A few more random observations and details from the Catherine Denise mini-tour.
If ever you play at JJs is San Jose and a lopsided toothless mulletted idiot walks in claiming to be the "house percussionist," do the following in this order:
•Be afraid. Be very afraid.
•Tell him to fuck off. Do not be polite.
•Tell Johnny, owner and soundman, to turn off the perc mic Idiot Boy insisted on setting up.
•Throw full beer bottles at him as hard as you can from the stage, and incite the audience to do the same. This man must be stopped.
Comment directed at me after the JJs show in the parking lot from a friendly young black guy who looked about 12 but somehow managed to see the show: "Damn, nigga! You got some motherfuckin' skills on that bass!" Comment directed at Rusty, a few seconds later, same place, same dude: "Damn, nigga! You got some motherfuckin' skills on that keyboard!" Kids today...
And then off to Reno.
The best sandwich to be found anywhere on the planet is somewhere near Truckee, in a little anonymous town at a deli whose name escapes me. It's just off the 80 so you can't miss it. The thing was as big as my head and took me half a day to finish. Go for the habanero jack.
Reno is, well, what it is. The desperation in the air, at least in the casino level at the Hilton, can be directly measured using sheer human tonnage as a yarsdstick. Or perhaps the displacement in the pool, like the way they calculate the weight of oil tankers and such. The obesity factor was just staggering. Worse than Philadephia, which to me was always the fried malomar center of the universe until now. No sooner did I think to myself "That's got to be the fattest ass I've ever seen in my life" than a bigger one hove into view coming out of Chevy's. Christ on a bike. Why not, America? Why not just buy tubs of sour cream at Costco and a straw and be done with it? Why even go through the diet Pepsi motions? You look awful, getting worse daily, and the whole world laughs while we stuff as much deep-fried garbage as possible down our collective pie hole. How I didn't witness a hundred heart attacks and/or strokes is beyond me. Mrs. PRG while examining the menu at the Italian eatery in the lobby: "I'm in the mood for Eggplant Parmesean." PRG in reply, "Baby, there ain't an eggplant within a hundred miles in any direction."
The show was fun, but almost an afterthought. I had already been rendered deaf by the unrelenting din from the slots. Note to self; use Super Slinkys next time you restring your bass the night before the gig rather than Regulars, you big doofus. My fingers still hurt. The other band we played with was a bunch of poncy cloth-eared assholes. PRG and I at the exact same time remarked that the drummer was the type we'd always make fun of. Black wife beater, black drum sticks with white nylon tips, gigantic kit, and, worst of all, black "drummer's" gloves. Complete tool. And oh boy could he not play.
I've said it before and I'll say it again; casinos are sad places. Casinos with carnivorous escalators are especially sad. Some poor woman fell down the up-escalator, knocked herself out at the bottom, and was then unceremoniously dragged back up again lying on her back. At the top it took at least three people to prevent her clothes, and possibly her head, from being devoured by Otis the Evil Escalator.
On the upside, one woman had a decidedly unsad afternoon just as we were leaving. She won a million dollars at a penny slot machine, and some flunky was busy writing out a 3'x6' check to her. Security everywhere. Poor woman looked shellshocked. One million dollars. Penny machine. And all the while there I was losing at video poker, one quarter at a time. Feh; only $75 vaporized into the ether, less than I had budgeted. No gambler, me. Good thing too.
A fun little adventure all in all, and one I'd repeat in a second. Comped room and food is a nice perk. I'm pretty sure they deep fried the entire salad bar, and the room smelled like Eau de Philly Hambeast Toejam. But once in a while it's fun to play professional touring musician. Plus, I showed them; The Reno Hilton will now have to find a way to replace two bars of soap, one lou roll (GREAT pseudonym), and a bottle of shampoo.
By the way, if anyone is going to Reno, I still have a big pile of meal tickets for the Hilton. If you enjoy greasy lettuce and see-through coffee, come and get 'em.