Reno: is this even real?

I think my experience in Reno is best summed up by a comment I made to a friend:

“Being in Reno is so much more like being in Reno than I had anticipated.”

It’s like a bizarre mix of Daytona Beach and South of the Border, minus like twenty years.  Which if you’ve been to Daytona or South of the Border recently, that’s fucking saying something.


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Also, you’d think people in Reno would be numb enough to weird shit as to not be flabbergasted by my freshly pinked-up hair, but apparently you’d be wrong.  In the space of about three blocks one dude gushed about it volubly then invited me out for a beer (I politely declined), and then another chick asked me if I were a rock star, because I looked like a rock star. (I sadly informed her that I am definitely not a rock star.)

But hey, pink hair!


I also classed it up pretty hard this morning when I got out of the shower, naked to preserve my clothes from the ravages of hair dye and wet pink streaks running down my body — and there was a fucking window washer perched outside my window.  On the twelfth floor.  I did not realize that this was a thing that actually happens to actual people, not just in cartoons.

Fortunately, the last remnants of my sense of shame dissolved somewhere around the (first) time I stuck my KY-coated hand into my bike shorts somewhere on the side of the highway in Illinois.  So I just kind of half-shrugged and waved before ducking out of line of sight.

In about an hour I will hop on yet another bus to Sacramento, where I will spend the night in yet another hostel for no reason except to avoid real life for another day.  Then I shall likely embark on one last great train ride back up to Seattle, where I will immediately commence contemplating ways to avoid real life some more and remain a glitch in the human system.

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