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“I’m a desert rat,” I’ve heard friends say, and four years in I know what they mean.

We spoke with NV Energy executives, conservation activists battling Buffett’s company and desert rats who don’t want to see their favorite off-highway vehicle trails cut off by solar farms.

Darrah’s dallying with cowboys, desert rats and glitter queens around a seedy motel isn’t, itself, altogether new to modern opera stagings, but it felt fresh and right for this little-known score.

Their house is desert rat lite: big screened porch in the front, massive water and propane tanks next to the outhouse in the back, random tchotshkes — but not too many — strewn about.

“He was a living, breathing ‘hang loose’ sign, a swaggering hybrid of Zoni desert rat, SoCal hobo, and Telluride ski bum.”