I hear the train a'comin, right on down the line

It's early morning in Reno and as I look out my 23rd-floor window, I note that (a) the garish casino lights are still on, and by daylight they are more garish than ever; (b) the sun is shining from the east, but it's snowing; and (c) this place is infinitely depressing. Yesterday I went walkabout and trolled the cheap, tacky crap stores. The best store is about two blocks away and the best thing is that in addition to the oddly overdressed "dolls" and 1970's glass frogs, they sell lighters 10 for $1 and coffee mugs are 3 for 99 cents. The best part about the latter is that the mugs are all from Milwaukee. Did I mention that it's sunny and snowing?

Reno is another world, like much of Nevada seems to be. Such strange vibes here. I have been to Vegas many times and even though I kind of like it, I have an exactly 22-hour threshold of tolerance for the cigarette smoke, slot machines, lights and whistles, and crowds of people. I get easily frustrated by the labyrinthine engineering of these buildings, which are designed to make everything BUT slot machines impossible to locate. I get the marketing technique, but if you don't gamble and are staying in a Harrah's casino, say, for an academic conference, you may share my irritation of not being able to achieve goals of being certain places at certain times. You know that when the Starbucks takes work to find, you're in a place that doesn't subscribe to typical rules of capitalism, or at least in a place that prioritizes its capitalistic goals and they don't include Starbucks per se.

After our panel session yesterday, Charly and I crossed the street to obtain the advertised 32-oz., $5 margarita (in its own souvenir cup, no less). The best part is that the souvenir cup hails the drink as the "Asskicker," which in no way kicked my ass, which speaks loudly to the watered-down nature of it because a real margarita of such proportions would have required a long nap or a trip to detox for me. In said bar, where Charly and I caught up and he told me his story of how he proposed to his girlfriend (after all these years, who knew this man was so brilliantly romantic?), I watched a heavy man with scraggly long hair eat entire bags of peanuts at a time. You know, the ones that are 99-cent tubes. He had at least four of them and tipped his head back, eating the entire tube one rather disgusting mouthful after another. He stood at the tall bar table and tipped his head as he ate the peanuts so he could not take his eyes off of the UFC-style match going on the TV over the bar. He glared at us a few times, and I kept wondering if he thought we coveted his prized peanuts or was plotting how to murder us out behind the bar. He had a crazed, Manson expression and a twitchy quality and then when I looked for him again, he was gone.

A young woman came in some time later, and appeared to be about twelve, but was clearly old enough to drink. She wore a hoodie with the hood up and tied around her face, and was nearly as wide as she was tall. She ordered a burger and fries, and then proceeded to engage the meal in some kind of conversation. I wonder if there's a big meth problem in this city. I wouldn't be surprised, of course, as this place feels distinctly like the movie set of a bad after-school movie. No one here is pretty, and people on the street in the middle of the day have a desperate air about them that is deeply unsettling. Old people totter around and ride scooters, and they chain smoke cheap cigarettes and wear mismatched clothes on their disturbingly overweight bodies. And who knew Reno was a haven for seriously unattractive lesbians who are not shy about public displays of affection? I have never witnessed so many ugly couples behaving in ugly ways. How odd.

I'm glad to be leaving here today. I don't know how anyone lives here. It's snowing harder now, with larger flakes sweeping angrily past the window.