Carson City Clubbin'

Last night I went to a club in Carson City called Doppelgangers. Fucking weird. The club consisted of an outdoor parking lot with an elevated DJ booth, disco lights and a mixed nuts crowd of platinum blond 7's, Latinas wearing bottom-boob showing midriffs, soccer moms, high school football players (kids ok, if no drink), Carson City wiggas, OC muscle shirt ultimate fighters and teen couples on Accutane pushing baby strollers. Existential classics such as "I Got Five On It" and LL's "Doin' It" bumped till the break of dawn.

I started charmingly confounding a drunk rough-looking esthetician with my knowledge of waxing, microderms and acid peels. She told me she liked me, but not my attitude. As she reached over to pet my face an 80's version of Scott Glenn came by and slapped her ass. She giddily confided in me that he is in fact the 2nd Head Of Security for the club, and he likes her. I gave her two thumbs up and a snap.

Lucky for me I went with a date who kept me preoccupied all night or I would of undoubtedly made-out with
Carson High's 2nd-string QB's slutty mom and needed Scott Glenn to protect me from his starting O-Line.


Hippie Girl

Last weekend I went into town and saw “District 9”. Afterwards I walked next door and engaged in some Reno strip mall sushi, which doesn’t exactly measure up to Ventura Blvd strip mall sushi. The waitress, tall blonde with a Winnie Cooper braid, pointed to my Urban Outfitters Technics T and asked if I was a DJ. I told her no… “I’m a poser”. She laughed and went on to make suggestive eye contact with every plate of sushi she put on the table. Later she told me she’s been to Burning Man eight years in a row, is a fire dancer and likes the drugs. “You should come”, she said. I told her I didn’t think my body could handle five days of serotonin depletion.

I’ve never been that into chicks that party hard with the hippie drugs, or actually hippie chicks in general (with the exception of Linda Cardlini in the “Freaks and Geeks” finale). Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for Earth, Wind and Fire (the elements, not the band, although they’re good too) and a bitchin black-light/strobe-light combination, but there's no way I could date someone who forces surrealism into the minutiae of their day to day life.
Those girls are for guys cut from the same cloth. The masters of pot-smoke shotgunning, deep philosophical eye fucking and barely touching fingernail massages. Plus the hippies of the 90’s and thereafter have only a fraction of the fulsome sluttyness of their predecessors; especially compared to the boozy, "9 ½ Weeks", I like uppers on special occasions, pragmatists.
On my way out we exchanged numbers. She called five minutes later... I took the wrong copy of the credit card receipt.


Bloody Noses, Turkey Waddles and Angry Fathers

Top 7 Qualms With Virginia City

10.) The altitude/desert combo, makes me wake up every morning with a dried-up bloody nose. Shute says Louden Swain and I can't hold our mud.

9.) There aren’t many attractive single locals (in my age range) in Virginia City. I could push the boundaries of humanity and go to the dark side, but I promised myself I’d forgo the small town dirty-dirty rep.

8.) All the restaurants in Virginia City (sans Mandarin Garden) are closed by sunset.

7.) Tourists and Reno/Carson/Dayton girls are the best bet for action. Unfortunately they tend to only spend the night in town on Fridays & Saturdays... This does however make for more productive weekdays.

6.) The only market in Virginia City is in the RV park. It sucks being a produce snob.

5.) Every time I dance with a girl, their boyfriend, father or brother wants to fight. On Saturday night I was boogying with a young lass, while her father and uncle stroked their guitars on stage. It became rather uncomfortable when she unstealthily started biting my neck and grabbing my ass. At the end of the night I went to shake her father's hand - he refused, preferring to spit tobacco instead. She wants to take me 'clubbing' in Carson next Friday. She told me that I don't need to be on good behavior that night. Vacillation mode - Lolita's father and uncle play at about every saloon in town. Trouble...

4.) Since moving to Virginia City I have been worried that I'm going to put weight on - I don't have access to a proper gym and I frequent saloons at a rate that rivals my collegiate salad days. After seven weeks my body looks the same. It's just that it feels like all the fat has gone straight to my neck. Folks tell me I am paranoid, but I think my predestined-ancestral turkey neck has accelerated and is finally catching up with me. After every drink and meal I touch my chin/neck to see if it has grown. To counter the growing waddle I might have to find an all night Reno drum and bass club, take two E’s and dance till daylight with a piece of chewing gum in my mouth. I guess for now I’ll stick with exercise, the 40 minute drive to Reno Trader Joes, perfecto posture (which makes it go away) and my trusty Jack Lalanne facemastics.


Pickled Eggs, Fallen Soldiers And A Frisky Deputy

I've been doing more writing, hence I only went out three nights last week...

Wednesday Night

Went to Sergeant Major’s (a drinking establishment that honors law enforcement and the military). The woman managing the bar jukeboxed a song called “Arlington” and told everyone to be quiet and listen to the lyrics. The ethereal quasi-punk girl next to me broke into tears. The bar manger took a drag and announced, “It’s the song”. Everyone listened in silence, heads down, soaking up the lyrics. Afterwards a more upbeat song came on. The quasi-punk girl wiped away her tears and orchestrated the bar manger's two young daughters to sandwich her. The three of the them danced tightly pressed together in a Lynchian unison. I just watched.

Friday Night
Didn't want to go out, but I could hear a band play from the Ponderosa Saloon so I walked down to check them out. I said hi to the regulars and had a seat. During "Radar Love" a cute brunette in black high heel boots sat down, asked if I had a girlfriend and checked my hand for one of those lifelong commitment rings. We hung out till morning. She works at a nearby jail as a deputy, likes to sing country, drives a Ridgeline and leans towards the deviant side. We'll hang again.

Saturday Night
Drank lots of beer and scotch at the Brass Rail while listening to karaoke (I don't sing - haven't since I butchered "Caribbean Queen" Thanksgiving Eve 2007). As the bar closed a biker with a Fu Manchu asked me if I would go to his hotel room and "knock the bottom" out of his wife. "She's on the heavy side, but she's really sexy", he said. Maybe if I hadn't met the cute deputy the night before I would have considered the auspicious offer. But I passed and walked to the Twain where I struck up a conversation with two attractive early forty-somethings. Things were going well until the one I liked - think Lucy Lawles with lots of belly jewelry - saw that they had pickled eggs. The bartneder fished one out and put it on a paper plate. After her and her friend had a bite, she offered it to me. I said no thank you. My preserved ovo refusal bothered the shit out of her. "As a writer you need to experience this," she said. I asked for a reward and she offered me an "open mouth kiss", which suddenly seemed less than desirable while thinking about her pickled egg saliva. I decided to put my stomach first, and left without the kiss (actually I got one on the cheek from both of them).


How I Almost Fought A Marine

On Friday night around 2:30 AM at Sergeant Major’s a skinny guy with a goatee buys a round of drinks for the bar. Twenty minutes later he turns and looks at me. I haven't met him yet, so I extend my hand for an intro.

“Don’t shake my hand if you don’t mean it,” he says.

I mean it,” I tell him.

He walks over and says, “You don’t like me do you?”

Here we go. "I don’t know you. But you bought me a drink so I wanted to say thank you."

“Your damn right I did.”

I've already seen him fall twice. He’s drunk.

“I’m drunk," he says. He looks over his shoulder. "Is that guy with you?”

The guy behind us is talking to the tatted hipster girl that my new drunk friend walked in with. She has already told everyone in the bar she is married, but not to my new drunk friend. They just met across the street and happened to walk in together.

“Him? No, I don’t know him,” I said.

“He can stab me, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Ya, I don’t know that guy.”

“Where are you from?”

“Los Angeles.”

“United States Marine Corps!” he says as he pounds his chest. (I should note that he is not from VCity, he is visiting from Dayton.)

“That’s great. I respect that.”

“Where are you from?" he asks again, this time more angry.

“I was born in St. Louis,” I answer.

"No! Where are you from?!!!” I see what he's getting at, he thinks I’m Mexican or something. It doesn't pay to be tan in this town. He narrows his psycho eyes, pounds his chest and shouts, “United States Marine Corps!”

I’m ready to hit him the first sec he makes a move. Vic the bartender comes by, who is pretty plastered in his own right. The Marine points to me and asks, “Is he alright?" I roll my eyes at Vic.

“Ya, he’s cool,” Vic says.

“What about him?” Pointing to the guy behind me.

“He’s cool too,” Vic says as he walks away. The Marine shakes my hand and gives me a bro-hug.

Within two minutes the Marine’s shirt is off and he's toe-to-toe with the guy behind me. Just so happens the guy behind me has a roommate in the bar who is also a Marine and is able to talk Marine speak - "STAND DOWN MARINE!! I SAID STAND DOWN SOLDIER!!!" - to calm him down, which actually works for a couple minutes. I decide to make-out with the hipster married chick (who I nicknamed Betty Page) while all this is going on. She tells me I’m hot and that her and her husband have a mutual understanding. She asks for my #. I give it to her with the condition that her hubby won't come after me with a shotgun.

…I guess I’m an adulterer not a fighter.