peanut85

Reno. Outrageously trashy. Unbelievably trashy. As I stood outside the old Little Nugget waiting for friends to arrive so I could go to the diner in the back and get me an Awful Awful, I did some people watching. Not on purpose, mind you, I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there and carry on with my chosen activity of the evening, which included sitting at any bar I could find while avoiding toothless, terminology challenged, uber white trash tourists and locals. And drinking. Don't forget the drinking. To keep with the ebb and flow of the city itself, I stuck myself on nothing but Budweiser and Miller High Life. But, I digress.

Some of the things I saw made me loose faith in mankind. More, I should say; Loose my faith more. There are basically two groups of people on the streets in Reno. First, those in cars, driving back and forth, desperate for people to notice them in their rides, doing everything they can to be seen and heard a bit more than the next ride. Second, there are those not in cars, desperate for people to notice them hanging out, doing everything they can to attract attention from group 1.

Case in point: I'm leaning on the front wall of the Little Nugget, trying my hardest to stay at least partially invisible. Some sort of SUV type deal is stopped at a stoplight in front of me, with 3 guys standing practically on the curb, literally starring at everyone driving by, at the moment with their attention focused on the contents of said SUV. I can't tell who is inside, but it must have been someone important, you know, like a foreign dignitary, or a supermodel, or Oprah or something like that. It was as if these group 2's had to get the attention of the group 1's or their lives would cease at that moment.

So what do they do to grab that attention? One guy raises his shirt, right up over his face, showing off a small, semi-flabby looking torso that probably could have passed for an overweight 12 years olds'. Oh, and don't forget the sagging jeans showing off the almost clean looking boxer shorts and, better yet, the love handles that want so desperately to be loved. Or handled. I couldn't quite tell.

At this time, I did everything I could to not burst out in laughter including biting my tongue, turning my head, and looking down the street the other way as if I saw something I needed to see. I'm sure if I let out an outburst of laughter, or even a chuckle, at that moment, it would have been bad. I had already seen a couple of fights, and I would see more as the night went on, and I decided I would try to avoid getting in one. I'm sure that would have had "bad" written all over it.

This was only one of several occurrences over the weekend that lead me to believe that Reno is not quite the greatest town ever. The bar fights. The loud, toothless, white trash locals in the Sports Book screaming for some basketball team that they probably had their life savings riding on. The desperate drunks begging bartenders for free drinks. The lost, lonely, drivers going up and down Virginia St. all night long begging for attention begging for someone to notice them and make their lives worth something.


Now, don't get me wrong. The whole weekend wasn't awash with me viewing the sad, the decrepit, the forlorn, the desperate. I did have some good times as well. Marilyn, whom I met in the Sports Book at Cal-Neva, whom at first when she sat down next to me and started talking to anyone near her, I thought I would need to avoid her at all costs. Not the case, she turned into a wonderful girl, and we talked for a couple hours while drinking High Life and wine (his and hers respectively). A cattle farmer from outside P-Town. Port-Land, for those of you not in-the-know. She was, it turned out over the night, was pretty rad, but for some reason, I just didn't feel the need to try to "close some deal" or whatever the self-proclaimed playas are calling it these days. We talked for a while, exchanged numbers, and she headed out with the bartender, who was hitting on her (and failing) for as long as I was sitting there, telling her he wanted to get off early, but he needed her help to do it. She finally left with him, which I kind of pushed on,"Yeah, go with him! He needs you help to get off!" HA HA! Double entendre.


And then there was my whole purpose for going to this shit-hole city in the first place. The Jazz Festival. My kids played brilliantly. They sounded awesome, and they all left happy, thinking they succeeded. Which they did, they really sounded great.

Of course, I can't say that for all of them. The top group, the High School "1" band, I did not see. No, it wasn't due to some hangover or even a long night. Something went wrong in my head, and I was convinced that they would be playing in the early afternoon. Hell, I even got to the University early, 15-20 minutes before they played, and I sat outside a Starbucks in the warm morning sun eating breakfast. However, they did play great, even got a standing ovation, which is rare at the festivals. Even the top college groups don't get standing O's. And I heard it over and over all day. The trombones (sometimes referred to as "my trombones") kicked serious ass. They sounded great, and even took a players award, made out to, simply, the trombones.

I can't say how proud I am of the section. It has nothing to do with me as a teacher. It has everything to do with them as people and as players. As I have said before, you can have a great player come from a horrible teacher, and a horrible player come from a great teacher. I've seen both. It's all about the will and drive of the player, and these kids have it. Period. So, good job folks.

As for the rest of the weekend, the short version. Saw some good old friends I hadn't seen for a while, some fellow playing and teaching buds, some folks I had met before but only briefly, and met several new people. Saw some great music, had some amazing conversation. So, all in all, as a guy who likes to chat but hates small talk, likes to people watch but hates to be in the thick of it, and basically likes to sit behind the scene and make things happen, it was a great weekend.

Oh, and for some odd reason, Reno thinks they have high gas prices. This was across the street from the University of Reno.




And then, on the drive home, I had to get out and stretch and change the music, and what better place for that then at Emigrant Gap?




So, all in all, great weekend. Draining. Exhausting. At times, depressing. And fun. I really could go on and on, maybe I'll write more about it. I could literally write a novel just about this weekend.

Later-

-E