J is for Jerk

J is for Jerk: All I need is this pigeon, Nevada nuke farm and inbred cat… that’s all I need….

Just back from another weekend in X—— Nevada at my friend’s ranch. Lots of hard work. Neither rain, snow, raging winds, sunburn, gourmet food and cheap-ass booze  shall keep us from our appointed rounds.  All within 48 hours.

Sagebrush clearing, last year’s Burn camp trash destruction, garbage sorting, bicycle repair and/or trash pile fixin,’ burn barrels, dog and horse crap clean-up plus the small town amusement of breakfast at The Eagles Lodge with the octogenarians on the third Sunday of every month.

All you can eat.
Not all you want to eat.
All you can eat.
And it ain’t much. The little old ladies are cool though.

Just got home. Have not checked the (surely) new 200+ emails yet. Opened the door and first thing I see is  sheet music all over the floor. It had been on the piano top prior to leaving Friday.

If you are a musician you know what Cakewalk is. Great software! If you have crap notation skills on manuscript paper, dig buying $150.00 worth of extra equipment to use your ancient MIDI keyboards (love my D-10) to computer interface (answer to everything new according to the 1980′s… you Jerk), write string and brass parts, print out your tunes, create full orchestration, change said ENTIRE orchestration into another key without doing so manually you know what Cakewalk is.

Best part: Cakewalk is now owned by Roland –my old employer. Hence the D-10 I use along with my trusty old Yamaha DX-7, to compose with. Play the grand piano for recreation, love, singing and feeling/finding new tunes.  The workhorse synths are to create orchestration and play gigs. Too many keyboards!
D’OH. Sorry J’OH.

Wait. Digressing. Again –sigh-

So I walk into the house with the luggage, see my newly printed sheet music everywhere except on the piano- the Cake Walk Connection- and begin yelling at Lizzie Borden. Obviously the hairball had been on the piano.

If you’re a regular reader you know that Lizzie is dumb as a box of a hair taped shut… but gorgeous and sweet. Damned Persian rescue kitty.

Suddenly, and I DO mean suddenly, as I’m swearing at Liz a F*CKING FLYING RAT comes at me.
Second time in three months.

Pigeon had gotten in though the fireplace. Same as last time I had JUST cleaned, swept, vacuumed, taken care of the fireplace area prior to anything such as this happening.

Winged rat pissed me off instead of scaring me this time.
Good thing is that I keep the rooms pretty much closed off –to keep the heating bills down- and the bastard had not flown outside the living room.

Being a musician my first thought –and scream- was ‘DID YOU B*STARD S**T ON MY PIANO?!

Lizzie Borden –feline detective and killer of nothing- was in the corner. Ignoring the damned pigeon.

Pro-Tip: Need a mouser or varmint killer? Stay AWAY from pure breeds.

In reality had a great weekend working and the f**king rat with wings in the living room was not so bad after thorns, blisters on my hands, sagebrush, black widows (no not me. this time), scorpions and vermin. Raised my (w)bitches broom to shoo it out right away.

I just have to re-orchestrate Mad World and print it out. Deleted like a Jerk prior to leaving for the weekend.

~Some Radioactive Rachael in Reno

D is for Dammit!

Dammit! While not as functional a word as another favorite of mine (rhymes with muck- and oh Dammit I just gave away the post for F) comes in handy.

On a daily, ofttimes hourly basis.

Da Beemer, my car of choice, causes the verbal spewing of the D word at least once a week. Which is how often I Drive the Damned thing.

Two Days ago I found out the power steering pump is leaking like a sieve. Which while better than the U-Joint going, which was my guess based on the replacement of said piece three times in the four years I’ve had Da car, is still out of my budget.

Muck that! Said I. Followed by Dammit. Followed by my driving the beast to Autozone and purchasing several bottles of power steering fluid.

Dammit was also a fabulous word to use today while standing in a snow storm and putting $20.00 worth of gas in Da car. Gas needle went from empty to half full; giving me the general idea that there may, in fact, be a problem.

Could be the 1986 technology (read gauges, parts, windows not rolling up or down, U-Joints, power steering pump, etc.) but really, I Doubt it. Clearly the tank only holds 10 gallons of gas.

It’s a popular car! Well, in 1986.

So I say Dammit to my friends who point out that mine is the only such model in Reno still on the road.

Wanted to post a picture of Elwood (Da Beemer’s proper name) here. Unfortunately the borrowed digital camera that is currently charging is still not charged. So I had to create a sub-par graphic using PhotoShop.

 DAMMIT!

 ~Miss R

Deranged Writers Enjoying Righteous Posts

As the President -and thus far only member of - Deranged Writers Enjoying Righteous Posts
(DWERP) it is time for our first announcement.

Due to this Deranged Writer being out of town for three days, secluded in the boonies of an un-named Nevada town, the Inbox count climbed from 250+ to 782 unopened emails. Had a great time on the ranch raking and hauling sagebrush and oh those tumbling tumble weeds…. Lots of time with the horses and seeing friends.

National Security forbids the naming of this locality so it can only be revealed that there is limited cell service and no Internet hook-ups. Said town is  famous for being very close to the site of major nuclear testing in the 1950′s, resulting in the death of every single member of a Hollywood blockbuster to drop dead of cancer within 20 years of said production. Favorite cocktail at the local watering hole? A ‘Big-Ass Tumor on the Rocks.’ I had a double. Thought the sign read ‘Tuber’ and figured it was a local vodka.

So, besides spending time near this friendly, albeit somewhat barren city, your DWERP President was not only devoid of contact to the Interwebs, but also busy avoiding tap water contaminated with arsenic. Seriously. Just in case you’re wondering a river does run through it and many large and tasty ranch and farm vegetables are grown in the region.

Let’s  face it, if you were going to pick a place for nuclear testing Nevada is the place. Really, the drive from Reno to Las Vegas appears as though the entire state has been nuked anyway.

But I digress.

It’s the damned Inbox thing. I cannot keep up. The stress in simply SEEING all of that unopened email (98% of which are new Blog posts and Comments on Blog posts) is cause to reach for the Xanax AND Dalmane. It also keeps me from even attempting to write. Just knowing that there are so many other wonderful writers out there, that I cannot keep up with, dulls my creativity and fills me with guilt. It’s just impossible .

In an effort to keep DWERP alive, and yours truly out of  The Reno Home for The Cognitively Impaired I am deleting every post. A few will be kept to read. Miss R has enough addictions and does not need to add benzodiazepines to the list.

Apologies to all of you wonderful bloggers who have posted over the last 4 or 5 days. Will do my best to catch up.

Until then… DWERP ON!

~Miss R

Steak, Asparagus and the Band Next Door

First you’re probably wondering how an Executive Urban Hobo such as myself came to be eating steak and asparagus. No not ‘steak and vegetable ‘food product.’ The real deal.

Well, after receiving the obscene amount of a monthly stipend from SSD it’s time for grocery shopping. Asparagus on sale at $1.88 and two tiny filets wrapped in bacon for $3.97. I don’t purchase anything that isn’t on sale. Hear that Red? –grin-.

Aw, downsizing from Balducci’s and A&P bites heh.

Yes it was a splurge but we here at YoYo-Dyne have put on considerable weight after winning a huge loss after last’s year’s surgery. A tasty splurge.

Back to tuna, cheap ground beef and a bag of frozen chicken breasts to make the rest of the month. Oh how I’d love some fish..mmmmm fishies!

F’ing low carb diet is expensive on my ‘salary’ and a pain in the ass to prepare in the 45F kitchen at night.

Back to the topic. Slight derailment after speaking of a tasty meal. Uh huh.

Fell into a stupor after said tasty meal to be awakened by…The kids next door.

Have mentioned on prior occasion that I live in an old 1921 (drafty, impossible to heat, scary and dangerously wired, big-ass with the requisite spooky enormous basement) duplex. The architecture and lay-out make up for it, I assure you. In the Fall and Spring.

My neighbors are all members of a band. Actually two bands. One’s a sort of Rockabilly. the other Punk. Have played in other bands with two of the neighbors, when we practiced in my basement. Our lead singer and guitarist used to live in this place.

Now their bands practice in their basement. More fried-to-a-crisp electrical cords, small electrical fires and fuse blow-outs on their side now. Told you, this place is old and the circuits prevent the use of a toaster (or space heater) or practice Peavy amp use at the same time. It’s all fun and games until you’re outside in your bathrobe/fleecy sweats and T-Shirt in the snow, at the back of the house, at 7:00 am in 12F weather outside in snow because your Demon Seed is  home from college and uses the microwave and two lamps at the same time..

Second Derail Apology:  This means I can hear everything up from the floor and through the walls when it’s practice time; which sucks on Sunday morning I can tell ‘ya.

They put up with the concert grand piano,  MIC’d vocals, and occasional jam session in the living room on my side so it works out. Yes, we DO blow the damned circuits in the living room too. I blame my bass player friends.

Who doesn’t?

From my nommy stupor tonight I hear a new tune (for best acoustics the bathroom is highly recommended; you can hear the trumpet and banjo far more clearly). These guys play all originals, in both bands. Caught my ear tonight with the sounds of a fave Old 97’s tune ‘Wont’ Be Home’

Dig this tune. Also dig my sleep. It did compel me to make a cocktail though and wake up. Whoop. Can be up all night tonight. Just as well actually.

About 300 blog notifications again…behind. That’s the least of the nasty news today so in reality the tune made my day.

So a shout-out to The Kids Next Door. And their 5 peeps packed into a two bedroom ancient duplex, basement electrical smoke, other tasty smelling smoke, and smiling, wonderful companionship on warm summer nights sharing the porch..

Back to your regularly scheduled madness.

~Miss R

A pictorial Guide to Why I Live For Burning Man, SFW, thanks to my PhotoShops skills

Yes, there IS a wine named after yours truly

So I was lucky enough to be gifted a ticket this year. It’s a testament to being kind to others, always be there to help anyone who needs it, friend or stranger, and follow the Ten Principles. Thank god nothing like the 12 Steps.

Here are a few of my fave shots from the past 8 years. Eat your heart out El Guapo -wicked grin-

Only a small part of the experience. The rest can only be described as DisneyLand for Adults. Clean and Sober or X and Other. Eat your heart out El Guapo heh. Left my naked bar dances out

Bliss Dance: Best most beautiful, musical and lovely piece on the playa last year

Ah, forgot the PS on this one. Just finished being the 'demo' for our Japanese Rope Bondage Class

Burning Band Buds: Moi, David Silverton of Tubatron fame (also an exec producer for The Simpsons for 20 years) and Birdsong from the New Orleans Jazz band Pair 'o Dice.

Yes that's my ass, No PS needed heh

Coin Operated Goy

The Backyard on a Reno Winter Day

Got almost a foot of unexpected snow today. Absolutely gorgeous and the first good snow of the season; and it’s almost March. Not good news for the Tahoe resorts. Or moi.

Several times I’ve had the money for the ‘Ladies Day’ special at Mt. Rose. Was advised (read: barked at) by my neurologist not to ski until there was actual powder as opposed to ice.

So it would have been like a dream to take the 40 minute drive up for even a half day. Hey, I could give a damn about the temps or snow while skiing steeps –or anything else. Done so in Canada in -12C in a blizzard. Great runs. Just enough time to thaw out the frost on the goggles in front of a roaring fire before another one.

Drove Jeep Grand Cherokees for years, but today have a rear wheel drive 1986 BMW (wtf they’re built in Bavaria; not even front wheel drive?) and no money. Loved watching the snow come down, but damn I miss the slopes.

So took a walk tonight. Sunlight makes me burn up.. not fucking glitter. Silent and beautiful. That’s the only time Reno truly looks good these days.  Even the strip club a block away looked festive.

Being the battle born eccentric I am, was wearing a $10.00 long sleeved t-shirt, under a $100.00 wool ski sweater, and my $(if there’s no price you can’t afford it) real Canadian Sorrels.

Oh! Wearing my favorite polka dot fleece pajama bottoms too. D’lovely!

Despite a few slips and slides I made it to the Pakistani liquor-bong-whippet-soda-aging- -onions-freezer burned ice cream-umbrella-outdated canned food-and energy drink store two blocks away.

Got a pack of cheap smokes. Bad Miss R.

Could see the moon on the snow, no hobos about –except for yours truly heh- and just gorgeous. Never leave home without my iPod, actually can’t live without music all the time. After listening to Boston by Augustana, which reminds me of the last time I spent time with dad; it was in Boston for the annual IDAA convention (International Doctors in Alcoholics Anonymous). Then one of my fave Dresden Dolls tunes pulled up on shuffle.

Smiled to myself. One of the search terms that turns up on my stats is Dresden Dolls, but don’t think I’ve made mention of the band in two posts since 2006 when YoYo-Dyne was founded.

As an aside: fucked up search term of the last 30 days to find YoYo-Dyne: Teen dildo action ersatz. I have NO fucking idea -eye roll-.

Laughed as I walked the last block to my house. The glitter embedded in the concrete sidewalks where the snow melted, the moonlight on the snow, houses, and cars, thoughts of the  few people I know who actually listen to Dresden Dolls.

One of them gave me a gift this year. A ticket to Burning Man. This, the year when all hell broke loose and who knows if anyone with art installations, famous theme camps (I belong to one), mutant vehicles and true citizens will overcome rich frat boy trust fund fuckers who bought up all the tickets in this years fail-safe system. More on that nightmare later.

It will be my 9^th year, and I’m positive this will be the last. All will be broken up into regionals after 2012. Just a personal prediction. Still… get to play in Burning Band this year (all 10 out of 50 of us who have received tickets) and be the bar manager at Spanky’s. Best job ever.

And the cold, music, snow, light and thought of the wonderful gift I’d received made me tear up.

So here is Coin Operated Boy by Dresden Dolls. A wonderful funny/ironic tune, that made this snowy night complete.

~Miss R

Seasonal Serial Killer Disorder

In the last month I’ve survived the end of the world, dad’s birthday (he’s been gone for 3 years now but it’s still painful as hell), a nasty epidural from The Butcher, my kid stressing over her freshman college midterms, my boyfriend packing to move out (even though I asked  him to), male pattern baldness and iron poor blood.

Alright, a few of these may be imagined. Or cured with Geritol.

Why is it that Fall begets stress? Similar to a Cinemafia conspiracy worthy of Oliver Stone.

Decided to do some scientific research to answer the burning question:

Why does the beginning of Fall initiate the beginning of Stress, Cold and Flu Season?

Besides the obvious immediate climate change here in Reno, Nevada.

Our state slogan: No Fall. No Spring. No Soup for you.

Move to the Desert! The Weather is Here. Glad You're Not?

Here’s what I’ve come up with, based on said scientific research. A poll of random Reno-ites, taken over the period of no determinate time, geographical location in the city and particularly no control group. If you’ll note I said scientific and not the scientific method.

The Question posed to our random sampling of the citizens of Reno was:

Why Does Fall Instigate Your Inner Serial Killer?

Here are a few randomly chosen answers:

1. All I can think about is the money my husband brings home and how we’ll pay for my Halloween candy, my birthday presents, other people’s birthday gifts as well of course, my Thanksgiving dinner, my Christmas gifts and of course what is going to be left after all of that? What about my bon-bons? Do you have my remote?
2. What does that mean? Serial Killers? Get the hell away from me
3. Well I don’t like the snow or driving in it. It brings all of the aliens up from Roswell and Rachel to Reno. Haven’t you noticed the radical lack of tin foil during the upcoming cold months?
4. If you don’t get off this here property I’ll shoot ‘ya where you stand
5. As a journalism graduate student at UNR my answer is, uh, ummm, you know like it’s just, ah, stressful.
6. If you don’t get off this here property I’ll shoot ‘ya where you stand
7. I LOVE the Fall and beginning of winter. And of course being from California originally we’re used to serial killers
8. I don’t know. When my husband gets home I’ll ask him what we think.

There were at least 100 respondents and it was discovered that the small sample above was representative of them all.

In Conclusion:

Inhabitants refuse to embrace their Inner Serial Killer, which is sad and may explain the morbid obesity rampant in the city. The vast majority of citizens in Reno are armed with unregistered firearms and WANT to shoot you on sight. Civil Rights of any kind seem to have stopped eight to ten hours south of this place. Or perhaps 30 years. Do NOT send your kids to University of Nevada Reno. There is a ratio of 8 nutters to 10 non-nutters in our city’s populace.

So I’ve found the succinct answer to the question, seasonal stress, urge to kill and iron poor blood.

Move.

~Miss R

The Death of Frank

Frank: RIP you piece of crap

It was getting dark, becoming very cold, and the truck completely ate shit near the sixty five hundred foot level of the mountains. The old beat-up vehicle sat still on a rutted washed-out dirt road. There were no road signs although a few late season souls were camped some miles behind them.

The two been driving these roads looking for crystals. The woman was in severe pain from the condition of the roads. Her boyfriend didn’t seem to care about that. He probably didn’t. She’d been this way for over a year. Spinal degeneration that began at a young age, but she wasn’t as young anymore. It was progressing quickly,  and who the hell wants to hear about constant pain.

Things hadn’t been going well at home. Lots of arguments. Little talk. The couple had started out with the mutual love of the outdoors, listening to live music and fabulous, fetishistic sex;  this had dissipated into two people sharing a house. Sharing isn’t the right word. Occupying a shared space. Neither of them happy, just existing,

He would come home from work, peek his head into the bedroom and say hello. No more kisses or hugs, not for a long time. She would spend the majority of time in bed weeping from the combination of  pain from a failed back operation and memories of the life she had once lived. The pain was never ending, as was the depression. No more swimming in the river, hikes, riding bicycles or worse, skiing.

He probably felt just as miserable. Perhaps not. He seemed content to be by himself every night in another room. She never knew because they never talked beyond the superficial.

‘What do you want for dinner?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘We really don’t have much food, but I can make you some eggs and bacon’

‘I don’t want any fucking eggs and bacon’

‘Well you shouldn’t have spent all of your money on fast food lunches, DVDs and all the money you’ve poured into Frank and god knows what else.’

‘Well you shouldn’t spend all of your money on gin and Nicorette!’

As Vonnegut wrote…’and so it goes.’

Frank is his truck. Short for Frankenstein. A piece of $500.00 steel crap but her lover could fix anything. Except himself, her or anything to do with other people. A computer, car, truck, bike rack, electrical panel, a house you name it. But personal relationships were beyond his purview. Probably hers as well.

The sun went down and the cold Nevada mountain nights set in. Hell, Reno is at almost 5000 feet in elevation and they were far higher than that on the back roads outside of Verdi. When leaving the freeway and starting up to the old crystal areas and mines they’d crossed into California.

Not an hour from Donner Summit. Nom nom nom.

People back east and in Los Angeles are always stunned to hear stories of streets not being plowed, too much snow to get out of the driveway and pile-ups on the freeway during Reno’s winter.

Note to citizens outside of Nevada: Reno is an eight hour drive from Las Vegas. Please pass this along to any friends in Hollywood. I once saw an episode of CSI in which Grisham was handling a case and a sign loomed against his headlights saying ‘Sparks.’

Sparks in the town abutting Reno. As I said, eight hours from Vegas and at least 9 counties past Clark. Yep. That was realistic.

Well, back at the break-down the man lit a fire in the dried out meadow next to the dirt road. It wasn’t hot enough to warm their feet, being started with dead vegetation, no wood and gasoline.. In retrospect it would have been a wonderful way to be found. Nothing like a roaring forest fire to bring the helicopters and fire brigade.

Except for the whole lawsuit and life-long payments to the county for starting a goddamned forest fire and the reparations required. Although at that point the woman didn’t really give a shit.

There were no blankets, extra food (which was alright because they’d stopped for a cheap lunch on the way out of Reno), water, alcohol, and worse pain medication. Even aspirin.

There WAS cell phone service out there though. A freak of nature; as weird as the woman’s sister but without the silicone and bitchiness. You know, just peculiar.

Bad part was that the day was Sunday. BBQ’s and cocktails for her friends. Shooting expeditions, football and cocktails for his. No one was home to answer a phone, or better yet, they were already too blasted to come and get us. Not to mention find us. Believe I mentioned the lack of road signs.

The couple was finally found later that evening, by one of his friends. Turns out the battery had fallen over and leaked acid over some of the electrical wires. The guys fixed that. The truck was almost to paved road when the transmission went.

At about midnight they were both home and in bed. He on his side of the big bed, she on her side.

The day began because he had been complaining for weeks that they never did anything that HE wanted to do.

And this is why.

NOTE: No trees, animals, battery acid or people were harmed during the writing of this piece. Which is not to say that any of the above could not happen later tonight. Despite pain medication, death of Frank, worsening of back degeneration due to washed out roads, pain and/or lack of human contact. Video Games may be destroyed during the early hours of the morning…just so a conversation could be accomplished one evening.

But he’d just purchase more so no worries.

~Miss R

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

It was a very impromptu camping trip this past weekend.

No it wasn’t to an out of town, country or local  Burning Man DeCompression.

It's Frogbat at 4th of Juplaya 2011

These are held in cities from San Fransisco, to Reno, to LA, to NYC, to Sydney, to London to Prague and hell I can’t even count them all. Burning Man encompasses all countries, religions, political ideologies, creeds, hippies (-shudder-) and attorneys (-shudder again-). Exception for the cool lawyer in our camp.

Speaking of which here is info for the official Reno Decom.

No, this weekend wasn’t 4th of Juplaya relived either.

Geographically  it WAS the Scene of …many crimes! All amusing, fabulous,weird, wondrous, occasionally illegal and normally accomplished in various states of undress…Black Rock Desert and Frog Pond.

Despite our unorganized arrival and gear I made it through this weekend at the Black Rock Desert playa and Frog Pond  unscathed. There was a small dust storm that rolled in as we did.  Nothing like a white-out at Burning Man. Just very windy and we got a bit of natural exfoliation.

Let me add that I knew nothing about our camping foray until the day before. Happened to look at my boyfriend’s FB and he had announced it, about 48 hours hours earlier. which would have been great if I made a daily habit of looking at his FB page. Which I don’t. -face palm-
The Frog Pond pools and hot spring are surrounded by trees and tiny dunes that keep it a bit sheltered from the playa dust and high winds. Although most of our gear is already playa-ized from previous Burns and playa excursions.
Sadly the wind was just gusty enough that on Sunday that we got hardly any shooting in. No dust, just screwed on any chance of hitting a designated target.

Saturday afternoon and evening we soaked in the springs and met a few other campers. Including Naked Bob; a Burner for 19 years where he has given back to the Burner community by working the exodus; 50,000 people leaving Black Rock City at pretty much the same time. Yikes.
He looks to be about 70 and was at Frog Pond for the solitude, stark beauty of the playa, and to pass along a few nuggets of wisdom if approached. Of course there was a family with 5 kids that were surprised -but not freaked- to see people in the springs au natural. They avoided us for the remainder of the weekend.

Despite the winds Steve cooked dinner and I made us cocktails. Sunday we walked back to the shooting range -about 1/4 mile- to where Frog Bat is blown up at 4th of Juplaya. Frog Bat is a 12 or 14 foot replica of a frog and bat (hard to believe given the name) filled with propane cylinders.
On Saturday night of the July 4th weekend, instead of watching The Man burn, everyone comes off the playa with their firearm of choice, then shoots the hell out of Frog Bat until it explodes. Possibly a reason this event is not sanctioned by Burning Man.

Lots of remnants of art cars over there in the shooting range and Frog Bat area.  There are also stray propane canisters totally shot up and a few not blown up (which Perry blowed-up real good). The small dunes of the shooting range emit a kind of cool, sad, ghost town eerie kind of vibe. Had my iPod on and between the music (Zero 7), weather and spooky/beautiful way this area looked I was fascinated. This is one of the two experiences that made the weekend worth the trip.

Frog Pond hot spring and campfire ring. Enticing eh?

The other high point was floating on my back, in the hot springs, looking up at all the stars. After a great rib-eye steak cooked over an open campfire and several small plastic tumblers of a good single malt scotch. Or PBRs if you were Steve or Perry.
Tried to explain to Perry and Steve that camping does not mean living like an animal. Especially after I woke up in the back of Frank, short for Frankenstein, Perry’s truck.

Frank is made up of several different manufacturers’ body and engine parts. And looks like it. Frank has a new $25.00 camper shell now. By new I mean 20 years old and found via Craigslist sitting on the ground at a Red Rock ranch for 10 years. Embellished with dirt, dead bugs, cobwebs and rotting wood interior.  Hey, it was new to us. Should have known P hadn’t actually cleaned it out. Anyone have a shudder left in them? How about a gag reflex?

Springs were a wonder for my back! Cut back on the pain meds the first night.
Sadly the lack of suspension on the fucking truck (sorry Frank) on the way home -and being squished between Perry and Steve over the gear shift, huge hump where the gearbox is, a tachometer box and wiring that Perry installed and no AC- dialed my back pain to 11.

So I am re-hydrating, watching a movie on Netflix, smoking a ciggie, propped up on the bed and going between heating pad and cold packs (freezer burned but useful broccoli) for the back.
And ignoring the vile camping dishes, laundry and gear in the basement.

Interesting and relaxing weekend all in all. And no I won’t tell you where the springs are.
Unless you’ll loan me a clean trailer or RV.

~Miss R

Burning Man 2011: Recovery is Slow

Hi All,

Back from Burning Man. Celebrated my 7th year on the playa.  Great year and we were voted Best Bar on the Playa…again. We were not even listed in the guide because we never registered as an official theme camp this year and didn’t bring out 1/2 of what we have for the bar/camp. Despite this (and lack of Teeter Totter of Death, Centrifuge merry-go-round and Chairway to Heaven) all of our prior year guests found us as well as thousands of new friends.

C’mon what is better than BDSM with your Bordeaux?
Still recovering from 8 days of radical self preservation in the middle of the Nevada desert about an hour+ from Reno. Usually over 100F during the day and in the 40′s at night), costumes, dance camps, FABULOUS art this year and seriously great music. could only march one gig with Burning Band this year (fucking back. Doh) with my new melodica. It was the Little Black Dress Parade though; the parade (and our band) is a staple at Burning Man.
Not to mention the madness, laughter, gourmet food and NSFW  shit that went on at our bar/camp; Spanky’s Wine Bar.

And apparently still not done. Several other ‘Spankers’ stayed in Reno for another week after the Burn ended.

Spent yesterday at the Grand Sierra Resort, hanging by the pool and drinking margaritas. laughing and swimming with some of my best camp mates. Hell, the picture of our camp to the right is from last year. Haven’t even gone through my (crappy this year) pics yet to re-size and post.

Night that The Man burned. Hard to tell due to the dust, but I'm standing in front of one of the best new Art Cars on the playa.e actual experience coming soon. As much of it as I can remember...

Piano Wench (that's me!) and Patrick (Trick) at Spanky's 2011

Taylor (a playa virgin this year!), DocMoc and Yours Truly. Burning Man 2011

~Miss R
And that’s Piano Wench to you

4th of Juplaya, the Demon Seed, and yeah I’ve been absent

Miss R and her honey P taking a break between customers

Yeah been a break here in the writing. Between having The Demon Seed here for 3 weeks (trip to SF to register for school and San Fransisco Pride Weekend -cool!) and our 4th of Juplaya foray it’s been nuts.

For The Demon Seed’s 18th Birthday I allowed her to attend 4th of Juplaya.
4th of Juplaya is a kinda of an  ‘underground’ Burner event. No tickets, no camps more than 50 people. Instead of 50,000 people at Burning man there are about 2000 people at the 4th of Juplaya.
Your next neighbor/camp may be 2 miles away. Not to mention no police, no police, fireworks (yes great mortars) a shooting range (yes firearms) and 3 springs.
We camped at Frog Pond, the hot pool. Another mile up the road is the cold pool. There’s another hot spring as well but it’s a bit ,uh, weedy.

Our camp, Spanky’s -yes the same as our famous Burning Man Camp- got permission to camp AT Frog Pond .And everyone on the playa eventually winds up there.

Down time at Spanky's

Got my ticket to Burning Man so more craziness to come. No. Really.

Still have pics to develop of Frog Pond, friends, and unusual acts of nature. Although…. no pics of the guy found one morning with the 13 inch cock handcuffed to the pond ladder; and passed out there all night. He finally woke up and was last seen beating feet(s) across the playa.

We decorated the pond with white Christmas  lights and had a campfire going every night as well.

Later Kiddies,

~Miss R

Frogbat 2011

Spring! It’s Hobo time in Reno

the famous (and infamous)Little Nugget in Reno. NOTE: guy in picture NOT a hobo

Not sure if you’ve noticed but the increase in hobos? At least here in Reno . It’s Spring-time!

Sadly not trampoline-spring-like but season-Spring-like.

The sewer grates are no longer frozen closed and the parking garages have already had cars broken into. Not to steal a stereo. To piss in. Maybe take a nap as well. Hopefully the latter first. At least when I lived in Brooklyn they just stole your stereo and broke your window. Which is why only a cretin has a car in New York City.

Please pay attention to the examples of Springtime for Hobos and Germany as  there will not be a test later. These are the finest in Reno Hobo quotes of the last few days.

1.” Can I mow your lawn? If it gets any longer it’s very bad for the yard ” Lawn? Are you fucking kidding me? Big-ass Weed patch is a kind description. Then noted that the hobo has no lawn mower or shears. Pretty sure this guy was the ACTUAL Green River killer. Told him that the herd of hobo-eating goats would be here within 24 hours.

2. “You do realize that your house number has to painted on your curb to confirm to law? I’m willing to splash water color numbers using paint from my filthy, inbred, homeless F student’s paint set using this stolen stencil from the Dollar Store . For $5.00.”. Almost fell for this one.
Too bad for this guy; was going to trade him a can of Sterno and a piece of white bread but I’d already used those items to trade for a car wash by another hobo. You should have seen him. Hauling buckets of water from the back yard.Told him the hose was broken and the only water was around back of the house,then through the mud, and out on to the street. Heh. There are actually three spigots along the front of the house. They’re hidden by the weeds that I refused to pay Hobo Number One to cut down.

3.” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!” There’s a sign on the door (placed Prominently) that says Please Ring Bell. If you are that illiterate yet are still able to find Thunderbird and a shopping cart  to perambulate along the boulevard you are a hobo. And I’m not getting off of my beautiful little ass to answer the door for stupid people. This includes family. Hell, hope it wasn’t Zombie Ed McMahon with that 10 Million dollar check. Hmmmm.

4.  The pathetic alkies in front of the ‘Little Nugget’ downtown. Home of the  famous Awful Awful burger and BEST burger in town. Normally there are a group of hobos collected here, only because the Little Nugget (yes there is a big Nugget but that’s another blog) can’t afford the outside security available ta Harrah’s, The El Dorado, Circus Circus  or any other of the more upscale casinos in town. Actually the Little Nugget Hobos are off about 10 feet from the front door of the Casino.
I give these hobos my left-over burger and fries. Trust me, these are the  high-end Hobos. Well-fed. Usually have a little booze, a kind word (as opposed to the usual grunt or attempted wolf-whistle; difficult with 7 teeth). Speaking of which I’ve noticed a higher ratio of teeth-to-Hobo on these guys.
Have a  good friend that gave them $5.00 one time; to split between them for some booze. Have no idea how many were killed that night in the melee.
No not really. There was no fight. Above mentioned friend TK asked which among the group was their leader. After some head lice scratching, beard fumbling, apparent concentration one of the men stood tall and announced ‘I’m the leader.’  TK handed the Hobo the fiver and told him to get a bottle to split amongst he and his friends. A cheer went up and we made a lot of Hobos very happy that night.
That man, leader of the Little Nugget pack, truly is…..King of the Hobos.

So one day, if you’re in Reno looking for a dive to play slots at, the best burger for a 100 miles and good strong cheap drinks remember me. No really. At this rate I’ll be there (outside) with my melodica, flute and a hat to collect tips.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Just save some fries and half of your burger; easy to do. An Awful-Awful can feed two easily.
Really, anything for a half of an Awful-Awful.
Especially after 2: 00 a.m.

And maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll be Queen of  The Hobos.

A Big Fish Story

Set the alarm clock for 4:30 am. Spinal surgery tomorrow so today was nuts. Running errands to pick up supplies for my return in 5 days.

This left one final chore. Little did I know it would take all afternoon and lead me from one end of Reno to the other, and every damned place in between.

My holy grail?  1.6 MM  width fishing line. This is some big-ass line. Started at Wal-Mart. Nope. Sent to another sporting goods store. Nope. Then Cabella’s. Nope they were out. Mind you I had a sample of the width I wanted. Finally was recommended to Sportsmen’s Warehouse.

I approached a young clerk first. He couldn’t help me. then he called over an old-timer who had appeared to have been at the store since it opened…probably in the 50′s.

The senior clerk shook his head and headed to the back room. After about 10 minutes he returned empty handed. I thanked them and turned to leave. That’s when the old guy said ‘Say! what do you need this for?’ It’s over 100 pound test. both employees looked at me. I replied  ‘Well, I have surgery tomorrow and have to remove my nipple piercings. They’re metal.’  The poor rednecks’ chins dropped as I said ‘Well you asked!’

They howled with laughter as I walked off smiling.

There was a happy ending (no not that kind you perv). I’d had the fishing line recommended by the piercing shop, but I had also ordered two plastic retainers online. they looked way too small.

Returned to Black Hole (the piercing shop) and told them my dilemma. At which point the owner said ‘No what you need is weed-whacker plastic.’ I said ‘Look, can you just try these retainers and see if they work.’

They fit. Barely.

Good thing. I’d hate to see the expression on the guy in the garden department at Sears when I explained it to him.

See you next week. Gone fishing.

~Miss R

Calling Mr. Rogers

This is an old duplex. The neighbors and I share the front porch. One of them is a drummer, and in fact I’ve played a gig with him before.

Six months ago he decided to teach himself the banjo.

When the weather gets over 63F outside said neighbor will sit on the porch and practice. On Monday he was out there for HOURS. Playing the same three chord tune.

Over and over and over he played until I could hear my brain cells explode . Barely, as the banjo was already drowning out the stereo, voices in my head, and traffic noise on the street.

Normally we don’t have a problem. In the summer the windows are open, and my grand piano and vocals (with a mic) can he heard on the street. All of the guys next door play in a band and practice in their basement. Many Sunday mornings we’ve awoken to the dulcet sounds of a new punk song. Which is fine. Dig punk. They’ll all sit outside in the summer and jam –acoustically- as well.

It usually works out. Maybe it’s the upcoming surgery, tinged with the traditional depression and agitation. Whatever the reasons I wanted to open the door, walk the five feet over to  my neighbor and bash his skull in with that fucking banjo.

If I hear the same three chords again it will be sad for his family and friends. But a blessing to the musical scene in Reno.

Please won’t you be my neighbor?

~Miss R

-cartoon by Fuzzy Gerdes-

Where to hold a Wake in Reno

Dedicated to Margaret Juanita Harding 1943 – 2011

In case you’re not Irish, Celtic or just crawling out from behind a rock (Hi Jesus!) here’s a short definition of a Wake:
A ‘watching over’ of the deceased.

In Irish households it was customary to hold these parties with the body of the dead present. These days, not so much. If you live in New Orleans, think of the Jazz funerals. It’s a party!
But a party to honor and remember a loved one.

Fear and bereavement go away for a while. You’re thinking of someone else, that you loved, instead of your own problems.

For some sad reason I’ve attended two Wakes in the last two months.
One for Margaret ‘Juanita’  Harding and one for Gus.

Saturday night was Juanita’s Wake. My boyfriend’s mother.
She has been sick for a long time and died in her sleep Thursday night.

As can be expected Perry and I have been staying in since then. Trying to keep busy, awaiting the formal Memorial Service.

Out of nowhere we get a call Saturday afternoon from several of Perry’s childhood friends. They will be at the house in 10 minutes. We are going to have a wake for Juanita. Beginning at the Irish pub around the corner from the house.

We start our Celebration of Death!

When my father died my younger sister and step-mother held a ‘Celebration of Life.’
I almost threw up a little bit in my mouth just writing that.

My dad, dark humored (as in black humor, not no humor) and a recovered alcoholic for 25 years would have been appalled. He would have dug seeing all of the people he touched, and heard the kind words, but the whole ‘Celebration of Life’ thing –with no booze given our Irish heritage- probably made him shake his ass in laughter, even in the morgue. Especially sober.

Anyway, we proceeded to give our love and honor to Juanita and cheer to Perry.

We hoist the first Scotch at Ceol. This is the premier place to begin ANY Irish Wake in Reno. The Scotch selection is outstanding. Juanita was blessed with shots of Lagavulin 16 year old (smoky and the best of the night), followed by Laphroaig 10 year old , interspersed with U.K. beers from Smithwicks to Harp.

Next stop: Filthy McNasty’s.

Do NOT stop here unless you’re already plowed and on your way home from the formal wake. We walked in at 5:30 and it was, er, dead. No Irish beers except for Guinness but they did have two decent Irish Whiskeys. One was chosen, more beers poured and kept the toasts coming. Then left. Dive bar. And not in the good way. I lived in NYC and know a good Irish dive when I see one. The one redeeming feature: the bar’s owner also owns the Bunny Ranch brothel, and so the bar matches could make for a good keepsake. Lots of boobies.

Once again: Not recommended for an elderly woman’s Wake.

Up the street to Ryan’s Saloon. One of the oldest Irish bars in Reno. By this time we had attracted more revelers. Much like a Jazz procession.

In fact after much hard work we managed to find ‘I’m too Sexy’ by right Said Fred on the juke box. Now THIS would have brought a smile to Juanita’s lips.

For the first time in the nine months of my relationship with Perry he was…. drunk. And smiling for the first time since his mom died.

We had a table of well-wishers, many whom had known Juanita and many who had never met her in life, but came to know her in death.

Bar food was had by all, Scott the designated driver got everyone home safely, and it was truly a wonderful evening.

We would have hit Rapscallion’s given more time. Miss R gives this Irish Reno staple a high rating as well.

Juanita had a terrible past few years, but everyone who ever met her adored here. Last night we brought her back to life. And hopefully a little more life to the son that she left behind.

Thankfully Gus went before Juanita. Gus was the hero companion dog of some friends. His owner’s Karen and Jeff held the Wake at St. James Infirmary.
Highly recommended for a beloved companion animal or departed discerning beer lover. Juanita would have enjoyed Gus if they’d met.

So if you lose a loved one, want to send them off right, and wind up in Reno then I hope that this little tour can help.  And raise a glass to Juanita tonight.

 

May we all come to peaceful ends

And leave our debts unto our friends.

~Miss R