The Old Blog in the Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven Tigers Rescued in a Tale Stranger Than Fiction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tears Flow, But the Details Don’t

The Department of Governmental Entanglements (DOGE), known for sniffing out the places where money goes to nap, has reportedly withdrawn funding from Nevada Humanities, thereby setting off an operatic wail from its executive director, Ms. Christina Barr, and precisely zero clarifications about what the money was accomplishing.

Barr declared that the five-year operating support grant got axed without warning in a public lament suitable for an ancient Greek stage,

“Until yesterday,” she said, the NEH sent taxpayer dollars to Nevada Humanities “to support humanities programming that reaches every corner of the Silver State.”

Which sounds impressive—until you go looking for specifics.

For those unfamiliar with what “humanities programming” means in the wild, Barr’s announcement offered no list of fallen programs, shuttered projects, or canceled barn-raising book clubs. Not even a solitary puppet show or discussion circle mourned by name.

Instead, we are to believe the entire cultural scaffolding of Nevada collapsed in the time it takes to mail a letter.

Now, DOGE ain’t perfect. Lord knows any outfit with that many acronyms floating around is bound to gum up a gear now and then. But if they pulled the plug, and no one says what got plugged in, it raises the question: what were we paying for?

If Nevada Humanities reached “every corner” of the Silver State, one of those corners could produce a receipt, a testimonial, or at least a photograph of an inspired someone. Instead, they offer abstractions like “civic engagement” and “meaningful lives,” which are nice to have, sure—but so is an oil change, and even Jiffy Lube tells you what they did.

Until then, one must conclude the programs were too valuable to name or too embarrassing to mention. And if cutting the whole thing off “severely hinders” the organization, that suggests they had all their eggs in one invisible, taxpayer-funded basket.

DOGE may have just saved the public a handsome sum—and all it cost was a general sense of confusion, a vague cultural ache, and a few tears shed over unspecified greatness lost in the shadows.

In conclusion–if you must mourn, mourn with specifics. Otherwise, folks may begin to suspect there was nothing in the casket.

If a man keeps slapping you every time you walk past his porch, maybe you ought to quit walkin’ that way—or at least start carryin’ a big stick of your own.

The American public is in the middle of a National game of tug-of-war once again, where one end’s hollerin’ “tariffs for strength” and the other shoutin’ “tariffs for ruin.” And in between stands the humble citizen, lookin’ mighty bruised and quite a bit poorer, with a busted wallet and a confused head.

Representative Mark Amodei, a fellow who’s spent enough time in Congress to know what’s broken and poorly painted, had a few thoughts to share. He reckons our dependence on other nations—particularly ones that don’t send us Christmas cards, like China—is dangerous.

“This is a fundamental flaw in our trading system,” says he, with all the solemnity of a preacher on Sunday. “We’ve let adversaries control too many key resources—pharmaceuticals, rare earth minerals, even the stuff that goes into building our defenses.”

Amodei went on to point out that while Wall Street’s having a conniption, we won’t see results for a while.

“We’re dealing with a very sick patient,” he quoted President Donald Trump as saying, which is fitting since we all seem to be payin’ hospital prices these days—without the benefit of any healing.

On the flip side, Nevada’s senators—Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen—are fit to be tied. They say Trump’s tariffs are as helpful as a rattlesnake in a sleeping bag.

“Instead of lowering costs,” says Cortez Masto, “He’s raising taxes on hardworking American families.”

She’s worried about travel and tourism, which is mighty important to Nevada folks.

Rosen also jumped in, calling Trump’s tariffs “A slap in the face,” as she called it.

That makes it two slaps now—one from overseas and one from home. But here’s the riddle that keeps tappin’ at the skull like a woodpecker with insomnia–if tariffs don’t work, why do so many countries impose them on us?

It seems folks abroad like protecting their own but raise Cain when we do the same. That’s the trouble with playing fair in an unfair game. Everybody else is hidin’ an ace up their sleeve, and we’re sittin’ at the table with our cards face-up, whistlin’ Dixie.

Tariffs may not be the cure-all, but neither is surrender. And if we’re as sick as Trump says, then maybe it’s time we started treatin’ the cause instead of just the symptoms. Now–if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see if my made-in-China boots have any American left in ’em.

Ain’t this a fine kettle of clarity for once–four international students at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, had their student visas yanked clean out from under them by federal immigration authorities, as it sounds like Uncle Sam finally dusted off the rulebook and used it.

The word came down from on high — or at least from Chris Heavey, a university bigwig with more titles than sense — in a solemn little email full of handwringing and silk-gloved fretting. According to Mr. Heavey, the university “recognized this news may be difficult for some,” which is a mighty polite way of saying some folks might clutch their pearls and take to fainting couches over the wild notion that our immigration laws mean something.

Let’s keep our boots on the ground here–the United States is not some open boarding house where folks can stroll in, tip their hat, and stay as long as they please. No, we have rules — real ones, with teeth.

If someone’s paperwork ain’t in order, or if they’re abusing the privilege of a student visa, well then it’s high time they got shown the door with a tip of the hat and a polite “don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

Of course, the university brass wrung their hands and offered “support services,” legal counseling, and an entire quilt of comfort as though these young scholars had suffered some biblical injustice. But nobody has said what these students did wrong because that would make it harder to keep the narrative neat and tear-streaked. Maybe it’s private, pending, legal silence for when folks not wanting to admit the government might just be right this time.

The whole business comes in the shadow of President Trump’s January executive order to combat the rising tide of anti-Semitism on college campuses and city streets. That’s right — while some folks were busy organizing “die-ins” in the quad and canceling free speech faster than a preacher in a whiskey tent, the administration decided to do something useful.

And now, all across the country, you’re seeing some accountability.

There’s also some hollering about investigations into so-called “racial preferences” in academia — you know, the kind where your skin tone’s worth more than your GPA. One of those grand-sounding outfits with soft words and hard edges, The Ph.D Project, is under the microscope for limiting eligibility based on race.

UNLV had three professors involved in it, one of whom–God rest her— was killed in the December shooting on campus. But here’s the truth–the law don’t play favorites, and neither should our universities. If the rules get broken for one group, they’ll snap against another, and soon, fairness is just another word tossed in the academic junk drawer.

So yes–four students got sent packing. That ain’t cruelty–that’s maintenance. A nation is like a ship–if you don’t keep the hull tight and the crew honest, you’ll find yourself sinking under the weight of your carelessness.

President Trump, for all his bluster and barnstorming, did what many before him only talked about–he enforced the law. And now the same folks who snickered when he promised to drain the sewer are howling because he pulled four fish out of the pond.

Well, boo-hoo.

Let it be said plainly–America is not opposed to immigration. We are a nation of immigrants — but also of legal immigrants. If we don’t respect our rules, we’ve no right to ask anyone else to.

So the next time someone cries foul over a visa revoked or a door closed, ask them this–was the person invited in the first place? Or were they hoping nobody’d notice?

In this dusty, distracted, and divided republic of ours, it’s nice to see that sometimes, just sometimes, the law still holds the line.

As a student of human nature—a subject mighty slippery and stubborn as a greased pig at a county fair, there’s one thing you can count on from our high-minded friends in the satin-trimmed salons of elite society–it’s their eternal, infernal habit of widening every path they come upon, whether it leads to Heaven, Hades, or the courthouse.

Why, you ask, is that noble society of left-leaning lords and ladies so fixed on paving broad boulevards where the Good Book only marked out a trailhead? Because it is in their nature to believe that if a thing is hard, it must be unjust. And if it is just, then it ought to be optional.

Jesus said, “Narrow is the way, and few there be that find it.” But these well-fed folks with delicate hands and full bellies seem to have read instead, “Narrow is the way, and that’s clearly a zoning problem.”

Take, for instance, a symposium at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas—an institution that traffics diplomas that have taken to trafficking in ideas most peculiar. There, gathered like well-meaning hens around a lantern, were advocates for sex work, pressing the notion that the only thing standing between prostitution and public health was a fresh coat of legality and a few kind-hearted judges.

Now, I ain’t here to cast stones at the folks who’ve found themselves working the oldest profession—Lord knows poverty doesn’t leave many options on the table. But what tickles the ribs and wrinkles the brow is the sheer certainty these self-appointed saviors believe that if we only pass enough bills and build enough bridges, we’ll end up in Paradise, or at least in a more progressive precinct.

They say things like, “Sex work should not be criminal,” and “Let’s listen to the workers.” These are the very same voices who’d turn their noses up at a preacher warning against sin, yet they’ll heap praise upon a sociology professor who says the problem is not the fire but the firefighter.

Time and again, we see a yearning to turn the crooked timber of humanity into something straight—not with repentance or redemption, mind you—with paperwork, pronouns, and policy panels.

And here lies the deeper trouble–they want to save the sinner without troubling the soul. They want to offer safety where the Scripture speaks of sacrifice and immunity where the Lord speaks of judgment.

And the Devil, I reckon, has never had better publicists.

So, to answer the question plainly–the elite prefers a wider path because it’s easier to build, walk, and sell in polite society. But easier–as any river knows–doesn’t always mean better, but it means heading downhill.

The Nevada Department of Corrections has found itself in a most unusual fix–a $53 million hole in its britches and not a needle or thread in sight.

One thing you can count on in this life besides death and taxes–politicians talking in circles and that prisons ought to know how many fellers it needs to keep the keys janglin’ and cell doors shut. And as it turns out, the folks at NDOC have been leaning on their guards like an old mule leans on a sagging fence, working overtime till they’re sprouting gray hairs faster than you can say “appropriations committee.”

This hiccup, like a jackrabbit in a carrot patch three months before the end of the fiscal year, left the legislative Democrats hollering like they got bit by a snake. Senator Rochelle Nguyen, who hails from Las Vegas but sounded like she came straight from Missouri–the “show me” state–declared, “You knew that you were going to have a problem.”

And you know what? She may be right.

Director James Dzurenda, who’s been running this three-ring circus off-and-on since 2016, reckons the problem comes down to a lack of bodies to fill the boots. According to him, they’ve got about enough trainers in their academy to play a game of checkers–seven of ‘em–but called in over 300 officers last year to get the job done. That alone cost $350,000 in overtime, not counting coffee and complaints.

To make matters more tangled than a cat in a knitting basket, their most recent collective bargaining agreement hands officers two extra days off each year. Well, those days off don’t cover themselves, so up go the overtime costs like a Fourth of July rocket, hitting $2 million to keep things operational.

The governor’s office claims they saw smoke on the horizon in January and sent folks to fetch water–or start an audit and craft a new pay plan. But as anyone will tell you, closing the barn door after the horse runs off is mighty poor timing.

The Democrats are stomping their feet, demanding answers. “Why hasn’t there been a request every session since that old study over a decade ago?” asked Senate Majority Leader Nicole Cannizzaro, likely envisioning a world where government agencies behave as expected–an idea as fanciful as a well-fed mosquito in a Nevada drought.

There’s a study in the works. But it won’t get done until after the session ends. That’s like building a bridge after the flood.

Dzurenda admits it’ll be “devastating,” which is as comforting as hearing your ship’s captain say, “We hit something.”

To plug the leak, the agency has taken the bold step of cutting family visitations and inmate education–which is a bit like fixing a leaky roof by taking the kitchen stove outside and hoping for the best.

One can hardly blame the guards–they’re just doing the work. And you can’t hang the blame on the warden either, who inherited the mess. But somewhere between the Legislature, the union, and that budget ledger, there’s a canyon of missteps you could lose a year’s funding–and apparently, they did.

So here we are–ten thousand prisoners, not enough guards, and a budget bleeding money like a canoe with a hole in its bottom. And still, no clear answer to the one question rattling through the halls of government like a ghost with a grievance — “Why didn’t y’all say something sooner?”

Nevada wouldn’t be in this pickle if common sense were as plentiful as overtime hours. But alas, it’s not–so the clock ticks toward July while lawmakers dig through the couch cushions for $53 million and a miracle.

Mark my words–when the government gets to spendin’ money it didn’t plan for, it behaves just like a gambler on credit–bold, desperate, and awful fond of blaming the dealer.

Now, friends, let me spin you a little yarn about the curious case of votin’ in the Silver State—a good endeavor if ever there was one. Back in 2018, a band of well-meanin’ Nevadans marched to the ballot box and hollered out “Aye!” to a plan that tied votin’ to the Department of Motor Vehicles—otherwise known as the one place on God’s green earth where time crawls slower than a three-legged tortoise in molasses.

From that point on, every feller or gal who ambled into the DMV to tend to their affairs—be it a driver’s license, a renewal, or one of them government forms—found themselves signed up to vote like it or not, courtesy of the registrar’s office. The system was plain as cornbread, and that’s how folks liked it.

But lo! Come January 2025, the powers-that-be got it in their heads to fine-tune the contraption, which is politician talk for takin’ a thing that works and puttin’ it through a meat grinder to see what happens. Now, they say when a soul goes into the DMV and makes one of them “qualified transactions,” which I reckon means anything short of askin’ directions to the outhouse—their information still goes up the ladder to the registrar’s office.

But now, it doesn’t stop there. It takes a little detour into a new level—some bureaucratic cloud where forms rain down like April showers.

Miss Addie Vetter, the Deputy Registrar of Voters in Washoe County, says they update the system, send the voter a form in the mail, and then it’s up to the voter to opt out, opt in, verify this, change that, and sign it all with a flourish like they’re settlin’ a cattle contract.

And if it’s your first time at the DMV rodeo? Well, congratulations—you’re a non-partisan voter now. No party, no fuss, no glory.

See, what happens next is they mail you a form and a cover letter that kindly explains all the hullabaloo. There’s a number to call if you get lost in the paper forest.

If you agree with everything, you tip your hat and go on. But if you need to make changes—like switch your party, cancel your registration, or pull out of votin’ altogether—well, sign that form like it’s your final will and mail it back.

This whole rigamarole, they tell us, keeps things “current.” Which smells a bit like fish when applied to voter paperwork. But if you do all that right, you’ll get your ballot when the time comes—be it for a general election, a special election, or some small-town vote on whether dogs can wear hats.

And here’s the kicker: every time you blink at the DMV, this little ritual starts again.

Now I ask you plainly: why do they have to mess with the system when a plain piece of paper worked just fine? To me, the only thing automatic about this “automatic registration” is the confusion it breeds.