Reno Night Walkabout 2003
After the show at the Ark-a'ik, the various punks I was travelling with hooked up with assorted fans and went off to someone's hovel for a party. For me, it was far too early and far too hot to be drinking alcohol. Besides, I needed to do some stuff and I wanted to have a look around Reno. I hadn't travelled 6000 miles to see nothing of the country. I like a beer as much as anyone, but there is a time and a place. (Yeah, yeah, yeah. Anytime and any place... go back to sleep Ush!)
Davey needed to sort out a lube job on the van and I needed a phone card, so he suggested we go and find a Wal-Mart. We left in the van, and sure enough, not far away is a Wal-Mart, on what I would consider to be, a huge out-of-town shopper's Heaven, or Hell, depending on your POV. In the UK, we now have these places too, which we think are huge, monstrous developments, but having seen the US original, I can say with authority: we're just playing at it!
Davey needed to sort out a lube job on the van and I needed a phone card, so he suggested we go and find a Wal-Mart. We left in the van, and sure enough, not far away is a Wal-Mart, on what I would consider to be, a huge out-of-town shopper's Heaven, or Hell, depending on your POV. In the UK, we now have these places too, which we think are huge, monstrous developments, but having seen the US original, I can say with authority: we're just playing at it!
SuperSIZE
It isn't just the massive array of stores, it is the size of the bags of chips [crisps] and the cartons of milk and OJ, which contain enough fluid to drown a mammoth. The freezers are stocked to the ceiling with pieces of meat, which would choke a herd of wildebeeste (and for all I know it may have been wildebeeste in there.) Half a dead animal only costs a fistful of dollars, whilst in the UK, you would be looking at a mortgage to buy a piece of meat that size. This probably explains why Americans are turning into a nation of very big people.
Don't get me wrong, I am no lightweight. In fact, Im anorexic; I look in the mirror and see a fat bastard looking back at me, and I'm no immediate danger of disappearing down the drain when I shower, but Christ, some of the US citizens I saw... that is not just overweight, big-boned or under-tall, that is just, plain, fat-bastard territory. You don't get that fat by accident, you do it by eating and not stopping with the burger; you eat the burger, the person who served you, the deep-fat fryer and the spotty, little pizza-faced kid salting the fries and the building you've just waddled into! Come on, bovine America, get a grip and stop eating before you inhale the planet.
That was a public service announcement from Save the Whale.
Yeah, I think I got a bit carried away there, didn't I? But it needs to be said, dagnabbit!.
Don't get me wrong, I am no lightweight. In fact, Im anorexic; I look in the mirror and see a fat bastard looking back at me, and I'm no immediate danger of disappearing down the drain when I shower, but Christ, some of the US citizens I saw... that is not just overweight, big-boned or under-tall, that is just, plain, fat-bastard territory. You don't get that fat by accident, you do it by eating and not stopping with the burger; you eat the burger, the person who served you, the deep-fat fryer and the spotty, little pizza-faced kid salting the fries and the building you've just waddled into! Come on, bovine America, get a grip and stop eating before you inhale the planet.
That was a public service announcement from Save the Whale.
Yeah, I think I got a bit carried away there, didn't I? But it needs to be said, dagnabbit!.
I Just Lurve Your Accent
I got my phone card and went to pay. I apologised to the checkout operator for having to closely inspect all of my money, because it all looked the same to me.
Oh, I just love your accent," she said, "where are you from? Australia?"
"No, England." I replied.
"London?" she enquired.
"Yes," I conceded.
"Say something else for me," she pleaded, " I just love your accent."
"What would you like me to say?" I enquired
"Oh, thank you," she beamed.
I realised the first time I went to the USA that there was no point in explaining to anyone where I actually came from. The majority of Americans know little more about England than to have vaguely heard of London once. They think that Scotland is on the outskirts of London and glaze over if you mention Birmingham. Actually, that happens in England too, but that's not the point... mention Birmingham and you may as well be talking about Uranus... you know what I'm getting at, so stop being difficult and purile.
The average American knows little - and cares even less - about the world outside his own street, town, county and state, in that order. America is just so gaddamned big, that news from the lower 48 barely makes local news programs, let alone news from some little island thousands of miles away. (I'll come back to this point later.) I've digressed again. I must have that attention def, attention, att...
Oh, I just love your accent," she said, "where are you from? Australia?"
"No, England." I replied.
"London?" she enquired.
"Yes," I conceded.
"Say something else for me," she pleaded, " I just love your accent."
"What would you like me to say?" I enquired
"Oh, thank you," she beamed.
I realised the first time I went to the USA that there was no point in explaining to anyone where I actually came from. The majority of Americans know little more about England than to have vaguely heard of London once. They think that Scotland is on the outskirts of London and glaze over if you mention Birmingham. Actually, that happens in England too, but that's not the point... mention Birmingham and you may as well be talking about Uranus... you know what I'm getting at, so stop being difficult and purile.
The average American knows little - and cares even less - about the world outside his own street, town, county and state, in that order. America is just so gaddamned big, that news from the lower 48 barely makes local news programs, let alone news from some little island thousands of miles away. (I'll come back to this point later.) I've digressed again. I must have that attention def, attention, att...
Camera Time
I got back to the hotel, had a 3S and something to munch. By the time I had finished, it was already dark. The others had not reappeared. I looked out of my window and could see the bright lights of Reno. I just had to go out and have a look around. I grabbed my camera, wondering about the wisdom of carrying a camera at night, but figured it was probably brighter out now, than during the day, so I risked it.
Come with me now, on a late night excursion around Reno.
Come with me now, on a late night excursion around Reno.
Gambling
When I returned to Fitzgerald's from my wanderings, I had a look around the gaming floor, watching people play poker, blackjack and a game, which no matter how many times I see people playing it, I cannot fgure out: craps. I understand the basics of it, but the betting is just beyond me, completely!
Whilst I was watching, a chap came and sat next to where I was standing. He pulled out his money clip and pulled off the top few bills from his inch thick wad. They were all $100 bills!
As I puzzled about the intricacies of crapping out, my compadres waltzed in. Apparently, the place where the party had been held was too grim even for them. Tales of floors being used as ashtrays, toilets and tables portrayed a most unpleasant picture of squalor and man's inhumanity to man. Well, something like that. Suffice it to say, they didn't even want to drink stuff that had been in the flat, sealed and they didn't want to put their beer in the fridge, preferring warm beer to contamination. The others went next door, to a bar, for some late-night beers. I took some pictures of the slots before joining them.
Whilst I was watching, a chap came and sat next to where I was standing. He pulled out his money clip and pulled off the top few bills from his inch thick wad. They were all $100 bills!
As I puzzled about the intricacies of crapping out, my compadres waltzed in. Apparently, the place where the party had been held was too grim even for them. Tales of floors being used as ashtrays, toilets and tables portrayed a most unpleasant picture of squalor and man's inhumanity to man. Well, something like that. Suffice it to say, they didn't even want to drink stuff that had been in the flat, sealed and they didn't want to put their beer in the fridge, preferring warm beer to contamination. The others went next door, to a bar, for some late-night beers. I took some pictures of the slots before joining them.
I (Almost) Shot A Man In Reno
I sat down. The old-timer behind the bar looked as though he'd got to old for prospecting for gold in the hills and had taken up this job as a bar keep.
"Can I get a draft Bud, please?" I asked.
"Say, what?" queried the fossil.
"Can I get a draft Bud, please?" I repeated.
Obviously puzzled, he looked at me. I half expected him to spray a string of grizzled, 49er, invective across the bar at me.
"You can have Bud in a can, or a draft Bud, but you can't have draft Bud, in a can," he said.
It was my turn to look confused. "What?" I asked. How difficult could it be to get the ornery old bastard to pour me a beer?
"You can have draft Bud, or a Bud in a can, but you can't have draft Bud in a can," he explained.
Perhaps, I thought, that this was some kind of Candid Camera situation. I had a quick look around for anyone acting like they weren't acting suspiciously. With the exception of The Skeptix, everyone seemed reasonably normal.
"Just give me a Bud," I said, exercising great restraint in not leaping over the counter and impaling the old fart on one of the beer pumps.
"Do you want a can, or draft?" asked the old man. "You can't have both."
"A can," I said desperatley. "I'll have a can."
"We don't got cans." He shook his head. "Only bottles, or you can have draft in a glass." He was getting quite irate now at my stupidity, as he saw it.
I pointed to Usher's bottle of Beck's. "I'll have one of those," I said.
And that's the story of how I (almost) shot a man in Reno...
"Can I get a draft Bud, please?" I asked.
"Say, what?" queried the fossil.
"Can I get a draft Bud, please?" I repeated.
Obviously puzzled, he looked at me. I half expected him to spray a string of grizzled, 49er, invective across the bar at me.
"You can have Bud in a can, or a draft Bud, but you can't have draft Bud, in a can," he said.
It was my turn to look confused. "What?" I asked. How difficult could it be to get the ornery old bastard to pour me a beer?
"You can have draft Bud, or a Bud in a can, but you can't have draft Bud in a can," he explained.
Perhaps, I thought, that this was some kind of Candid Camera situation. I had a quick look around for anyone acting like they weren't acting suspiciously. With the exception of The Skeptix, everyone seemed reasonably normal.
"Just give me a Bud," I said, exercising great restraint in not leaping over the counter and impaling the old fart on one of the beer pumps.
"Do you want a can, or draft?" asked the old man. "You can't have both."
"A can," I said desperatley. "I'll have a can."
"We don't got cans." He shook his head. "Only bottles, or you can have draft in a glass." He was getting quite irate now at my stupidity, as he saw it.
I pointed to Usher's bottle of Beck's. "I'll have one of those," I said.
And that's the story of how I (almost) shot a man in Reno...
