shallow grave dug especially by, and for, two-bit pimps, wanna-be players and degenerate gamblers. It’s a last stop for drop-outs, quitters and the outcast. What the fuck happened to these people? They’ve given up trying to get it on with the American Dream. Hell, most of these fuckers never even made it to first base. Now they’re barely content to masturbate to it as they watch it from an abandoned doorway. They’re all desperate and doomed and I can’t help wonder what sliver of hope they still possessed when they decided to make Reno their home instead of swallowing the black metal end of a really long shotgun and pulling the trigger with their toes. But, of course, it’s got its downside too…
On Friday afternoon, Allen, Khan, Neil and I piled into
Allen’s Subaru Outback as he pointed the Pleiades star cluster north toward Sacramento , and then east on the road paved with good
intentions toward Reno
This was the start of our annual Booza Palooza road trip.
Each year, my friends and I choose a different drinking
destination. This year, we chose to make a pilgrimage to the unholy mecca. It
was our journey into the land of fuck-ups and losers. Whoever said “if you
can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” must have been some sort of a fucking communist. We
would never join them. We were there to drink their booze - it’s the one thing
in which Reno
Our plan was to take Reno
After a five-hour drive, we arrived at the Silver Legacy
Hotel and Casino. It was 8:45 P.M. and we were immediately struck by the smell
of cigarette smoke and the sound of money and laughter and screaming and the
overwhelming feeling of madness in the air. It was all around us and we fully
understood there would be trouble to be found, problems that we would cause
and, most importantly, a good time to be had.
We also knew that we would not be able to tame the numinous
nature of the ethyl. At some point in our lives, we had all tried and failed.
It can be as unpredictable and feral as spilled mercury. So, instead, we would
simply put our faith in it and let it guide us. We would bow and agree to its
terms.
It wasn’t for us to understand or even define. Our plan was
to accomplish all things through the magic of grain alcohol.
We set out with a fantastic universal sense that wherever we
were and wherever we were going would be the best place to be. We were the
chosen ones. We were righteous. We were winners. We were the elite.
“Let the drinking begin,” Allen proclaimed as we all downed our
first cocktail. Mine was good. A perfectly constructed Jameson and Soda. It
went down well and I started ordering one after another.
Oh, what a sea of booze lie before us. It was striking, and
majestic, and vast. Usually, I like to stick my toe in with a cold Guinness or
two and wade in at an even pace with gin or rum or whiskey until there is no
turning back. But on this day I ran right in and dove headfirst into the first
large wave I could find.
There was talk of going out to dinner as a group. “Fuck
that,” I told them. “I’ll get a hot dog or something later. Right now, I’m
ready to drink.”
Khan insisted that is was the right thing to do and
described the benefits of starting a big night of drinking after a good meal.
He had a point. Fortifying ourselves with food would increase our stamina. I
finally agreed and we all headed to the Hash House A Go Go restaurant at
Harrah’s.
It was the longest meal in my life. It felt like I was
six-years-old on Christmas morning and I was being forced to sit through a huge
breakfast before running into the den to see what Santa left.
***
We had all decided to go in search of the best Irish pub in Reno
We took a cab several miles south on Virginia Street
It was a sterile cookie-cutter chain-restaurant-looking
place. The staff was courteous and responsive but there was a family with
little kids celebrating a birthday party for one of the children. What kind of
savage actively plans to get drunk around a bunch of kids? We all knew what
would happen and it would not end well. So we downed our Guinness and
immediately walked outside to hail another cab.
We followed our list to a couple more places and were
disappointed at each stop. We may as well have just gone to Applebee’s, for
fuck sake.
Our final stop of the evening was to be the Ole Bridge Pub,
but the slightly inebriated cab driver didn’t know how to get there. So, he
dropped us off about a block away and made us walk around until we found it.
Once inside, we met a really stupid bartender who was not interested in making
drinks or dealing with customers. There were a total of six people in the
place, but even that volume pushed her past the limits of her abilities.
Still, we stayed for several pints and a couple of cocktails
and a few shots. We even played a dice game where, by rolling, it was
determined who would choose a drink, who would pay for the drink and who would
drink the drink.
A poorly constructed Long Island Iced Tea put me over the
top.
“Fuck you! Hey bartender, fuck off! You fucking cunt!”
Jesus! Did I SAY that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I
glanced over at my buddies, who seemed oblivious. Time to move on.
***
At some point after Friday turned into Saturday, we made our
way back to The Silver Legacy where we continued to drink as we posted up at a
five dollar Blackjack table. I can’t recall any details except for a
conversation with one of the dealers. She was young and friendly and had
absolutely no idea what to make of us. For some reason, the subject of Gingers
came up and she informed us that she had siblings who were redheads with
freckles. We informed her that Gingers are the result of anal sex, are
sub-human and cannot be trusted. She may have agreed. I have no fucking idea
and I didn’t give a shit what she thought. The only thing I knew for sure was
that we were not physically ejected from the casino. And for that, I am
slightly disappointed.
I have no idea what time I went back to my room, or if I
even went on my own power. What I do know is that I was rooming with Allen and
he came in at some time after me. It could have been five minutes, or maybe
five hours. Either way I remember hearing him fumble and stumble into the room.
“Shut the fuck up, I’m sleeping,” I yelled into the
darkness.
He didn’t seem to hear me or care one way or another. He
began whistling the tune to Gilligan’s Island
as he climbed into his bed on the other side of the room. We both laughed like
lunatics before fading to sleep.
Allan has never been able to accept the notion - often
espoused by members of AA - that you can have just as much fun undrunk as you
can drunk. And, clearly, neither have I.
***
Somehow, we were all up and ready for round two by noon on
Saturday.
We agreed that a good portion of Friday evening had been
wasted due to our plan to follow the recommendations found on social media. The
top-rated bars turned out to be terrible. So for the rest of the day, we would
pick the worst-rated bars and go from there.
We piled into a cab and started our expedition.
Our first stop was at Ryan’s Bar and Grill. What a
fantastically shitty little place. The bartender, Pete, was a middle aged guy
with a bad case of the hangover shakes. Neil bought the first round. Four
Guinness. The bartender rang up the order and we were shocked that the grand
total was only $10. Great prices! Khan took advantage of this and bought the
next round by announcing “I want to buy a round for everyone in the place!” I
looked around and noticed that there were only five people in the entire place,
including Shaky Pete.
We had several more rounds before moving on.
We hit a couple of other bars before we got to Filthy
McNasty’s, which was chosen based on a Yelp review that started with “This
place was awful,” and ended with “STAY AWAY FROM THIS PLACE!”
Filthy McNasty’s was exactly what we were looking for. It
was filled with about a dozen locals who looked like a collection of off-duty
hookers, low-level drug dealers, and a few burned-out dudes who resembled Nick
Nolte's mugshot. They also allowed smoking, they had dice cups and a pool
table, and the bartender was drunk. Our reverse engineering plan was
working perfectly.
We even noticed a large hook hanging down from the ceiling
in the center of the room with what appeared to be splattered blood on the
ceiling itself. We resolved that the hook must be there to hold a Chinese Fuck
Basket and that the blood stains were an accepted consequence of its use.
We started off with a round of reasonably cold Guinness and
quickly recognized that undrunk people drink good beer and drunk people don’t
give a shit. So we switched to cocktails and continued through the night.
As we moved from bar to bar, we encountered a variety of
personalities. Some were affable and happy we were there and others were
cautious. I’m sure they whispered to each other “Who do these assholes think
they are, coming in here like they own the fucking place?” So, we found that
it’s best to be as confident as possible. If we were preparing to go up against
the enemy, on their own turf, we couldn’t show any sign of weakness. If they
smell it – and they always do - the result will not be favorable to us. We
entered every room with the confidence and swagger that’s usually afforded only
to celebrities. We had no time for lines, limits or to fuck around with slow
service. We were there to drink and the rest of the world was there to serve
us.
That, I think, was the point of our pilgrimage. It was an
overwhelming sense of inevitable victory over the forces of undrunkenness. Our
spirit was able to prevail. We started with enormous momentum and coasted when
we lost our steam. The brake lines had been cut and there was no point in
steering. Captain Morgan was driving and we trusted him.
In the end, I thought it might be possible to stand atop the
mountain, just above Donner Pass and survey the vast wasteland that is Reno
Colin Deal spends his free time exploring the bar culture of cities throughout North America and believes the unique culture of any region in the world can be discovered over a few drinks with the locals. His drunken musings can be found on Twitter here.
