Springtime in Reno!

Been busy freaking out (Chic! Le Freak!) so here’s a post that I liked and didn’t seem to garner a lot of readers when I first wrote it. Now re-presented in all it’s glory,

Springtime for Hobos in Germany! 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 well-known 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 at 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 kneed 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!

~Miss R

Night of the Living Wine Gums

They’ve come. You could say the same of myself.

It was a dark and not particularly stormy night in Reno, Nevada. The wasteland of the west.

Here is a bit of background: Read it. Jesus quit your paragraph skipping.

After several successful careers in various states (both physical and mental) your humble writer was forced from the United States into banishment. Threats of burnings in effigy, psychotic villagers with dull pitchforks and letters to editors across the country brought about this bizarre event.

I’m not one to brag, but it may have been partially my own fault. Potentially my fault. Okay entirely. I’m that good.

Reno is similar to Vegas. A Vegas bereft of large food markets, any type of whacko culture –yes the Reno Strip looks like Meth Central- and graced only by a single Trader Joe’s. A Vegas run by a dying mob family turned hobo.

Reno: Home of the homeless. My bastille, trap, and foreseeable residence. All that is missing is a fine cask of Amontillado. Some fava beans would be nice.

Armed only with a piano and Internet connection this author was able to interact with the outside. To her consternation there appeared to be something missing. Something available to people from the UK to Canada to Rwanda.

wine gums

The fascination became overwhelming. After world-wide travels, residency in large wondrous cities, and the surreptitious sojourns to Tijuana, it became clear that I had been truly cheated of a life experience.

WINE GUMS!

These seemingly epicurean delights were mentioned by bloggers comprised of French, Goth, Australian, Canadian, and even some crazed redhead located in –shudder- the southern United States.

Today, while sitting in the desolate yet bizarrely charming Castille du Blaque, daydreaming of trimming the crypt with festive Festivus black and zombie green lights, a knock came at the door.

Welcome 'O Seeker of Knowledge

Welcome ‘O Seeker of Knowledge

Now realize, I do not leave the house during the day. Receive no mail save the daily carton of past due notices, and rarely answer the phone. The doorbell is anathema. Despite these fine character features I made an exception. I answered the door.

The exception that Changed My Life.

Wine Gums, directly from the Great White North. Sent by the god Peter, King of Wombania. Savior, Saint, Artist and All Around Amazing Dude.

The Wine Gum packaging was inviting. A black background festooned with images of the delights hidden within. With trembling hands I carefully reached for the scissors to open the first of three packages. Then threw the fucking shears to the floor and ripped open the bag with my teeth.

As you do.

Oh heaven moved upon the first taste. The flavors of fruit that pop. The chewy consistency. The feeling of… a life complete.

I shall Yelp my findings to the world. Offer a Laurel (and hardy) handshake to Peter, and emerge from this fortress of neurosis a new woman.

A woman ready to take on the world, fighting for rights of the oppressed free-thinkers, coffee addicts, and slightly used Guapola ferrets.

I KNOW THE SECRET OF LIFE AND THAT SECRET IS WINE GUMS

Piss off ye Philistines and rednecks of Nevada. Kiss my lily-white Irish-Hebraic ass you uneducated cretins of Reno. Oh, and a big Fuck-Off to gummy anything candies.

Tasty Goodness is mine. I owe it all to Fraz, Winky, Binky, and an amazing artist named Peter.

To paraphrase Rufus T Firefly….Hail Hail Wombania!

 Now phuck off and let me nosh on these wine gums until my remaining 3 molars fall out.

Mmmmmmmm Wine Gums.

~Miss R

Twinkie Twinkie Little Star

Image

 

Whew! Luckily I was able to actually try a deep fried Twinkie in Las Vegas a few years ago. In case you were wondering it was close to inedible. Ugh. Fry-O-Lator oil directly from Fremont Street. One of those things you have to try though… sort of like the dare of tasting haggis. ‘Cause you can can can.

Still, with Hostess shutting their doors I feel like Woody Harrelson in Zombieland. 

Ah, another tiny death of childhood. Just a note: There are no longer ANY Twinkies still on the shelves here in Reno, nor Hostess cupcakes, Devil Dogs or Snowballs. Hope that Twinkies really do last forever. I can already envision these being stored in a cellar next to the fine wines and Dom Perignon.

 

~Miss R

So You Wanna Know About Reno!

Reno: The Biggest Little City In The World

It’s very important that you know the Weather Forecast for Reno.  Luckily there are only two seasons!
Winter: Six months of bone-chilling cold, snow, five layer (clothing) dip and an unavoidable wish to die.
Summer: Six months of skull melting heat from that big shiny hurty thing in the sky, literally cooking eggs on the sidewalk, foxtails, ants and an unavoidable wish to die.

Hell, I’m not only a resident but a correspondent. Well used to be the latter.
The –redacted- Network had cretinous people that actually Paid Cash Money for text weather updates. This was the most boring and mind numbing facet of an otherwise kick-ass job. So, the asshats who couldn’t be bothered to look out the window in the morning would get a text advising that day’s weather.

Okay, for six months it’s fucking hot and sunny. For six months it’s fucking cold and/or snowing. Only had about 35 characters to work with so you can imagine the excitement of these mass texts. One day my mind went. On a July day sent out to thousands of subscribers ‘Hot. 90% Chance of Snow. High 135F. Low -65F’
Thank god my boss had a sense of humor. Seems a few people were actually confused and called in.

Second: Reno’s Economy

Reno Foreclosure Fun

Frankie, Dean and Sammy played the casinos here in Reno. Frankie owned a portion of one.
There was a Flamingo, Sands, two Hiltons, Hyatt, Fitzgeralds, and all of the originals that are no longer here.
Well some are here. Most of the others have been bulldozed or decaying on the strip.
Thanks to the northern California Indian casinos and utter Idiocy of the City of Reno.

Third:Average People of Reno

In late August there’s a world famous annual art event and temporary community in the desert outside of town..
Come October the citizens who couldn’t get tickets set fire to the city.

Fourth: Modest Mouse

One of the best heart-wrenching videos ever was filmed here.

Tune in later for Part Two: So You Wanna Know about Las Vegas; that other city in Nevada

~Miss R

listening to: Bette Midler; Radio City Music Hall Live 2004

Steak, Asparagus and the Band Next Door

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have mentioned on prior occasion that I live in an old 1928 (drafty, impossible to heat, scary and dangerously wired, big-ass with the requisite spooky enormous basement) duplex. The architecture and lay-out make up for it, I assure you. In the Fall and Spring.

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

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

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

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

Who doesn’t?

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

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

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

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

Back to your regularly scheduled madness.

~Miss R

Coin Operated Goy

Reno winter

The Backyard on a Reno Winter Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got a pack of cheap smokes. Bad Miss R.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Miss R

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