The Old Blog in the Desert

JNow, it may strike you as downright peculiar that in a city proud of its laws, its Capitol dome, and its well-swept front steps, the business of justice is done with less public show than a magician at a church picnic. But in Carson City—the land of sagebrush and sleepy courthouses—only one of 479 criminal cases last year made it to trial.

That’s not a typo, friend. That’s one, as in singular, lonesome, and about as rare as a politician who answers a yes-or-no question.

According to the latest reckonings, 99.49 percent of criminal cases in the capital got tidied up with plea deals in 2023—no trial, no jury, no highfalutin speeches about justice.

A signature here, a nod there, and back to business. Even across the rest of the Silver State, where numbers already lean toward the pragmatic over the poetic, Carson City stands out like a jackrabbit at a turtle race.

Take the tale of a woman who, in January 2024, was strangled by her then-boyfriend, a fellow named Arnold “Franky” Flores-Estrada, and the whole act was caught in glorious, unblinking 4K. Now, if justice were a clear-eyed mule, this man would’ve had his day in court, facing the full weight of the law.

Instead, the charge got dropped to a misdemeanor. Why? Because plea deals don’t like messes, and trials are expensive.

It wasn’t Franky’s first rodeo, either. His previous rough handling of a partner got swept under the legal rug, sealed tight like a whiskey barrel, and never brought up when he came around the second time.

His punishment? Thirty days in jail—served on weekends, like a part-time job. When he needed an extension on his sentence, the court granted it.

Meanwhile, his victim had herself a hard row to hoe. She tried to stop Franky from collecting his firearms—fearing, perhaps sensibly, that he might not use them for duck hunting—and the prosecutor threatened her with false imprisonment.

Reports of him violating a protective order were left to wither like tumbleweeds in the wind. And when the woman went to collect court records, she was turned away by folks who claimed they’d never heard of her—though she was the one getting strangled.

Now, there’s a law on the books in Nevada called Marsy’s Law, promising protection from harassment, timely information, and a place at the table where justice gets served. But the law, it seems, has no teeth—more like dentures left in a glass. Violations get shrugged off, and victims get left with little more than a court transcript and a sense of being had.

Then there’s the business of bail. Franky, having some money–or knowing someone who did–paid his way out with a ten-thousand-dollar check that later became five. He skipped the hearing, setting limits on his freedom. No questions asked.

Meanwhile, the Nevada Pretrial Risk Assessment—an oracle that reads numbers but not threats—declared him low-risk, like a drizzle on a cloudy day. Never mind the prior charges or the court extensions lost in the shuffle.

So here we sit in a town where crime dramas on television promise trials, justice, and solemn reckonings—but in real life, justice is processed faster than canned peaches at a factory. Victims watch as abusers get weekend jail and sealed pasts while they navigate a maze of clerical errors and unreturned calls.

Hopefully, her story kicks up enough dust to make folks take notice. She wants reforms, not revenge—a system that respects victims, not just the convenience of the docket. But until that day comes, Carson City’s courtroom remains more mirage than monument where the only trial anyone’s sure to face is the trial of being heard.

Now, I have always believed that a government should mind its own business, and that includes keeping its fingers off a man’s conscience and his Bible. But in Washington, that belief has long been seen as a quaint artifact, like powdered wigs or honest politicians.

During Holy Week, when Christians reflect on suffering, sacrifice, and resurrection—the State Department finally dared to look itself in the mirror. And to the surprise of many–though not to those with a whit of sense left in them–what it saw was a shadowy trail of anti-Christian bias stretching back years.

Secretary Marco Rubio, a man some say prays before breakfast and others say prays over policy, sent a cable to every American outpost on earth—an urgent call for employees to report religious discrimination they may have suffered or witnessed under the Biden administration. Not just discrimination, mind you, but anything from being forced to hide a crucifix on a desk to losing a job because of one’s conviction to refuse experimental vaccines or reject enforced use of “preferred pronouns” that conflicted with their faith.

Now, some folks laughed. But it wasn’t funny.

Men and women of conscience endured whispered mockery and quiet punishments for four years—not because they did wrong–but because their moral compass didn’t come with the latest political trends. One former staffer said he’d been warned not to “offend” colleagues by referencing Easter in an office memo—this in a country founded by men who once called on Divine Providence in every second sentence.

And while the usual critics sneered, called it “political theater” or “dog-whistling,” the truth was as plain as the cross on Calvary–Christians got pushed to the margins. Under the guise of “equity,” many were denied basic religious accommodations, passed over for promotions, or publicly shamed for their beliefs.

But now—finally—there was a reckoning.

And who, you might ask, was behind the resurrection of moral accountability? Oddly enough, it was the same Trump administration figures the press loves to mock and the bureaucrats love to fear.

Take Pete Marocco, for instance—a man sent to dismantle USAID, not because he hated foreign aid, but because he hated waste, fraud, and the endless funneling of taxpayer money to programs that had nothing to do with American values. He did his job, cleaned the house, and left before anyone could throw the first stone.

That’s called honor.

And then came Lew Olowski—appointed to run Global Talent Management, who didn’t tiptoe into the office like some paper-shuffling diplomat. No, he came in quoting Scripture and Lincoln, reminding his fellow officers that swearing an oath means something, or at least it used to before oaths became just another formality conveniently dismissed. The Constitution, he said, was more than parchment—it’s a covenant.

And he was right.

Some cried foul that he wasn’t a career diplomat, and that’s precisely why he’s needed. The swamp doesn’t clean itself with the same moss that grows in it.

His wife, Heather, now leads the department’s civil rights office. And with the new task force, she’s giving a voice to the voiceless—to the man told to remove his Bible verse, to the woman forced out of her position because she wouldn’t put a rainbow sticker on her office door. What enrages the critics isn’t that Christians are asserting their rights—it’s that they’re no longer content to turn the other cheek while their faith gets trampled in the name of “progress.”

For years, the Elite had its task forces—on climate, gender, race, and pronouns. Now, at long last, the Trump-aligned holdouts in the government have one of their own–a task force for truth, conscience, and the defense of those who believe in something higher than a government paycheck.

The press may scoff, the bureaucrats may seethe, and the careerists may clutch their security cards—but the message has been sent–A man’s faith is not government property. And if he must suffer for it, then at least let it be on record.

And if Washington can’t stomach that, then perhaps it is not the Christians who are out of step with America—but the government.

Reporting with a quill in one hand and a snort of sagebrush tea in the other

Now, I don’t rightly know how the good folks east of the Mississippi come to believe that Nevada is a singular neon bulb named Las Vegas, flickering out promises of blackjack fortunes and buffet regrets. But I aim to correct the notion with the same fervor as a barber shaves a man running late to church.

Nevada, dear reader, is a land stitched together by the silver veins of history, the murmur of the Humboldt, and the hardscrabble grit of towns like Ely, Tonopah, and Elko–whose names ain’t appeared in a headline since Roosevelt wore knickerbockers. And yet these places live and breathe still, and their people work the land, herd the stock, mine the hills, and–yes–occasionally lose a dollar or two in Winnemucca’s more adventurous establishments.

It is true, as some fretting professors and gloomy senators now say, that tariffs are getting slapped onto this or that foreign good like patches on a miner’s trousers. And it is equally honest that the Strip–with all its glass and glitter, does see a pinch when tourists–foreign and domestic–decide to stay home and watch poker on television instead of losing their rent money in person.

But let me declare here, as boldly as a rooster in a henhouse, that tariffs–for all their confusion among news folk–are working. Just as a mule might not understand why you switched trails on the mountain pass, the average person does not always grasp that sometimes you must suffer a higher price on your shrimp cocktail to preserve the dignity of your nation’s economy.

The media–bless their overworked typewriters and underused thinking caps–have made sport of saying tariffs are the end of civilization, just as they once foretold doom when buttons replaced suspenders. But I ask you, are we a country of industry, invention, and independence, or are we a glorified gift shop for foreign imports?

Professor Stephen Miller at UNLV–a man burdened with more degrees than common sense–says that “uncertainty” is the greatest danger. But when has any Nevadan ever had certainty?

It is a state built on blue mud, gold dust poker chips, boomtowns, and busted dreams. If uncertainty were poison, Nevada would’ve perished in the 1860s, yet here she is.

And though Ms. Sulhee Woo of Southern Nevada frets for her family — and rightly so — she ought to remember that a price shift is not the end of the world. It’s the beginning of a new one — where American industries, long strangled by cheap labor and foreign manipulations, can rise again like a bald eagle from the sagebrush.

As for our dear Senator Cortez Masto and State Treasurer Conine, their alarm bells are ringing louder than a saloon piano in a lightning storm. But rather than curse the tariffs, they might do better to teach folks what a tariff is–not some mystical hex cast by a Washington warlock, but a simple lever of commerce used since ancient days, back when the Greeks were still inventing democracy and regrettable pottery.

So yes, visitor numbers may be down 12 percent, and Canadian tourists — polite as they may be — are thinking twice before heading south. But mark my words–the Strip will survive.

The gamblers will return. And Nevada, in all her splendor, from Caliente to Incline Village shall carry on.

There’s more to this state than slot machines and showgirls. There’s the soul of a frontier, the pride of independence, and yes–the stubborn grit to weather any tariff the world dares toss her way.

And if you still don’t understand tariffs, ask a Paiute elder or a cowboy near Battle Mountain. They’ll explain it better than any Ivy League economist ever could and won’t charge admission.

Now, it came to pass in the Silver State, sometime after men forgot the plow and women took to suing for sport, that one Senator Melanie Scheible of Las Vegas—a lady with the chin of conviction and the logic of a spilled chamber pot—rose in righteous fury against a local school sports league.

The reason for her ruffled bonnet? The Nevada Interscholastic Athletic Association said girls’ sports should be exclusively girls.

“Scandalous!” cried she on a local broadcast more solemn than a church funeral. “Appalling!” she said as if someone had tried to serve her mint julep with no mint.

She was offended—mortally so!—that the Association had barred boys who said they were girls from galloping onto the volleyball courts and racetracks with the same thunderous musculature that nature, in its infinite indifference, had awarded them at birth. Miss Scheible’s main contention was that these were “literally children,” a phrase that ought to come with a license, by how she slung it. They were children—but with broad shoulders and five o’clock shadows, some of’em—just trying to find “a safe place” on the girls’ basketball team.

Now you must understand–the NIAA didn’t come to this decision by consulting tea leaves or reading goat entrails. They said it plainly–there are “sex-linked differences in physical development and athletic performance.” In other words, boys can generally throw a ball harder, jump higher, and outrun girls—not because of social pressure, but because of thighs the size of ham hocks and the testosterone galloping through their veins like cavalry.

It seemed not to compute in Senator Scheible’s noggin, which is likely crammed too tight with political slogans and not near enough biology. I reckon she thinks “XX” is just a new brand of feminist beer–and “XY” is a hate crime in algebra.

Worse still, the good senator went on to accuse the board members—the very folks tasked with keeping competition fair—of being fixated on children’s genitals. Lord help us!

When the science goes over your head, sling mud at the motives. That’s the modern way.

She likened the concern to a cabal of joyless men obsessing over soccer teams. Well, Miss Scheible, it ain’t the size of concern that matters—it’s the size of the kid dunking on your daughter in a varsity game that ought to raise your eyebrows.

To her mind, the whole state had gone mad with villainizing “a handful of athletes.” That’s just the kind of arithmetic that got us into this pickle in the first place. You see, a handful of termites is still enough to ruin the house, and one big fella in a wig on a girls’ track team can still take home the ribbon before the others finish stretching.

And let us not forget the Trump factor, which Senator Scheible served up like a bad penny. The policy is tainted by the President and, therefore, inappropriate.

It’s supposed if Mr. Trump were to endorse gravity, she’d start floating.

She also had harsh words for the Lieutenant Governor, one Mr. Stavros Anthony, who had the gall—the gall!—to create a “Task Force to Protect Women’s Sports,” which Miss Scheible found “outside of his job description.” I expect she’ll scold the fire chief for using water.

Now, folks, I ain’t got a dog in this fight. But I reckon there’s a difference between sympathy and silliness, which is to think we can be kind to folks figuring themselves out without pretending the sky is mauve and boys make better girls than girls do.

That’s not compassion—it’s a confusion-made policy.

Miss Scheible, I’m sure, is an earnest woman. But if common sense were hay, she couldn’t feed a grasshopper. In her world, nature is bigoted, fairness is cruelty, and anyone who says otherwise is trying to peer into gym shorts.

But here’s the rub, dear reader–the more we let feelings shout down facts, the closer we come to a time when logic is outlawed–and biology an opinion. And when that day comes, heaven help the girls who just wanted to run, jump, and win on a level field.

Let’s hope Miss Scheible never gets put in charge of the state’s science curriculum, or we’ll get told the moon identifies as a sunlamp.

The citizens of the Silver State, long accustomed to gambling on everything from roulette wheels to wild horses, now find themselves wagering their paychecks on something far riskier–iceberg lettuce.

A new study, courtesy of the good folks at LendingTree–who, bless’em, usually lend money and not farming advice–has declared that Nevada households are spending more on groceries than nearly any godforsaken spot in these United States. We rank fourth in the country, trailing only Utah, Alaska, and Hawaii—places known respectively for salt flats, frostbite, and pineapple plantations.

The average Nevadan now spends over $10,000 a year on groceries, which, for those doing the math at home–and we advise against it, it’s too depressing–is $2,223 more than the national average. And this, in a state where wild sagebrush is free and your neighbor’s dust trail is seen three counties over.

The report also claims Nevadans spend 10.1 percent of their income on food. That’s just behind Idaho’s record-setting 10.4 percent—and we all know potatoes are cheap, so Lord only knows what they’re eating over there. Meanwhile, in the District of Columbia, where politicians subsist mainly on free lunches and lobbyist shrimp cocktails, they spend a mere 4.4 percent.

But let us now turn to the villain in this tale–organic produce. Yes, the very mention of it conjures images of tofu-fed kale and overpriced apples polished by monks.

Organic fruits and veggies cost an average of 52.6 percent more than their humble, pesticide-laden counterparts, say the scholars at LendingTree. Nowhere is the robbery more obvious than iceberg lettuce, which, once a garnish for sad diners and school lunch trays, now commands a 179.3 percent premium if grown without “bad vibes” or conventional farming methods. A head of organic lettuce now fetches $3.38, which is only slightly less than a gallon of gas and, depending on where you’re standing in Nevada, a gallon of water.

And what about apples? Granny Smith, the tart matron of fruit baskets, is feeling herself these days, charging 123.3 percent more if she’s grown organically. A bag of these righteous fruits costs $4.31–enough to make my ol’ Granny roll over in her grave.

Now, a reasonable person might ask–“Isn’t this a food desert?”

A fair question—one tossed around in the manner of limp arugula at a vegan potluck. The term “food desert” sounds tragic until you remember Nevada is an actual desert.

Water is scarce, shade is optional, and growing food here is as easy as milking a cactus. Calling it a “food desert” is like calling the Pacific a “water surplus” or Chicago a “quiet suburb.”

Even the avocados—beloved by Instagrammers and the tragically brunch-obsessed—are staging a financial coup. A large conventional Hass avocado now costs $2.49, up 75.4 percent in one year. Organic avocados, naturally, want in on the action, with some sizes going up nearly 46 percent, because nothing says health like paying extra to smash green butter on your toast.

The price of mixed mini sweet peppers nearly doubled, up 99.6 percent, presumably because each is hand-bathed in unicorn tears. Meanwhile, Gala apples went all diva, with prices rising 50.5 percent for a three-pound bag but falling for the two-pound bag–as if the apples had joined a union and started negotiating in weight classes.

Now, in fairness, some prices have dropped.

Vine-ripe tomatoes fell a glorious 45.6 percent, which makes up for the indignity of iceberg lettuce going full Beverly Hills. But these savings are rarer than rain in Tonopah, and most folks never notice because they’re too busy weeping in the frozen foods aisle.

In conclusion, while Nevada may be dry, dusty, and littered with ghosts of mining towns past, we are now home to a new kind of treasure–the $5 sprout. It ain’t gold, but it sure is shiny at checkout.

So the next time someone starts hollering about “food deserts,” nod and remind them that here in Nevada, we’ve been living in one since 1859—and at least back then, you could grow your lettuce without needing a second mortgage.

The press was at it again. Somewhere between a trade war and a cant rail, they’d decided a conspiracy was afoot—a sprawling techno-drama where tariffs tangoed with stainless steel, and adhesive became the villain no one expected.

In Shanghai, the skies were pretty clear for spring. The Gigafactory there, affectionately dubbed GigaSH by its engineers, hummed along, producing Model 3s and Model Ys like a rice cooker on overdrive. These were the crowd-pleasers, the darlings of the People’s Republic, and conveniently, they were exempt from the latest round of retaliatory tariffs that turned U.S.-built exports into financial lead balloons.

Meanwhile, back in the U.S., the Cybertruck—a creation so angular it looked like it was drawn by a seven-year-old with a ruler—was having… issues. The kind that made headlines, not crashes–yet.

A stainless steel strip—called a cant rail—had the unfortunate habit of detaching during high-speed wind serenades. The government wasn’t amused at videos of dudes casually peeling Cybertrucks like bananas were going viral.

The NHTSA, perhaps feeling left out of the global drama, recalled all of them. Forty-six thousand ninety-six Cybertrucks, built between November 2023 and February 2025, now needed a stronger adhesive. The good kind that doesn’t fall victim to something called “environmental embrittlement,” which sounded like a progressive rock band.

Across the Pacific, Tesla’s Chinese website had gone suspiciously quiet about the Model S and Model X. Orders for the U.S.-built luxury cars had vanished like a Silicon Valley founder after an SEC subpoena.

Some journalists said it was because of the new 125 percent tariff slapped on U.S. imports. Others tried to connect it to the Cybertruck recall despite the Model S and X having nothing in common with the panel-peeling metal monsters.

But they made the connection anyway because nothing says journalism by mashing square pegs into round holes and calling it investigative reporting. Never mind that Model S and X had always been a niche in China. Never mind that the real issue was probably the sticker shock from a 125 percent surcharge plus customs plus a few silent nods from bureaucrats who hadn’t forgotten past tweets about Taiwan.

Back home, the chaos wasn’t just economic. It was chemical.

In Colorado, a woman got arrested for tossing Molotov cocktails at Tesla showrooms. “Nazi cars,” she’d painted across the building, apparently unaware that the actual Nazis had preferred VWs.

In South Carolina, a man torched charging stations. Investigators found DOGE-related ramblings in his wallet and hand-scrawled screeds about government surveillance. Nobody knew what it meant, but it sure sounded Tesla-adjacent.

The same thing happened in Las Vegas, where the media was quick to point out the suspect was an Independent voter, though he never cast a ballot.

Tesla shares? Down 42 percent in 2025. Some blamed the recalls. Others blamed the trade war. Still, others blamed the vibes.

In the meantime, Tesla was fixing cant rails, answering hotline calls, and mailing out recall letters. Meanwhile, a team of exhausted engineers calculating wind shear coefficients worked while the press wrote think pieces about “America’s Technological Decline.”

But inside the walls of GigaSH, the Model 3s kept rolling out–smooth and tariff-free. And in the back of a Cybertruck somewhere in Nevada, a forgotten cant rail shimmered like a silver snake, loose and flapping in the desert breeze –and no one carried.

Everything is connected if you squint hard enough or on a deadline.

By Someone Who Ain’t Got No Time for Shenanigans

It was a mild sort of Monday in Nevada when the Secretary of State’s Office sauntered out with a grand announcement–they had finally gotten around to sweeping out the old cobwebs from the voter rolls, booting some 160,000 names clean off the list and giving another 37,000 the bureaucratic cold shoulder. The official word was that this was all part of a grand, noble effort to ensure the transparency, security, and accessibility of the Silver State’s sacred elections.

Now, that might’ve sounded mighty fine if folks didn’t remember that just two years earlier, in the year of our Lord 2022, Secretary Francisco Aguilar had assured the public—with a straight face and polished boots—that the voter rolls were just as clean as a new whistle and needed no more scrubbin’. He dismissed any talk of dead folks or ghost voters with the kind of certainty only a politician with a paper-thin broom could muster.

“Nothing to see here,” he hollered from his high horse perch, and sure enough, nothing got done.

Fast forward to 2024—after all the primaries, preferences, generals, and probably a few scandals over lukewarm coffee—and suddenly, the rolls weren’t so clean. The state’s numbers showed that counties sent out 185,644 notices warning folks that their voting credentials were hanging by a thread, and more than 138,000 got benched. The same names Aguilar once dismissed as harmless now warranted a post-election purge so mighty it could’ve sent chills up a corpse’s spine.

The whole affair’s cloaked in legalese and officialdom, with mentions of the National Voter Registration Act and “blackout periods” that make you wonder if we’re talking about voting or bootlegging. The counties couldn’t touch the lists for ninety days before each election—not because they didn’t want to, mind you, but because the rules forbade it. It’s the law, they said, and by gum, we follow it–just not too fast.

And what of the poor souls deemed “inactive”? The folks who haven’t voted, haven’t called, haven’t written, and maybe didn’t even know they were still on the list. A couple of missed elections, a postcard returned “undeliverable,” and you’re tossed in the limbo bin–not dead, not deleted—just forgotten like last year’s snow.

The counties–overworked and underloved, have to do all this alongside a heap of other responsibilities—especially the 15 out of 17 that aren’t Clark or Washoe. The clerks out yonder don’t just deal with elections; they probably mend fences and deliver calves, too.

But let’s not forget the headline here–162,519 voter registrations canceled, 37,749 made inactive. And all of it after the election, when the ballots got boxed and the power comfortably seated. Aguilar now crows about the success of the cleanup and the importance of a shiny new statewide voter management system. He encourages voters to check their info, update their details, and add their phone numbers—lest they vanish like old acquaintances.

My how the tune changes after the music stops.

So here we are, with the rolls finally pruned, the dead metaphorically buried, and Aguilar preaching from a new hymnal. But some folks out here remember 2022.

They remember getting told the barn was clean even while the stink lingered. And now, seeing all these names struck down in 2024, they can’t help but ask–If the list was so spotless two years ago–what exactly were we standing on?

Ethan Carver rode into the nameless town as the sun dipped below the jagged ridges, the sky awash in fiery hues. Dust clung to his duster, and his horse’s breath came heavy, nostrils flaring from the hard ride.

The town was little more than a cluster of buildings huddled against the basin, the wooden fronts worn gray by wind and time. Carver hadn’t been in the area in years—not since taking a Paiute wife and settled in the hills where the cottonwoods grew thick along the creek.

But that life was gone now, taken from him by a man who had mistaken his kindness for weakness.

The murderer had fled, but Carver tracked him. Through dry washes and over granite ridges, he had followed the signs—boot prints worn at the heels, a fire pit left smoldering, a strip of torn canvas snagged on sagebrush.

Now, the trail led here.

Carver dismounted and hitched his horse outside the saloon. The place stank of stale beer and unwashed bodies, where men huddled over cards and whiskey, talking low.

They went quiet when he stepped in, some recognizing him, others just sensing the frightful weight he carried. He moved to the bar, set his hands on the polished wood, and spoke low to the barkeep.

“Ben Latimer come through here?”

The barkeep, a narrow-eyed man who had seen his share of trouble, nodded toward a table near the back. Carver turned his head slightly, taking in the man seated there.

Latimer. A lean figure with a face that had gone to seed, his mustache barely hiding a cruel mouth. He was laughing at some jest, whiskey in one hand, the other resting near his gun belt.

Carver stepped from the bar, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The laughter at Latimer’s table died as his companions saw the look in Carver’s eyes.

Latimer saw it, too. He shifted in his chair, his fingers twitching toward his gun.

But Carver already had his iron drawn, steady as bedrock.

“You took my wife and boy from me, Latimer.” His voice was flat, carrying no more weight than a judge pronouncing a sentence. “A man like you ought to be set right.”

Latimer sneered, his fingers flexing, but he wasn’t fast enough. Carver’s Colt roared, the bullet catching Latimer square in the chest. The outlaw slammed back against the wall, whiskey spilling as his body slumped sideways, lifeless.

Silence settled over the saloon. Carver holstered his gun, threw a coin on the bar, stepping into the cool desert night.

The deed done, and justice, the only kind this land understood, had been meted. He mounted his horse and turned toward the open desert, where the wind whispered through the sagebrush.

He had no home to return to, no family left to welcome him. Yet, there were trails to ride and other men, requiring a reminder that the frontier carried an unwritten code and that it came as hot lead.

Reporting from the Outskirts of Reason

Matrimony is a sacred bond best entered into with clear eyes, full hearts, and a lawyer on retainer.

But the folks at The Little Vegas Chapel—bless their entrepreneurial spirits—have taken it one parsec further with what they call Star Wars-themed weddings. Come May the 4th–a date chosen less for astrology and more for punnery–couples can now pledge eternal devotion under the solemn gaze of Princess Leia—or Darth Vader, depending on whether you prefer buns or breathing tubes.

The whole affair is “YODA One For Me,” which I presume is the kind of joke that gets a laugh after three mimosas and a heatstroke. For the bargain price of $860–or approximately one Ewok pelt and a kidney–you get roundtrip limo service—because nothing says “galactic romance” like sitting in traffic on the Strip.

The ceremony is peppered with Star Wars music, which I can only assume means someone presses play on “The Imperial March” while Grandpa weeps in the third pew. Symbolizing either the shifting nature of love or Anakin Skywalker’s dislike of the desert–you can include a Unity Sand Ceremony.

You’ll get a bouquet that looks like it bloomed on Tatooine, a boutonniere worthy of the Senate, while the whole production gets captured in video and photos, presumably with enough lens flare to blind a Jedi. And to top it off, they hand you a Star Wars-themed certificate—valid in neither court nor council—but perfect for framing next to your original VHS copies.

If you’re not ready to mortgage the Millennium Falcon for the deluxe package, you can opt for “Love Star” at $600. This version is slightly trimmed but still includes a bouquet, some lightsabers, and a podium that probably glows ominously. They provide a witness should your cousin Cheryl not make her flight, and phones are welcome because nothing says “I do,” like live-streaming to the guy who used to bully you in middle school.

As for me, I say let them have it. If a man wants to wear a Chewbacca mask while declaring his undying love to a woman in a polyester space bikini, who am I to stand in the way of destiny? It may not be the galaxy far, far away—but it’s at least a block past the pawn shop and two doors down from Elvis.

And truth be told, it’s probably just as well. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth, especially when your officiant is a Sith Lord and your marriage certificate glows in the dark. But if the Force is with them—and the air conditioning holds—the lovebirds might make it past the credits.

By Yours Truly, a Traveler of Truth and Occasional User of Government Cheese

Now, I’ve seen some tall tales in my day, but that spun about Kilmar Abrego Garcia—deemed innocent by folks sipping coffee in Washington and a terrorist by those who’ve had the misfortune of housing him in El Salvador—takes the ribbon at the County Fair. The whole affair would be laughable if it weren’t so wrapped up in the nervous knots of modern-day politics, with the media howling at the moon and the courts drawing maps in the sand where logic once stood.

Garcia was plucked from Maryland and deposited in a Salvadoran prison, where he’s now settled into a less-than-voluntary retirement. The Supreme Court recently declared that the U.S. government ought to “facilitate” his return—as if we’re talking about shipping a crate of peaches, not someone described by the Salvadoran president as a terrorist.

President Bukele, whose own country is finally clawing its way out from under the thumb of gang warfare, looked at the camera like it had grown two heads and said, “Of course I’m not going to do it.”

That’s the kind of plain talk that makes friends or enemies–but never politicians or press types.

In what I consider an admirable act of restraint, President Trump didn’t roll his eyes—at least not in front of the press—but made it clear the whole mess wasn’t his making.

“That’s up to El Salvador,” he said, with the kind of shrug a man gives when someone asks why the rooster crows at dawn.

And he’s right, mind you. If President Bukele doesn’t want to send the man back, should we sail a clipper ship down to San Salvador and storm the gates?

The press, particularly one ornery soul from CNN, pressed the matter like a butter churn, and Trump, in fine form, asked the obvious, “Why don’t you just say, ‘Isn’t it wonderful that we’re keeping criminals out of our country?’”

I’d wager even the birds outside the Oval Office gave a nod.

Now enter the ACLU, stage left, like a traveling show with too many props and no plot. They’ve filed more lawsuits than a porcupine’s got quills, arguing that twenty-four hours is not enough warning for a man to stop his deportation, especially when he’s facing a lifetime in a foreign prison.

Never mind that the very same Supreme Court they once pinned their hopes just handed them a unanimous decision–if you want to argue about deportation, do it where you’re in El Salvador. That’s what I call jurisdiction, and even Marshal Dillon could’ve told you that.

At the center of this dust storm is an old law—the Alien Enemies Act of 1798—which the Trump Administration has dusted off like an antique rifle, claiming it fits the times just fine. With gangs like Tren de Aragua treating our southern border like an open buffet, Trump figures this is as close to an “invasion” as we’ve seen without bayonets on the beach.

Some say he’s stretching the law, but I say the stretch makes it last.

The Colorado challenge is on behalf of two fellas detained in Denver. One says he’s mistaken for a gang member; the other claims the gang killed his kin. It’s a grim business either way, and I’ll not make light of it—but I will say that the line between fleeing from terror and bringing it along in your suitcase can be mighty thin, and a country’s first duty is to know the difference.

So here we are, with the courts saying “facilitate,” the media saying “outrage,” and Trump saying, “Not on my watch.” Meanwhile, President Bukele’s saying he’ll not smuggle anyone back across our border. At least he knows which side of the fence he’s standing on.

The truth is the Trump administration is not breaking the law—they’re upholding the idea that citizenship, borders, and laws still mean something in a world too quick to forget they exist. So, if there’s a villain in this story, it’s not the man in the Oval Office.

It’s the fog of folly settling over reason–every time politics and media try to do the work of common sense.