So, in lieu of our usual Las Vegas trip to celebrate the First of May (now postponed until October), Lance proposed the brilliant idea of a road trip, an idea he, Deena, and I have kicked about for some time now. Yellowstone was the original objective, only because we had to have some sort of destination and Lance had blown through Yellowstone briefly on a previous road trip and knew we chicks would totally dig it. Personally, I didn't care where we went as long as it was further than the borders of Washington State. I don't get out much; so, much is new to me.
However, upon arrival of the eve of departure, after checking weather conditions upon the vaguely-planned route and noting well that the chance of snow was likely through much of it, Lance further proposed the brilliant idea of heading South, to what I assumed would be the sun on our way to torrid, sordid Reno, Nevada. We called Deena and she concurred instantly and triumphantly began to take credit by crowing, "I knew it! I knew it all along! Woo-hoo, Reno, baby!" I am certain she also must have said something about shaving balls, but we quickly hammered out the details and departure time from my house the following morning and ceased our squealing and jumping about lest we injure ourselves in some fashion and foil the plan prior to enactment. Well, that's why I had to stop jumping about, anyway.
The trip began in auspicious fashion. Everything we could possibly need or want was at hand; Deena, shotgun, handling the musical selections and the butt-can, and I, comfortably ensconced in Butters' ample backseat, doing snack and beverage cooler duty. Lance, God of the Magnificent Mighty Stick, was behind the wheel our entire trip, driving such that one could almost believe him to be one with his machine. Particularly at rest stops, when his ass would make that ripping velcro sound when he stood up. It was funny!
I could hardly wait to get out of Washington State, to pass South of Portland, to get somewhere that felt like I was away. I wanted to feel the curve of the earth between me and the life that I loved but also needed a break from. Hours riding in a car, bemusedly gazing at passing scenery both tawdry and majestic, listening to a diverse collection of music that always seems to suit the surroundings, literally feeling the miles pass beneath
you really does give one the sense of distance traveled. I love it. I love it in a way I don't think I'll ever love travel by plane. The roads have a shoulder, you know.
I live in a very green place. I have known that, of course, but traveling through the green and lush early May countryside in the Pacific Northwest really underscored that fact again. The myriad shades of green set an amazing background for all the flares of colored flowers--the lilacs, rhodies, and even bright yellow scotchbroom--and it was truly a veritable feast for the eyes. Beltane is a celebration of fertility, and, indeed, fertility is exampled everywhere; it is in your face and it is divine.
However, as I am content to celebrate fertility in other living things, I am beyond embracing my own slowly-withering fertility and have made Beltane more of a representation of sensations, of sensual things; not necessarily sexual things, (but also not necessarily not, haha) but of that which fills each and every sense to blissfull capacity. I have found--we have found--that drinking and gambling and eating in Nevada will achieve this particular sought-after state quite nicely. Thus, by the time we finally crossed the Siskiyous into Northern California, I was already anticipating a good meal, a nice, fat cocktail, and the sensory overload of a few more cocktails and a video poker machine. However, when Lance announced, "We're now about halfway there," I knew I was in for yet another life lesson in delayed gratification.
The first difference I noticed upon entry into Northern California was that the dirt was all wrong. It was red. What. The hell. The other difference I noticed upon entry into Northern California is that it wasn't that much different than Washington--what was up with all of those clouds? When the downpour began, it was much like I never left home.
I just want to pause for a moment and salute/lament the semi-truck drivers. You intrepid gas-guzzling roadmasters haul the shit we love all over the goddam place, in foul weather and fair, and I recognize you and appreciate you for that. However, no amount of recognized hypocritical feelings can prevent me from also saying that I wish you all would stay the hell off the roads. The roads are lousy with you, and you throw off some seriously dense spray. Okay, I've spouted enough.
There are always interesting people at rest stops. I always enjoy the Universal Stiff-Legged Restroom Wobble that--no matter what vehicle is being driven, from the most rust-eaten garbage barge to the most finely-crafted European road machine--everyone who emerges from their respective vehicles demonstrate as they cross the parking lot to void their respective bladders. I can feel myself walking that way to the ladies' room, helpless to stop, but I always come out of the ladies' room after relieving myself walking more or less normally again, so that's a relief, too. I hate feeling like I'm walking like a dork. I like to be in my usual unaware state when I do shit like that.
Observation at our highway's rest stops has led me to draw a conclusion that was heretofore mere speculation: most people are freaks. I am not excluding myself nor my friends (anyone who would be friends with me is a freak, so don't you guys EVEN try to deny it), so I feel I can re-state this boldly and truthfully: people are freaks. And you know what? I'm glad. I don't generally like people as a rule, but this epiphany could potentially redeem them; and humankind would be so grateful to gain favor in mine eyes, this we all know.
That was tongue in cheek, people. Tongue. In. Cheek.
Miles and miles and miles and even more miles of huge California farms and farmland as far as the eye could see, drenched and gray and dripping, made me realize that we would never ever get to Reno and that I might as well try to get some sleep. When I awoke from really only what was a mere doze, it was to miles and miles and even more miles of farmland. Drenched, and gray, and dripping. I could only stare at it. Such monotonous beauty; it was hard to stop staring at it, like I was stoned or something. Or something.
We were finally heading east, off of I-5 and bulleting into the Sierra Nevadas before I gained a second wind. Backroads! Detours! Small little towns with lots of mexican restaurants! I love them! And where the fuck are we?
Night fell, and when the monsoon turned into a blizzard 'round about Donner Pass, we laughed. And laughed. We laughed alot. The irony was delicious. So much for chasing the sun south. We should have brought it with us.
We were at the point, though, where we could feel Reno, right there, just waiting for us on the downside of these old, hoary mountains. The chain-ruts that shook us about; the snow that turned back into monsoon that eventually started dwindling into mere rain, our rapid descent and popping ears did not deter nor dampen our enthusiasm to get there, get out of this car, and administer ourselves a bolus of White Russians or Bourbon & 7's, STAT!
Such victory felt as we glimpsed the sparkling neon lights in the distance for the first time! After approximately 14-1/2 hours in a moving vehicle, we had acheived our objective, and I was a very well-behaved, modest lady the whole time. Now, let's go fucking gamble!
Okay, well, first there's the checking in--we graced the El Dorado with our presence--and I liked the joint right away just because of the sweat-clad patron sprawled on one of the sofas in the lobby with the massive, half-covered panniculus sort of hanging over the edge, trying to use a cell phone. I wanted to get a photo, but Lance got in the way. That's what happens when you let a man get you a hotel room for the night.
It was then decided that a good, hot meal was in high order. We sacrificed the "good" part and ate at a restaurant downstairs, and yes, I confess I had...coffee. Freaking coffee. I needed about three or so sugars and about three or so creamers to make it palatable, but it was hot and bracing and caffeinated and made me shake for the rest of the evening, so it lived up to all the hype. I just happen to think it tastes like shit, is all.
So, we finally got down to what we came there to do...light a smoke, order a drink, lay your bankroll down, and proceed to lose it in a merciless, heartless machine that dazzles the senses at the same time it befuddles the mind. Ah, glory! Flanked on either side by people who never seem to ever be on a different page than you are, feeding you their energy, feeding off your own energy, drinking, gambling, drinking, smoking, drinking...after spending the previous 14 or so hours traveling over the ground of 3 other western states, I was rocketed past the point of sensate "overload!" in record time into the glorious realm of the familiar surreal. This, indeed, was a taste of a Vegas Beltane, if only a small taste--and it was delicious. I'll call it a total stone cold gas, baby.
However much the mind and spirit may be willing, though, the flesh weakens and must be reckoned with sooner or later. It was just before 0300 and I was down to my last few measly chips at the blackjack table when Lance forced us to consider what time it was and what we had to do tomorrow which was, namely, get back into the car and leave.
So we staggered back to the ElDorado from where-ever it was we were (my recollections at this point are a shade fuzzy) and commenced to hitting the rack. It takes time to get into a slumber state after that much stimulation, no matter how tired we are. We usually exorcise accumulated nervous energy through utterly clever stupidity and uncontrollable giggles. It's like a law. We have to.
Lance mentioned to Deena and I sometime (I think) during our trek down a dingy, neon-lit Reno avenue that, "Any man who doesn't appreciate you two ladies is an absolute idiot" or a "dick" or something along those lines.
Of course, I love it when he says such things--who wouldn't?--but this time I felt I had to explain something to him: "You see, it's just that we haven't met anyone who is as worthy of our best behavior as you are, Lancey."
And, I would just like to emphasize that this is totally the goddam truth. Lance is a god in so many ways, I am merely his willing acolyte. He may be gay, but ALL men are measured against Lance's worth--and so many fail. He's an intimidating yardstick, and Deena would most certainly agree. But again, I will quote Lance, who says that,"Setting such high standards for friendship means that the friends you do have totally kick ass." Can he get an "Amen"? Indeed he can. I am, after all, his humble servant.
So, esteeming Lance as we do, it was really tough to let him be and sleep on peacefully when he passed out before us. But we did it anyway; yay for Venus and me! I guess we are finally becoming grown-ups. For now. Vegas is still on the horizon, after all.
Reno was at the same time disappointing and just what I expected. It was sad, because I had been told that it was a fairly run-down place, but the evidence of previous affluence was neglected and disintegrating all around us. Inclination and declination; Reno was definitely in decline.
So we set our alarms and ask for a wake-up call for 1030. That would give us a luxurious 7 hours of sleep before having to get going in order for the side-trip to Lake Tahoe that we had discussed. However, come round about 0830 or so, each of us discovered that the other two were awake and just being quiet for fear of waking the others. Two hours early! What to do, what to do...? Okay, so we got up, got ready, and went...gambling!
Well, we did partake of a breakfast buffet first that wasn't half bad. I have been on the health kick for a few months now, and a grand buffet is now wasted on me in that I can't eat enough anymore to justify the cost. I made a gallant effort, though, and had two plates of little bites, but it filled me up so greatly that the only thing I could even contemplate putting in my mouth the rest of the day was only a few more cocktails. Couple that with the fact that my butt has a this-is-a-strange-bathroom clenching phobia, and my discomfort was only really just beginning.
But, hell, what did I care right then? I didn't, that's what! Buoyed by the earlier than expected start to our day and the knowledge that we had some extra time to gamble, I hit the ATM machine and with my pals headed back to the dive down the street that had some good double-deck, 3:2, 3-dollar Blackjack. Video poker is well and good and great fun when you are really blurry, but Blackjack is my true love. It was here that Deena's considerable charisma once again got away from her, and like a lone flower in a barren field, attracted bees. Mo'Baby bees, that is.
Some people can talk to anyone, at anytime, about anything. I am NOT one of these people. Mo'baby IS. Within 10 minutes of his antennae sensing, zeroing in on and locating Deena and her rampant pheremones, I knew that he was a former cards dealer, a former drug addict (clean 34 years), how he got his nickname, what his real name was, that he had 8 kids because he used to fuck his ex whilst at work, was currently in Reno attempting to gain custody of the young ones, and was fully prepared to take Deena to heaven. Right then, right there. No joke. I tried to explain that Deena couldn't go to heaven right now; she was expected to go to Tahoe with her friends.
I was dismissed like last week's shit-streaked boxers. I did not exist for Mo'Baby; only Deena existed, his particular "slice of heavenly woman pie" or something along those lines. (When such nonsense is not directed at me, I pay nary a bit of attention to it. Except when it gets dirty, of course.) So I know for a fact that there was other talk. Other SORDID talk. And beguiling looks, and searing ocular entreaties, and even significant nods, if I'm not mistaken, and even if I am, I am certain I am not. See, not being the driver, I was trying to get as much liquor in me as possible as compensation for my woeful blackjack hands. However, I recognize a full court press when I see one, and Mo'Baby was attempting a press followed by an Alley-oop followed by a Free Throw, if you can dig my metaphors.
How did Deena handle it? Well, she sucked it up, of course. With charm and effervescence, wit and coyness; she played Mo'Baby like a fiddle; never too shrill to discourage the bee from the flower entirely, never too easy to not convey doubt with just a hint of gentle mocking. It was a master's work, and I considered myself schooled in devlish grace and the lightness of dryness. She's goddam brilliant. If only I had my camera! (*pokes Lance's ribs*)
Shortly thereafter, my luck did a small turn-around, and because Lance was enjoying a fun run of luck over at the Let It Ride table and Deena was fending off the swooning dumpster-charms of Mo'Baby, none of realized that time had slipped away and it was already 2:00pm, way past the time we should have left.
Tahoe was thrown out the window in favor of getting on the road and getting a good chunk of it behind us before finishing up the trip the next day. Lance wanted to get as far back into Oregon as he could, and we were down with that as he had an additional 2 hours of travel north after dropping us off, so we'll see Lake Tahoe another time.
Thus, the intrepid travelers (us) reversed course and made a beeline home. I was ready, too, because home is the only place my butt can truly relax. Despite wanting and wishing and hoping and praying and trying and cursing, I remained bound up, and my safe word wasn't freaking working. "Shit, dammit, shit!" Vulgar stuff from a lady, I know, but I'm betting that severe enough constipation would even cause the Queen to utter "shit", too; at the very least, sotto voce. Constipation may not be ladylike, but neither is the act of shitting, so it's a lose-lose scenario for us ladies.
We finally stopped moving at 0130 Sunday morning, at some Quasi-Lax Inn in Cottage Grove, Oregon. By this time, I was almost past my mid-afternoon White Russian hangover garnered by my earlier-that-morning drinking. I thought the buffet would provide an adequate buffer for the alcohol; it merely provided more pressure for my sigmoid colon, is all.
We arrived safely home the next afternoon, just about the time we wanted to. The sun was still right where we left it. It was exhausting, that riding around all the time. But I felt that I had been away. I felt that every sense was righteously filled to the brim. I felt the love that only my good dear friends can give me. And I felt that I loved them right the hell back.
And that, friends and neighbors; THAT is what it's all about.
That, and a good, healthy poo on one's own toilet.
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