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. An easy to get to and fun day he’d said. The woman was in severe pain, bouncing and being tossed by the ruts and holes of the fire roads they’d been traveling  Her boyfriend showed no concern, even when she begged him to turn back.

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 spent the majority of time in bed weeping. The combination of daily pain from a neck and cervical operation and an inability to stop memories of the life she had once enjoyed. The physical agony was never ending, as was the depression. A mobius strip of hell on earth, without a viable answer to escape.

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.’
‘There’s not much in the fridge, but I can make you some eggs and bacon’
‘I don’t want any fucking eggs and bacon’

‘You shouldn’t have thrown away every cent on the fast food lunches, DVDs, dinners out with your friends,  Frank and god knows what else.’
‘Well you shouldn’t spend all of your money on weed and cigarettes!”
“At least I put my money aside so the rent and electricity are paid on time. I’m sick of being broke to cover your half of the bills. Yeah you eventually pay up, but sure as hell never on time.”

So it went.

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 that contained DNA. Computers, a car, truck, bike rack, electrical panel, a house you name it. But personal relationships were beyond his purview. As time went on hers were forgotten as well.

The sun went down and the cold Nevada mountain nights set in. 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. This is where the truck died.

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.

Reno is an eight hour drive from Las Vegas. Please pass this along to any friends in Hollywood. The couple had seen an old  episode of CSI in which Grisham was handling a case. A sign loomed against his headlights saying ‘Sparks.’

Sparks is the town abutting Reno. As I said, eight hours from Vegas and at least 9 counties past Clark. They had both laughed upon seeing that.

It was getting darker and colder. 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. There was no wood or  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 marshal. 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 damn.

There were no blankets, food (not an issue yet because they’d stopped for a cheap lunch on the way out of Reno), water, a tent and worst of all no pain medication. Not even an aspirin.

There WAS cell phone service out there. Pure freak of nature.

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 leave home. Not to mention find two stranded people with no idea of where they were. Yeah,  definite 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. Death number two.

At about midnight they were both home and in bed. He on his side of the big bed, she on her side. The day unfolded because he had been complaining for weeks that they never did anything that HE wanted to do.

Looking down upon them you would notice a goofy smile, lasting but a moment, on her face.

~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’ Spanky's Wine Bar: Burning Manstayed 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 The Man burned 2011

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) ay Spanky's 2011

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

Taylor (a playa virgin this year!), DocMoc and Yours Truly

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

~Miss R
And that’s Piano Wench to you

Spring! It’s Hobo time in Reno

ittle Nugget 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

Taken by fish line

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

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

It’s Nipple Piercing Day!

nipple piercing needle

Have any piercings? Tats? Bones through your nose?  Surely you’ve thought of having at least one of these artistic additions added to your body.

Or maybe you’re just confused about the entire process. But you HAVE thought about it. Don’t lie to me.

Tattoos?: I have one tattoo. It’s self-designed, inconspicuous, will always mean something to me and… 18 years old. At the time I was the only woman in town with a tatt.

Now tats are everywhere. There are at least 10 parlors here in Reno that I can name off of the top of my head. Or yours if you’d sit still.

I refuse to ever have another because they’re no longer a symbol of creativity or the outsider. Here’s a fine example of what I’m talking about: Really hideous tattoos. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. I’ll wait.

really  bad tattoo

Bones through The Nose? Okay this never appealed to me. Let’s move on.

Piercings? My tongue was done five years ago. There’s a cute little cubic zirconium stud in there. Had it done one lonely Christmas Eve. Lost weight that holiday season. You try eating with a tongue swollen to three times the normal size. Had a fabulous speech impediment for those few days as well. The family couldn’t understand if I was calling to wish them a Merry Christmas or was simply calling to say Bwewyyy Ishhhhmush! Lub Yeuo Nuuuu Nommee!

Really wanted to have my nipples pierced that day, but couldn’t afford it. And had heard a lot of horror stories about infection, refusal for the wound to heal, bars and/or rings being torn out…-shudder-.

Decided to take the plunge yesterday. Or rather the needle. Know several people with nipple piercings and none of them had ever had a problem. What the hell. Made an appointment.

Yes I was devoid of any painkillers. C’mon. Some things hurt bad but some things hurt good. It’s all a matter of degree.

Went to Black Hole Piercings in Reno around the corner from my house. Great staff, and cleaner surroundings than any hospital I’ve seen. Besides, they’d done the tongue and I trusted them.
Do NOT Attempt this at home. Unless you’re a complete moron, then go for it. I love seeing Darwin win.
Luckily my boyfriend came with me. He likes to watch.  And take pictures. No I am not posting them, on the blog. If you would care to send a money order for $219.95 to my address then we can arrange something. Make it payable to “Iva B. Haad.”

First the technician wipes down the nips with betadine. Then she took a small pen to mark each nipple to make sure the piercings will be even on each side. At this point you get to stand up, look in a full view mirror, check for yourself, and conclude that you look like a retard wearing only a skirt with your nipples painted orange.

Following this you lay down, your boobies are adjusted, skin is stretched , you take a deep breath and OMG THE PAIN.

Then the tech slips the hoop through the hole (which has been attached to the end of the needle). This was actually more uncomfortable than the actual piercing. Not the pain, just the discomfort.

Hey that wasn’t so bad. Pretty rad actually. Serious endorphin rush.

Now the other nipple. Woo Hoo. Your body is slightly shocked by this point so it’s a more intense.

Have to say, that I left there within 20 minutes, in NO pain and with the list for follow-up care, etc.
It was great. Not for everyone of course, but there are advantages. You’re on your own contemplating the paramount one.

They’ll be healed (and I’ll get to stop the soaking  twice a day in saline solution) in one to six months. Seriously. Depends on your health, how well you follow up, and god knows what else. Just in time for summer, swimming and of course Burning Man. You can’t swim in a pool, hot tub, lake or any place else while these heal. So do it in the winter if you’re going to take the plunge.

The best part? When the piercings heal there is soooo much fabulous jewelry to choose from. And really, who the hell doesn’t need more jewelry?

musical dangling nipple ring

Very cool experience.
And I have the pictures to prove it.

~Miss R

Welcome to Reno! Home of the Homeless!

Reno: Biggest Little City in the World

As usual all things Reno, Nevada interest me. Many times they disgust, amuse, nauseate and confuse me as well. Reno has been my home for six years. Investigating the city has proven far less taxing than digging up the backyard. For body disposal. The neighborhood children dig me –no pun intended- because they get to play in the dirt and use the big rusty shovels while their parents are all still at work. It’s for the kids!

Anyway, there is apparently some kind of depression going on in the country. So I thought it would be interesting (disgusting, amusing nauseating and confusing) to see what Reno has to offer YOU.

Besides being an hour away from fabulous skiing, boasting the Truckee River with   great swimming and kayaking, and a host of (dying) Casinos.

Let’s go!

1.      We have fewer foreclosed homes than Las Vegas

2.      Nevada’s budget gap is worst in nation – next year’s revenues will pay for only 45% of this year’s budget. Reno will be Number One in receiving less funds.

    3.      Reno is only 20 minutes from the state capitol, Carson City. This is where the governor’s mansion and capitol building reside. Our last governor spent an average of less than 12 days out of every nine weeks in Carson City. He spent most of his time in Las Vegas. When he did come to town he was consistently caught with strippers and other high class women. Come on isn’t this great? Would you want a politician spending all of his time so close to you? I’m pretty sure his wife was happy. 

    4.      Reno is projected to have The Worst housing market in the US and has been voted one of the Thirteen National Housing Markets that will never recover. This was posted on Business Insider. Don’t worry. Las Vegas is listed as well. Go Nevada!

    5.      Nevada is Number One in unemployment. I’d like to personally thank Reno for their part in encouraging fast food franchises and chain stores, while taxing the living hell out of start-up businesses. Don’t ask me how I know this.

    6.      Reno WAS the divorce capital of the world. Damn. We lost this one in the 60’s.

    7.      It is against the law in Reno to place a bench in the middle of the street. Yes this is still on the books and a fine law it is.

    8.      Burning Man. Need I say more. Actually, this is the only positive thing I could find to place on this list.

    9.      Reno is the original home of the Harrah’s gambling empire. This means we’re Number One in helping instigate the formation of Gamblers Anonymous.

    10.

    Well the guy who lives next to me in my duplex is outside playing the banjo. Again. Seriously. And it’s barely above freezing out there. Time to hit the basement and get that shovel sharpened. Come children!

    ~Miss R

Your Racist Friends

Part One of Two by She Who Never Gets Her Ass into These Subjects

Let me start by saying that guests in my home have to follow but one rule: No discussion of Politics or Religion at a party.

Don’t care if you make drinks and puke on the carpet, have kinky sex with a Beanie Baby in the back bedroom –please for godssake close the door- , discuss your fabulous precious snowflakes –you will be shut down quickly on this one- or build a mountain out of mashed potatoes.

Just no politics or religion.

Okay.

So, met a new guy. Like him lots, he makes me laugh, is tall enough to reach stuff in the kitchen on the higher shelves; brown sugar, baking powder, otter pops for summer and all the food items that are rarely used.

He can fix a car (the strange metal devices that cost me hundreds of dollars only to sit parked on the street for months at a time), build shelving out of metal (this whole metal thing is clearly an attraction) and like myself, is a total geek. More than a geek. An Uber Geek! Master of computer tech and hardware. And a nerd. Ah, to joke about I’m The Fucking Batman with someone other than my daughter.

Best of all he tells me I’m beautiful. Not sexy or cute. Beautiful.

Ask any woman and she’ll tell you that this is the sure-fire panty peeler line.

Weirdness Factor: He’s a Republican. I’m a moderate Progressive. Not a Dem. Not Indie. The point is that we don’t shove our beliefs own each other’s throats and even joke about them

Here’s the problem: Remember that tune by They Might Be Giants?

Your Racist Friends?

Well, my new honey has got ‘em. In droves. Not all of them, some are quite rational even if we do not subscribe to the same beliefs.

It’s the trolls. The righteous who post incessantly on Facebook, take over conversation at parties, online, and god forbid you’re trapped with one of them in a car for extended periods of time.

We’re not talking Republicans. Independents, Libertarians or even disgruntled Bush supporters. Teabaggers are afraid of these guys.

These friends of my new love are rabid Kill Obama (seriously), Kill and Deport ALL Muslims (seriously and hopefully in that order) and return all illegal aliens (oddly enough they only hate on Mexicans) to their home soil. Preferably in the same way they suggest disposing of the Muslims.

Beck is a god and ‘never lies.’ Sarah Palin is the most intelligent woman in politics and is the obvious choice for our next president. Harry Reid is a moron (well, I’ll go along with that one).

More tomorrow. I know politics bore you but I feel like a hypocrite talking to you

You and your racist friends

~Miss R

Creepy House

Creepy House of Reno

This morning I went for my walk. First off it was damned cold. Trust me it takes a lot of calories to get my ass out at 7:30 in the morning to exercise. I mean a lot of calories the night before.

Guilt and fries with roast beef gravy. The great motivator of fat asses everywhere.

Anyway, there are a couple of different routes that I’ll traverse depending on my mood. Today I skipped the Creepy House perambulation. And I’m less of a person for it –sniff-.

Lemme tell you about Creepy House in Old Southwest Reno

First you should know that this home is in the middle of a neighborhood filled with upper middle class residences. Many of them have similar floor plans and all have landscaped yards.

You’re walking along bopping to Steely Dan on your iPod and BAM. There it is. You stop and stare the first time and quickly keep moving down the street.

It could be the desiccated lawn, or the metal shutters covering every window, Maybe it’s the pile of phone books or the tags hanging off the front door that you’ve seen for at least six months.

No my friends it has not been abandoned because there are two vehicles in the driveway. One is a white truck. One day I noticed that the tags had expired in 2006. Kept on walking that day for sure.

The next walk you spy the tags on the blue car parked in the driveway next to the truck. They expired in 2003.

Oooooh scary boys and girls.

Two days ago I walked by and saw a pink notice taped by the front door of Creepy House. My mind wouldn’t let it go.

Did someone finally go in and find a crime scene? From 2006? How about a meth lab? Maybe a deranged family of serial killers operating in secret, living in my neighborhood but practicing their cruel satanic crimes in Sparks.

The last one might be a stretch given the fact that the vehicles HAVE NEVER BEEN MOVED ONE INCH. Ever.

It was overcast and cold two days ago. I looked both ways down the street and made my way across the dead lawn, almost tripping over an obviously useless garden hose.

In order to get close enough to the front door I’d have to negotiate the walkway. The lawn seemed safer. Slowly I turned and was confronted by an old hag wielding a rusted butcher knife. Okay not really.

I did get pretty close to the house though.

Not close enough to read the notice –and hey there were two of them taped up there.

Nope. Got spooked. It’s a creepy house after all. This blog isn’t titled Happy Shiny Fun House is it?

Today I didn’t walk past Creepy house and missed out on my morning musings about it’s secrets, contents and rusty butcher knives.

I’m sharing this with you all though. Beware Creepy House or you too will be compelled to write about it. It gives me the shivers. Or, it could be that it’s 32 fucking degrees right now. Either way…..

Whatever walks in Creepy House walks alone.

~Miss R

Hey Hoser!

Look outside! Snoooooooow.

Welcome to Reno, Nevada.

Saturday you’re cruising a book sale in a tank top and the next day it’s snowing and you’re inside with a bottle of wine and your PJs.

Here’s my link of the day. You’ll thank me later. When you’re too tired to look outside of your window.

The Fucking Weather

My Reno

Reno, Nevada downtown

Reno, Nevada. We both look better at night

After languishing in bed for a full 4 hours of sleep last night it was up and off to a waiting room full of desperate uninsured indigent to wait for a doctor’s appointment.
Yes, that would make me one of the above mentioned group.

First come first served (and boy do you get what you pay for) so it was a long-ass wait. For a short-ass visit.

On the way home I passed by the courthouse where I was treated to a group of fabulously bedecked women playing rhythm instruments and waving a sign proclaiming “Prom Queens for Peace!”
Earlier I’d driven through our neon strewn downtown, narrowly avoiding tourists, drunken businessmen, gamblers, Stephen Hawking in his souped-up Diet Coke-Menthos powered wheelchair and the resident homeless. Say, is that last an oxymoron? Anyway, prom dresses bedecking men and women with protest signs didn’t strike me as particularly odd.
Crosswalks and streetlights mean nothing in this town. Drive at your own peril my friends.

As a trip to the doc’s is normally depressing it seemed a fine idea to stop by Zephyr Books. This is a fairly new used book store located on Virginia and only a few blocks from my house. I was craving another Harry Crews book.
Nothing like a bit of seriously twisted southern gothic to cheer me up.

I asked the proprietor where to look and he directed me to the fiction section where, alas, there were no Crews books to be found. So I diligently looked for something else to cheer me up. Perhaps John Fante, Bukowski, or Augusten Burroughs.
Seems I’m going through a fiction phase right now. I vacillate between this genre and the physics and science tomes. Depends on my mood.
Doesn’t everything.

Well I did find Running with Scissors (recommended by my friend Rebecca) which cheered me up. I also found The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins, which surprised me since I was about to order a new copy from Amazon this week. The latter was recommended by TK who is reading it now. 
So a bit of fiction and a bit of non-fiction in the mix for this week.
It’s a nifty bookstore. Check it out.

This afternoon it was time to get out of the house again. The sun came out even though the fucking Reno afternoon winds are blowing. I took a walk around my new neighborhood. A strange mix similar to my old place. Immaculately kept Craftsmen homes from the 1920’s next to unkempt 1930’s bungalows next to beautiful brick homes built anywhere from 1910 to the mid 1940’s.
It’s pretty cool. There’s so much to look at if you have an eye for architecture and, well, life in general.

The reason I was able to take a walk was that damned wind. I was supposed to be out on the Reno Chicken Cam Project.
Suffice to say that it involves Nino (one of the other Producers from the TV station where I used to work), similar video mavens, and of course a live chicken fitted with a harness and wireless video cam.
The shoot was supposed to start downtown in front of the El Cortez (a hotel and peculiar bar) at 4:00 and move on from there.
I got an email informing me that the possibility of the chicken literally being blown down the street may put a damper on the project. So, shooting was cancelled for today.

That brings us to right now; where I sit at my desk listening to Joe Jackson, an American Spirit burning in the ashtray, beverage of choice at hand and typing this treatise. I gotta tell you that tomorrow may not bring me as many glimpses into Life in Reno.
Unless I leave the house.

~Miss R

A Grand Situation

I’m drinking a lousy Starbucks coffee but it was purchased under duress.
Well, more like stress than duress but what the hell.

Had to have more bloodwork done this morning, so I was out and about at 8:00 a.m. Since there’s a 12 hour fast required prior to the blood draw I couldn’t make my pot of coffee before I left the house. Hence the stale, burnt, bitter Starbucks.
Not that I think that their coffee is garbage. I don’t.
I think it’s shit.

I’ve been lacking in motivation the past ten days and was sick two days last week. I actually went to see a doctor (hate that, having no health insurance) which is why more blood work was instigated.
This lack of motivation has been inspired by some other causes than those of a physical nature. Such as this one!

The phone rings Thursday night and it’s my step-mother. Seems she’s sold Dad’s house. This was unexpected as the gingerbread manse was priced at a million bucks and is located in Idyllwild; that ephemeral mountain town of few people, beautiful forests, snow-covered peaks, no stop-lights, and my old life.

Here’s the problem. Now that dad’s house has been sold I have less than 40 days to get the concert grand piano (oh it’s bigger than a baby grand trust me) into my possession in Reno.
Uh oh. There’s barely enough room for me in this apartment.
In reality this means that I have less than 40 days to find a new home.

I’ve seen a few places out there and so far nothing I can afford or deem safe.  I’m supposed to go and look at a house today. It’s owned by an acquaintance who’s moving out of state and it sounds perfect. Fabulous location, landscaped yard, plenty of room for my daughter, myself, the grand piano, keyboards and antiques as well.
Everything except for one small detail. The rent is almost double what I can afford.
There’s potential though: The house is supposed to be split into two parts, with both having their own entrances. Theoretically this means I could rent the house and sublet half of it.
This frightens the hell out of me. For good reason.

Donna told me to ’take a chance!’ and do it.
I don’t know. It seems that every time I’ve taken a chance recently, well in the past year or so, my luck hasn’t been that great. In fact it’s been lousy and I’m tired of being beat up. Or better yet, beating myself up. The bruises take a long time to heal and while I look good in black, blue just isn’t my color.

In case you’re thinking ’Rachael why don’t you sell the piano and buy a smaller one or simply consider leaving the piano in Idyllwild?’ I’ll tell you that there’s no way.

For one thing it is the sole thing that my father left to me. That piano is alive. It’s more than a gorgeous piece of furniture. It’s more than a musical instrument. It’s more than a piano… which for me is saying volumes.
This Knabe grand has been in the family since the 1930’s. My father learned to play on it. I can remember him playing when I was a little girl and this is what inspired me to learn. When I was a teenager and would visit him on the weekends this piano saved my life. His family then (a psycho step-mother and her psycho brood) were very cold and hostile towards me but I could always escape at the keyboard and into my music.
My father knew this. We shared the gift and love of music through this physical thing made of wood and strings.

So it will stay with me. When I die it will go to my daughter. I hope so anyway. It would be a good legacy. There is no gift so fine as music and memories.

I’ll let you know how the house hunt goes.
Oh, and if you reside in Reno and know of a 2 bedroom place with a living room large enough for a grand piano then please do contact me.
Soon.
Really really fucking soon.

~Miss R

Bring Shrimp and Hookers!

Dave and Lisa are in town.

You realize what this means. Normally a late night of excess which may or may not contain any or all of the following:
Vast quantities of Reno casinos, dive bars, dance floors, sushi, swingers clubs, pole dancing, laughter, strippers or nuts. Not to exceed 10% peanuts.

Last night was pretty tame although your intrepid reporter didn’t get to bed until 4:00 in the morning.

Oh sure it always starts out innocently enough. We hang out at Chez Noir for a few hours, enjoy hor d’oeuvres, catch up and try to decide what the hell to do with the rest of the evening. This time we didn’t decide what to do until we physically left the house at 10:20.

We did call Mike several times to see if he’d bring more shrimp and some hookers but he declined on both counts. Probably because we woke him up.
I did get to hear the story of the trip down from Washington though.

Seems Dave beeped going through the metal detector.
So he takes off his jacket and shoes. Still beeps. Security stops him. He takes off his belt and still beeps. Finally they wave the hand held metal detector over his pants pocket and BEEP BEEP BEEP.
They ask him what he’s carrying. He suddenly remembers.
A pocket FULL of bright shiny colorful foil wrapped condoms.
He is then instructed to empty his pockets in front of the now backed-up line of people.

Dave was let go with a stiff warning.

There’s a humorous story that goes along with transporting the bulk quantity of condoms but I’ll leave that for another blog. They’re the amusing off-brand ones too.
Suffice to say that on the last trip I was gifted with enough condoms to last quite a while. Sadly in my case, more than quite a while.

So we started out at my place, hit the pole dancing club and then went on from there and eventually wound up at the Cal-Neva for a quick breakfast at 2:30 am.
After some caloric intake it was back home to see if we could work on that whole eviction thing I’ve managed to avoid since their last visit.

Luckily today is St. Patrick’s Day and the drinking must have started early in the complex. There were no noise complaints. This despite Dave, all 6’3″ of him, standing on my office chair singing and dancing along with a hip-hop video at 3:00 am, Lisa and I laughing our asses off.

They went back to their hotel around 3:30 and I managed to get four hours of sleep.
This morning the house looks fine. The ashtray needed to be emptied, my meager liquor supply had been denuded and the shrimp are all gone. We never did get to the hookers.
Despite this a fine time was had by all.
Maybe next trip.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
The Best of Van Morrison
By: Van Morrison
Release date: 14 July, 1998

I’ve misplaced Sparks again

Today I misplaced two full blocks of Sparks, Nevada. You know the ones I mean? They include 175 Glendale Avenue where the NAPA Auto Parts store is.
The one where my Audi part is waiting.
The part that I already paid for.

I Googled the directions and yet when I drove over there the entire block was missing. The street addresses went from 115 Glendale to 1105 Glendale. Right where you cross over Rock Blvd.

Now for all I know the block disappeared months ago. I rarely venture into Sparks. It’s kind of like a no man’s land right there anyway. Not quite Reno and not quite the City of Sparks. It even looks like a demilitarized zone. Rundown, scary and not a place to settle down and raise a passel of little kids. Or even little winos.
Maybe if your children were partial to Sterno you’d consider moving into this ’transitional’ neighborhood.
So you could transition into fucking abject poverty and head lice. And Sterno.

Anyway, the entire exercise stressed me out and I returned home sans Coolant Reservoir. Figured I’d done enough cruising up and down Glendale Avenue for one afternoon. Hell it was such a blast I’m gonna do it again tomorrow.
After I call NAPA and ask them where they’ve moved their block to.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
It’s Not Big It’s Large
By: Lyle Lovett and His Large Band