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.
So here’s the problem.
Once again I find myself sans boyfriend or dates. Okay, it’s not as if this hasn’t been a given in the last few years but it’s really getting to me now. Hell if I know why.
I’ve given the heave-ho to the few of the boy-toy/dinner dates over the past year or so. What’s the point?
There was no future in any of them. Hell there was no present. Try discussing Mahler, Hawking or Bukowski with a snow-boarding-hey-dude guy who’s idea of art is the new label cover on a bottle of $10.00 wine.
At least they looked good. Of course so do I. With the lights off or my corset cinched tightly, then the lights dimmed.
So let’s say, just for a left-field example, that you were a late forty-something, eccentric, neurotic, darkly witty, moderately talented, exceptionally brilliant woman? Carrying around 20 pounds extra on her frame. Oh, and you don’t like meeting guys in bars, your weekly outing consists of wrapping yourself up in a parka and a pair of skis to hit the slopes, or going to freaking Costco?
The roomie says ‘Oh Rach guys still hit on you.’ Yes they do! They’re
b)on day pass from the Helen Keller Institute
c)Northern Nevada Mental Health and Retard Services clients
Here’s the bottom line: I’m about ready to try…. Craigslist.
Don’t say it. I know. I’ve tried it before. Hell, it’s more than a crap shoot. It’s more like Russian roulette. With a fixed table. And misshapen balls. But those are more balls than I’ve seen in a helluva long time.
Jimmy the Greek wouldn’t front me $5.00. That was before he was dead.
People my age are married, or divorced and married again. And divorced. Wait. So was I. Forget that. The point is that it’s a bitch to find so much as a date, nevermind a steady relationship. I can go out to a bar tonight and get laid but fuck that, pardon the pun. I’m getting too old for that crap. Not the fucking, the one night stands. Hell, I’m tired of being alone. Two of my marriages sucked but hopefully I’ve learned something. If not, at least I can check out those balls.
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.
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.
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.
Really really fucking soon.
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.
The Best of Van Morrison
By: Van Morrison
Release date: 14 July, 1998
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.
It’s Not Big It’s Large
By: Lyle Lovett and His Large Band
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!
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.
Sparkle in the Rain
By: Simple Minds
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
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.
By: Snow Patrol
Release date: 09 May, 2006
Been up since 3:30 this morning.
A result of an unexpected (and foolish) descent into sleep sometime between 11:00 and 11:30 p.m. last night.
No sleeping pills either.
Doesn’t seem to matter.
Sleep pills = 4.5 to 5 hours of sleep.
No sleeping pills = 2 to 4 hours of sleep.
When I’m awake it’s all over. Can’t sleep no more no how.
So I sit in bed watching a show on History entitled The States. Actually caught the one on Nevada. The writers seemed to deem the correct pronunciation of our state of major importance.
This has been an ongoing sore spot for native Nevadans for years.
You know what I say? Who the hell cares.
Tomato tomaaaato. Let the inflectives fall where they may.
Was a bit suspicious about the seeming importance of Vegas that was put in the piece.
Oh c’mon. Reno was first with legal gambling casinos, 24 hour liquor, 60 day divorces with no criteria required and legal prostitution.
Vegas? Ha. Newcomers. Poseurs.
Okay. I didn’t really care all that much. It wasn’t even 4:00 am yet.
Think I’ll spend the next week purposely pronouncing Nevada with the long ‘a’ as in ‘ah’ opposed to Nevada with the ‘a’ pronounced as in cat.
Just to agitate people.
Oh shit. I already do that. Agitate people I mean.
So, I had coffee about 4:00 and decided that vacuuming was out of the question. Wouldn’t want to wake the Cock Sucker Elephant Family upstairs.
Oh didn’t you know? They’ve been upgraded! No comps yet but soon. Maybe I should send them to Vegas. They’re the folks formerly known simply as The Elephant Family.
On Saturday morning said elephants were vacuuming and moving around 50 gallon barrels (filled with cinder blocks) at 7:38 in the morning.
Yes kids. These are the same swine who complained about my music two weeks ago.
The music from the speakers on my computer. Not my stereo.
At 9:00 in the evening.
Must not kill neighbors. Bad for the Karma doncha know.
So about 6:00 the coffee kicks in and I decide that the time has come to clear out the Demon Seed’s room. The Room Of Doom, Storage, and Un-navigable, Unmitigated Fear.
Waited until 10:00 to run the vacuum. That’s the kind of responsible and stylin’ neighbor I am.
Finished the entire room at 3:00 this afternoon.
Tell ’em what they’ve accomplished!
1. Compacted six boxes of antique china, daughter’s no-long-prized-possessions and holiday decorations into 2 extant holiday boxes and two extant other boxes-o-crap-that-cannot-be discarded.
2. Completely emptied the bedroom out into the hallway and living room. Vacuumed, dusted and then re-stacked every last box, bin, storage rack and piece of furniture in there. There are a lot of them. I currently live in a tiny two bedroom apartment but have lived in large homes up until 2 years ago.
3. Re-arranged the shelving units and re-stacked the boxes. Broke down the boxes I didn’t need anymore and hauled them to the dumpster out back.
4. Re-assembled my daughter’s bed and made it up. Manhandled the frame, mattress, box springs and dressers. They are now accessible.
5. Drank an entire pot of coffee
6. Took a xanax.
7. Listened to some great new tunes by The New Pornographers. I highly recommend their tune Letter From An Occupant. The lead singer reminds me of Little Nell from Rocky Horror, who played Columbia.
8. Vacuumed again.
9. Yelled at Lizzie Borden to stay the fuck out of the newly clean and cleared out room
Yeah sure, it’s still cramped. I need a basement or a storage unit or a garage or a friggin house thank you very much. In the interim I DO have my daughter’s room into a semblance of order and she can sleep in her own bed on the next visit.
Sure she’s surrounded by towering plastic shelving units of boxes, a bicycle, several enormous plastic bins, enough suitcases for the Partridge Family, two floor lamps and miscellaneous computer peripherals.
The point is: she can get through the damned door, open the dresser drawers and get into her closet.
My work here is done.
I’m taking some of the back benefits from social security and buying her a ticket out here for Spring Break. She’ll be here with me all summer but damn I miss her and don’t want to wait that long. The evil little thing.
A chip off the old blockette.
Party on Garth.
Oh yeah, and pass the ibuprofen. My fucking back and wrists are killing me.
I need a hot relaxing bath but I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna scrub out the tub after nine hours of hauling around heavy boxes and furniture.
Oh Garcon! More Xanax please. Did you say one of tonight’s specials was the vicodin? I’ll also have two of those please.
Shaken not stirred.
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.
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.
Since the debacle with my family (over one of my blogs for chrissake) I’ve been unable to write. Or play the piano. Or catch up on any of the other blogs that I normally love to read.
Nothing seems to shake out.
My depression over dad’s death and the fall-out afterwards have stricken my heart and mind.
Apathy has taken hold and creativity has fled screaming into the night.
Hell I can barely read a book. Have a great one going too: Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante.
Anyway, it feels like everything is going sideways. For example:
Yesterday I couldn’t leave the house. Or my bedroom.
Got up early (as I do) and went to a local property management place called Action Properties.
There is this great duplex for rent. It’s a funky weird-ass 1930’s building with lots of defects, tons of storage, a leaky ancient basement and (supposedly) a ghost.
The other side of the building is occupied by a wonderful musician and friend (playing my music would not be a problem here)
The grand piano would fit in the living room
It’s much larger than my current apartment
It has a back yard
The rent is $110.00 LESS a month than I pay now.
Here’s what happened after I took a looksee at the duplex…
Went back with all of my documentation, completed application, $45.00 app fee, social security cards, copy of current lease, blah blah blah.
The receptionist immediately looks at my income verification and says that they cannot rent the duplex to me because their ‘formula’ requires that the rent expenditure be no more than 30% of my income.
Wait. I know that this is the optimal percentage used in determining credit approval for mortgages (didn’t spend all of that time in NYC finance for nothing) but this is Reno. It’s a duplex. It’s in a ‘transitional neighborhood’ (bwahahaha).
Not to mention (oh hell I am) that I overlooked the 30% rule when approving mortgages and credit…. a LOT.
My rent and previous mortgages have always been paid on time or early.
Every fucking month for years and years.
She didn’t care that I’m currently paying $100.00 MORE a month right now and all of my payments have been on time or early.
Told her that I would be willing to set up a direct deposit for the rent check.
She still didn’t care.
According to Action Properties I need to make $351.00 more a month to qualify for this duplex.
She asked if I had additional income.
Uhhhhh no. (I’m on disability you dumbasses)
Then I burst into tears.
As you do.
Absurdity Notice: I was told that I would qualify for a $525.00 a month rental but not the one I wanted which is $575.00
This means that according to their cretinous reasoning I need to have an income of $351.00 more a month to make a rental payment of $50.00 more a month.
Is it me?
So, I’m stuck here in tiny apartment hell with a herd of elephants upstairs, crazy managers next door, and nowhere for my dad’s piano (or any other possessions).
Thanks Action Properties of Reno. You fucking eeeediot bastards.
I feel a bit better.
It’s not real writing but it is a small vent in the surface of my soul.
By: Deacon Blue
Release date: 23 October, 2006
I have a running joke with a few of my close friends (of which there are three).
To Wit: Do vibrators die due to planned obsolescence ala Detroit car makers and Microsoft, or due to simple (yet stimulating) over-use?
My favorite vibe died a few weeks ago and I’ve been bitching about it and making amusing jokes ever since.
As you do.
So early last night I’m on the phone with ~S in Long Beach. Told him about the errands I’d run during the afternoon. One of which was a trip to Chocolate Walrus to buy a new vibrator.
Jesusmaryandjoseph. When did the price of toys go up and through the roof? The one item I really wanted was $60.00
Hell. I could go out to a bar or club, find a good looking guy and have real sex for free. With all that cash left over in the morning to send his ass home in a cab.
Being a misanthropic romantic this just ain’t gonna happen though.
But I digress.
I returned home dejected and sans new toy. While I’m talking to ~S about this debacle on the phone he gets another call from his friend Scott here in Reno. Well. Sparks actually.
Says he’ll call me right back.
~S calls back cackling and tells me that there will be a delivery to my door within the next hour. He won’t tell me what or why. I have a bad feeling about this.
We finish our conversation and I settle back into my book and tunes.
About 30 minutes later he calls back and tells me to go to the door. There is a box propped up against the door jamb, as well as a white SUV driving away. ~S tells me to wave at the SUV. I oblige.
I take the box inside and open it. It’s not just a vibrator.
This thing is called the Power Bullet. I begin laughing hysterically into the phone.
You have got to see this thing. It is practically obscene, which is saying a lot coming from me.
Now, ladies (and gentleman) I own a regular ‘bullet’. Sometimes called an ‘egg’.
You know the ones; small, silver, about the size of a thumb, connects to the battery pack with a cord.
Well this thing is as wide as my wrist and at least 6″ long. It’s wireless as well. According to the packaging it is ‘waterproof and requires 4 AAA batteries’.
It’s not a bullet it’s a fucking shotgun shell. For hunting dinosaur.
~S tells me the back story:
Sparks Scott received a package yesterday. Right address but wrong name. He opens it without checking the shipping label. He opens it to find the Super Bullet. At that point he actually checks the address on the box. He happens to vaguely know the name. It’s a 60-something year old woman who lives a street over.
He is opening the box while talking to ~S, who is coincidentally telling him about my adventures in Toyland that afternoon.
You know the rest.
I’m still laughing. A friend in Southern California gets his friend in Sparks to drive to the far side of Reno through ice and snow –with a vibrator- to get a laugh out of me.
It’s Mister Fathead
By: David Newman
Release date: 24 February, 1998
January 20, 2008 Reno, NV (AP)
Drunken Neighbor Number One has moved out. Drunken Neighbor Number Two really is a Prostitute.
FYI it’s snowing and freezing. Again.
Been marveling about the irony of getting my (first tier = cheap!) Burning Man ticket on Wednesday. This is so I can run around nakie trying to stay cool in the blistering desert heat of summer….while currently freezing my ass off in the winter.
Anyway, I started up the zamboni earlier and dashed over to Save-Mart.
Had to cook some chicken before it went south for the winter and you can’t make a white wine sauce without white wine. Or so I’ve been told.
Oh sure, I’m all stocked up on chicken, mushrooms, garlic, the accouterments (and crazy) but am out of the main ingredient for the Marsala sauce.
Oh the weather outside is frightful
There’s no fire in here delightful
I have to leave home for the store
Should’ve moved to Vegas and become
Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.
Which brings me to the most amusing thing over the last week…
I’m elbow deep in raw chicken, flour, egg whites, meat mallet and a perfectly heated skillet with olive oil.
There’s a knock on the door.
Fuck. No one ever comes to visit me. Particularly uninvited. I make sure of it.
Valiantly attempt to wipe flour, eggs and raw chicken from my hands and open the door.
It’s Female Drunken Neighbor aka Drunken Neighbor Number Two.
She wants to use my computer to fill out an application for the Peppermill (a large local Reno casino). Her internet connection is unavailable.
Yeah no shit. It’s my wireless.
I’m sick of the fuckers in this complex stepping on my connection so I unplugged the router. The connection to the living room PC is rarely used anyway.
Chicken Marsala is one of those dishes where all the prep and cooking takes place at once. You can’t stop in the middle. So I tell Drunken Female Neighbor (hereafter known as DFM) to just use my computer. She promises to be quick. I occasionally glance in on her to make sure she’s stays out of my porn. Bitch needs to find her own.
Anyway, I’m almost done with the sautéing and DFM rushes into the kitchen saying that she’ll be right back. Okay. Don’t let the door hit you in ass. I’m busy here.
The cooking is finished, the kitchen cleaned up and she never returns. Goodie for me.
I go into my room and what do I find open on the web browser:
1. The Pepper Mill website employee application page?
2. Any casino’s employee application page?
3. Craigslist and a half-finished posting under the Erotic Services category?
If you picked Number 3 you win.
I began to giggle. Had a feeling that she was a hooker but this pretty much gives it away.
She has not been back and has now moved out of the building next door. I’m really glad about disinfecting the couch.
In a way it will be quiet around here. No more ‘Drunken Neighbor’ blogs. No easy amusement watching the absurd lives of other people, thereby granting me immunity over my own lack of a life.
At least there’s still the potential of follow-up amusement.
Next time you’re perusing Craigslist Reno click on the Erotic Services category.
Look for the Headline “Are they’re any real gentleman out there…”
Her name’s Amy by the way.
Jools Holland’s Big Band Rhythm & Blues
By: Jools Holland
Release date: 08 January, 2002