dynamite on a dam project, has the inalienable right to come home with all his fingers and toes still attached.

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, a mighty impressive name for a group of men counting heads and accidents, reports that in 2023, there were 5,283 fatal work injuries across the nation. That’s better than the 5,486 folks who fell in 2022–a 3.7 percent dip–if you’re one to favor arithmetic over sentiment.

The national fatal injury rate tipped down from 3.7 to 3.5 per 100,000 full-time workers. Nevada herself, with her silver hills and gambling palaces, recorded 57 fatal injuries, down three from the previous year.

Progress of a sort.

And lest you think this Memorial Day ends with speeches and paper hats, no, sir. There are grand schemes afoot to support the widows and orphans, too.

Kids’ Chance of Nevada grants scholarships to the children of workers who met an untimely end or got banged up. All told they’ve handed out more than 9,300 scholarships nationwide, with the grand sum topping $33.2 million–proof that sorrow can be something halfway useful.

Meanwhile, the Nevada Safety Consultation and Training Section offers no-cost services to employers who know you can’t mend a broken head with an apology. They’ll come to the work site, take a squint at your operations, and tell you straight if you’re inviting disaster.

As for Nevada OSHA, they remain ever-vigilant, ready to hear the complaints of any worker in harm’s way. The complaints get wrapped tight in confidentiality, safe from the reach of a wrathful boss, and both Nevada law and Uncle Sam himself forbid retaliation.

Thus, with speeches, scholarships, and solemn nods, Nevada prepares to tip its battered hat to the fallen–and if the whole business smells a little of socialism and reform, well, it ain’t the first time that mourners have mixed tears with politics.

It was bright and early Thursday morning—about the time honest folk are sipping their coffee and the more adventurous are considering whether it’s too late to go to bed—when the Storey County Sheriff’s Office set about doing what it does best–rooting out trouble.

With the sun barely peeking over the hills, deputies descended upon 399 Wild Horse Canyon, deep in the heart of the sprawling Tahoe-Reno Industrial Complex, armed with a search warrant and, no doubt, a healthy measure of suspicion. What they unearthed would make a preacher cuss and a schoolmarm faint dead away–a stolen firearm, a bounty of methamphetamine, and enough drug paraphernalia to stock a fair-sized opium den.

At the center of this cornucopia of misdeeds were two characters by the names of Adrian Lockamy, aged 47, and Kaycee Weiss, aged 49. They got escorted to the Storey County Detention Facility, where the accommodations are less than luxurious.

Mr. Lockamy found himself saddled with an impressive collection of charges–two counts of being a felon in possession of firearms, possession of a stolen firearm, possession of controlled substances, failure to register as a felon–a small but telling oversight–and possession of drug paraphernalia. Ms. Weiss, not to be outdone, garnered her own matching set of accusations: two counts of being a felon in possession of firearms, a stolen firearm, controlled substances, and drug paraphernalia.

The most ordinary morning in Storey County can turn into a frontier drama quicker than a lizard can wink.

It stands to reason that when a person comes into a country on a slip of paper like a Visa, and that paper up and expires like a jug of milk in the Nevada sun, somebody somewhere might take notice. But not here.

Here at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, it seems the business of telling the truth about such things is considered downright impolite.

Word has trickled out–slow as molasses in January–that three more international students have had their visas revoked.

It comes on top of the four students who got themselves in the same pickle three weeks back. Seven souls, scattered between undergraduates, graduate students, and a handful making an honest dollar under something called “OPT,” which I reckon is one of those fancy government abbreviations that don’t mean half as much as it sounds.

The brass at UNLV sent out a letter–full of words but short on meaning– explaining that there ain’t no rhyme nor reason to these removals and that the affected students are as nervous as long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs about their privacy and safety. And it’s no small wonder that nobody in the press or the schoolhouse wants to come right out and say the obvious–these young folks overstayed their welcome, and the great big federal hammer has come down.

Still, the university is doing its level best to sound neighborly. They say they’re partnering with the Nevada System of Higher Education and the great state of Nevada to “advocate” for the students– a word used when there ain’t a blessed thing to do except make speeches.

“We’re moving forward with calm, care, and support,” chirp the UNLV officials, “to ensure that our students and scholars from around the world continue to know that they belong here.” A right pretty sentiment–though it don’t change the simple fact that in the eyes of the law, belonging ain’t something you get just by wishing it so.