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

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

Your Reno Update: Lives of the Indigent and Famous

It was brought to my attention that I’ve been a bad girl.
Not in any way I’m accustomed to either. Or enjoy.

No. I was simply told  “You know Rachael you haven’t been posting much lately”  or words to that effect.

I have an excuse. Hell I have myriad excuses. One of my favorites is this:
Well, I’ve been chatting with a dear friend a lot and writing seems so redundant. I haven’t been home much either.
Lame. It is an excuse though.

So here’s a rundown of the past few days. Grab a cocktail or cup of coffee and have a sit-down. Here we go.

Every morning is the same.
Get up. Push the button. Pour the coffee. Get back into bed.
Contemplate the horror that is life.
Get up again. Make the bed.
Check emails, laugh at those less fortunate than myself, write an affirmation (tongue in cheek and only helpful to those who are already tortured and jaded), and maybe go to the gym. Or maybe go skiing. Or maybe just clean the damned apartment.
Some days I just stay inside and play shut-in.

Today was a bit different.
Did the usual morning thing and then went out and finally purchased another turntable. I want to burn my vinyl to MP3’s. Well what’s left of the original collection. Of the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of records in the original collection there remain about 50 or so albums and somewhere around a hundred 45’s.

Divorce(s), moves, attrition, lots of dumbass reasons led to the losses. I did keep the good stuff. You know, out of print releases, imports, stuff that was never released on CD, or just records that have a special place in my black little heart.

After picking out the turntable (a USB model with a built in power supply/amp so I can hook it up to the stereo as well) it was back home for a thrilling day of laundry.
Yes, Miss R can never get enough of that shit.
Of course here at Chez Noir there are only two types of loads: black and towels/sheets. At least it’s easy to sort.
After two hours of clothing chores it was off to Battle Born Tattoo Studio to have my tattoo re-colored.

Now here’s where I should have done a ‘before’ pic.
Which of course I didn’t.

If you know me (you lucky bastard!) you’re already familiar with the image. It’s a cool Pentagram surrounded by leaves and a few tiny roses. My own design but now a bit faded. It’s located on my upper left arm and can be easily covered by a cap-style t- shirt. In case of angry villagers with pitchforks. Or my dad.

The tattoo dates back to the year my daughter was born, 15 years ago. When it was done I was the only woman in the town sporting a tattoo. It was ungodly hip and very scary to most of the townsfolk. As it was meant to be.
Don’t forget, back in those days I was a successful and well-respected (stop snickering) business owner.

Here’s what Blue at Battle Born did for me tonight. All kinds of tarted up!

Miss R's Pentagram tattoo

So tonight I sit here. Slightly sore after two and half hours with a needle plunging in and out of my arm, and my turntable playing through headphones but not through my computer.
Have the software installed but am still incapable of (clearly) getting the wiring right. Or something.
Well tomorrow is another day, and since there’s no skiing until Thursday I predict by tomorrow night I’ll be burning vinyl like a madwoman, arm back to normal, and the rest of the laundry finished.

There you have it.
A Reno update. At least it got written.
But Wait!  You could read about last weekend…

I’ll give you a hint:
Friday night started out at the Polo Lounge, segued to the Truckee River Pub Grille and a pack of cretins along with the usual suspects, then back to the Polo with TK for dancing, a near collision with DJ Bob-Bobby-Bob-O-Rama, TK’s Table O’ Bitches, more dancing, and ending up at the Little Nugget for an Awful-Awful at 3:00 am. Another successful Friday night. Nothing and no one broken.

Ha, and some of you ask why I don’t write about everything.
You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.
Okay maybe you can.
It just exhausts me reviewing it.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Sparkle in the Rain
By: Simple Minds

Quiche, Grindhouse, and Gaijin at the Noodle Shop

There’s a little known law of science. It goes something like this:

If Rachael (when Rachael = a) cooks an elaborate meal (when Elaborate Meal = b) comes into direct contact with houseguests/moving objects (when Moving Object = H)
Then A multiplied by B divided by the speed of H = No Fucking Leftovers in my fridge.

Above mentioned visitors did bring a chocolate cream pie with them, of which half is still in the reefer. I won’t actually eat that though. Now if there were quiche left that would’ve served for another two night’s meals.
It was rich.
Bad for you.
In other words it came out perfectly. A full pound of cooked bacon. Lots of half and half. Gruyere, Swiss and Mozzarella. Sautéed mushrooms and onions. Flaky crust.
Yep. Good and good for you.

After consuming this feast we went over to Harrah’s for an hour or so then stopped at Blockbuster to rent Grindhouse, the Quentin Tarantino ‘drive-in double feature’ released last summer.

It was fun. Straight-ahead Tarantino fare. Lots of over the top violence and a perfect homage to the ’70’s fast cars/tits and ass/chock-full-o-violence B flicks.
I should know. My formative years were spent immersed in those films. Gah. I lived for (and at) B movies as a pre-teen and teen.

Both films were enjoyable fun and the first one, Planet Terror, had a zombie plot. It was directed by Robert Rodriguez (of Sin City).
You all know I have a soft spot in my heart (and brains) for Zombies.
As an added bonus what’s not to love about a peg-legged stripper heroine?

The second piece is Death Proof and was directed by Tarantino. Nice work by Kurt Russell playing a total psychopathic stuntman killer.
You see, there’s always that quirkiness that makes any Tarantino flick amusing.
Still…. There was the lingering feeling of ‘move along nothing (new) to see here.’

Damn Quentin. Enjoyed the movie but was hoping you’d push some new button, if not boundary.

This logically (in Reno) brings us to the eternal question of white people eating in Asian restaurants.
We visited a Vietnamese place for lunch. Just a little family run place.

I tasted something which sounds fairly vile but was actually quite tasty. This soup contained everything from tendon to tripe to brisket but I always try something new given a chance.
I ordered something that sounded quite tasty and was quite tasty.
The food was delicious.
The cleaning bill will be stupendous.

What is it about the inability of white people to eat Asian food in public?
Here’s a test I’ve devised. It’s called

Find the Gaijin!

FIRST: pick out an Asian restaurant. Any type will do. Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, a Sushi Bar, whatever.
NEXT: put a bag over the head of all the patrons.
Sure they’ll struggle momentarily but explain it’s all for science. Or hit them over the the head with a Sapporo bottle.
Now you’re ready to play!

Q: How do you discern the white people in the crowd?
A: Count the number of noodle bits, soy sauce/rooster sauce blotches on their shirts.

I Guarantee you’ll Find The White People.

Fuck. I had actually left the house in a gray shirt as opposed to my requisite black. You know what happened don’t you.
This is why I wear black.
No. It’s not just a fashion thing.
It’s because I can’t use chopsticks or big-ass ceramic spoons for shit.

Thankfully this white girl cooks a mean quiche.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Eyes Open
By: Snow Patrol
Release date: 09 May, 2006

What Happens in Reno…

sure as hell doesn’t stay in reno. …not with this blog.

When we last saw our heroine she was busy making plans, but not for Nigel.
In the intervening week things have just gotten funny. Yeah both ways.

I’m not gonna say things have become weird or strange. The last time I typed those words –at the New Year- my dad died, the debacle with the family occurred and life generally went fucking sideways.
We’re gonna try the adjective funny today.
Oh hell. What if I’ve just cursed Mom?
Well at least I wouldn’t have suffer through the nightly 20 questions over the phone.

Anyway, last Saturday brought a visit from Washington State’s own Dave and Lisa. The last time they were in town we peeked into a swinger’s club, pole danced, and generally wrecked havoc throughout Reno. That was also the infamous weekend of Turn Down The Stereo Immediately Or You Will Be Evicted Tomorrow.

This time my friends had a room at the Peppermill. I thought ‘what could possibly go wrong and if it does it won’t be at my place.’
Being a genius I decided to take a cab over there; no chance of the decrepit Zamboni being used as multi-passenger transportation.

It took 20 minutes to get ahold of them after I’d walked into the casino. The casino/hotel switchboard wouldn’t put me though on the phone without the last name, even though I had the room number. So I called back to get a different operator but she told me that there was something wrong with Dave and Lisa’s room voicemail.
Alright Plan C.
I sashay over to the hotel concierge, bat my eyelashes, lean my cleavage into his direct line of sight and sweetly ask how to find room 3121.

Hugs all around and then back downstairs to the casino for the three of us.
Now, Dave is a serious blackjack player but neither Lisa nor I do much gambling. I don’t gamble because I suck at it.
We go into one of the lounges, play some video poker and then head back out into the neon monstrosity that is the Peppermill. Here we bump into Dave’s old Reno roommate and friend Mike.
Mike is a professional gambler. For real. For years. Poker. He especially loves going out on Friday and Saturday nights to play cards because the tourists are in town. Heh.

Lisa and I are then schooled on the salient points of poker. Somehow I managed to leave the friggin casino 35 cents richer than when I’d come in four hours before.
We’re hungry at this point. It’s around midnight.
Where better than The Men’s Club. Yes kids it’s a sushi bar on one side and a strip bar on the other. Gotta love Reno.
We went into the restaurant and spent an obscene amount on all manner of delicacies. This is not an All You Can Eat place. Even though it adjoins the strippers and lap dancers.

Our restaurant bill was high enough to merit non-payment of the cover charge upon entering the strip club.
I will say that the girls at the Men’s Club look a bit finer than their counterparts at the Wild Orchid. Don’t push me on the point since it’s been a long time since visiting the latter platter ‘o boobies.
Here’s a bottle of water I ordered:

Yep. A tit bar with their own privately labeled water. As well it should be since I paid $3.00 or $4.00 for the stuff. Boobylicious. I’m sure.

My friends dropped me off at home somewhere around 3:00 am. The next morning I was up at 7:00 feeling dehydrated from smoking an entire pack of ciggies in one evening.

Dave and Lisa made their flight the next day and back to Washington. My apartment was noise and litter-free. I’m thinking that a fine time was had by all.
Haven’t had but one cigarette in the past week though. Back on the Nicorette/Commit and club soda diet. It’s a goddamned good thing that those two only come into town every month or so. Fuck me.

The seven days since have been a slow-motion blur of getting new glasses, avoiding the computer, avoiding people, reading, isolating, screening phone calls, contemplating which caliber bullet would have the best taste, and going to doctor’s appointments.

This morning has been spent pirating music for my collection and burning CD’s into iTunes.
I’m on an 80’s Big Beat/Power Pop jag:  Graham Parker, Nick Lowe, The Plimsouls, Dave Edmunds, Phil Seymour, The Romantics, 20/20 etc.
Good stuff.

Oh yeah, and waiting for my ’94 Audi to show up. The Zamboni is going bye-bye. So long ‘ya bastard.

I’ll now bid you all a fond adieu. Been up since 4:20 this morning (fucking sleeping pill at midnight gives me a grand total of almost four and a half hours of sleep) and need a cup of coffee and some toast.

Do I live the life or what.
The correct answer is Or What.

~Miss R

Corporate Dress, Magic and Drunken Santas: Part 1


santa crawl

Just another night in Reno. Move along nothing to see here.

I was invited to the Magic Underground last night to see Kalin and Jinger. Astounding show.  If you live here in Reno get tickets, and if you’re in Vegas you can also catch them. Close-up magician Jacques Simard boosted my Movado without my so much as noticing.
Here’s the weird part: That afternoon I’d taken the watch to a jeweler and had the band repaired. To say I was cognizant of that watch last night is an understatement.

Yesterday afternoon my friend ~J invites me to this show, the tickets are courtesy of his company. I couldn’t decide what the hell to do last night so I said ‘sure, sounds interesting.’
It was my understanding that we’d see the show then wander around downtown checking out the thousands of Drunken Santas, reindeer, elves and Slutty Mrs. Clauses. I thought that the tickets were a perk of ~J’s job and perhaps one of the owners couldn’t make the show and passed the tickets along. Cool.

Here’s what happened: I got dressed as usual for a night out with friends in Reno. You know; silk whalebone corset, skirt so short that when I lean over to say ‘hi’ you can see my ass cheeks, garter belt, stockings and heels. Oh, and of course my Fab 1950’s black cashmere coat with the huge fox collar. It’s fucking cold outside.

So I get to Magic Underground, it’s dark outside and cold, and have a smoke waiting for my friend to arrive. He shows up and I find that this is not actually a ‘left-over ticket’ evening. It’s the fucking Corporate Christmas Party.

You know that recurring dream? The one in which you show up to school but forgot your underwear? It was just like that except all I was wearing WAS my underwear.

Luckily these people are all geeks (it’s an IT company) and didn’t seem that phased. We all got along great. Oddly I’ve been trying to get a job there.
This seems to be a fine first impression wouldn’t you agree?

~Miss R