Reno Bars and The Guilt, The Guilt

Hmmm, I wonder if I visit bars less now that I'm perched on the crest of thirty years of age. I'd prefer to say...yes? Seriously, though, bars have regained some of the lost mystery I once retained for them say, five or ten years ago. That must mean that I don't go to them as often; absence does make the heart grow fonder, after all.

Lately, all of my bar experiences have been unequivocally weird. Mostly because I have a little-known syndrome, colloquially referred to as "bar guilt." For the purposes of blog clarity, I'll describe the syndrome in brief: It is an "acute social disorder wherein the subject is aware of intense feelings of guilt for not engaging in conversation with the person they deem least desireable at the bar. Subject is driven by intense psychological forces to eschew contact with "safe" conversants (usually an accompanying friend or acquaintance), in lieu of lively interaction with aforementioned undesireable person."

It's weird--I know what my problem is, and yet I'm helpless to remedy it. In the last three months I've had a pack of cigarettes stolen, several friends befuddled by inattention, my boyfriend irked, and my bar tab prematurely run up due to this condition. It's like I think to myself, "Hey, I can just turn around and pick up a conversation with my friends." You know, the "Quit Any Time" bit. Instead, I choose to try validating some dickweed who probably doesn't really need validating (but, yes, he does), while explaining that I have a boyfriend who is sitting right next to me--My boyfriend and I have a great relationship, though that is not evidenced by the fact that I'm talking to a lame-ass with a faux-hawk who's plotting about how best to steal my smokes. Although, they were American Spirits (blue pack), which are kind-of expensive. I think they're $5.15 at 7-11, but usually they're about a nickel more expensive at the Quickie Marts. Strangely enough, bar cigarette machines only charge like $5 straight-up; You'd think they'd be more expensive--but I digress.

People of Reno, listen. It was at a bar last night that I received some sage advice from a youngish man. Wise beyond his age by about two years, he said to me, "It's weird. It's like, I'm at a bar and I'm talking to someone and I'm like, 'what's up, why are we talking?'--in my head, though. And then I'm like, it's weird, because in Reno there's like this thing where you have to talk to people who are around you, waving. You can't just spend time by yourself, enjoying the silence and shit."

That dude spoke to my feelings about my condition in an intimate way; maybe that was why I was talking to him at the bar. He will never know how much his observations meant to me, mostly because I'll never go back to that f-ing bar again. Unless my buddies are going and only if we have dinner and a game of darts first because they don't serve food at that bar, nor do they have a dart board.

Discology is My Friend

Reno has been kind of a sad place to live lately. By lately, I mean pretty much starting around the time that I heard that Soundwave was closing its doors. I drank a lot. Not because of Soundwave, but that didn't help. Then, a few months later, Tower Records went bust. I have to say that while Soundwave was my favorite, favorite place to buy cds, Jesus wrapping paper, and beat generation post cards, the whole Tower experience turned out worse for me, emotionally.

Let me explain: For something like four weeks, my boyfriend dragged me back and forth from work, to Tower, home, to work, to Tower, etc. At first, we gave sideward glances at the innocent enough looking 10-15%-off stickers. By the end of the long goodbye, we were actively moping at the field of clearanced dregs. I did have a couple of smiles through the tears, however. I stocked up on zines (80% off!), harajuku lovers shoe laces, and some spooky keychains which made excellent stocking stuffers. Huey Lewis played in the background as I asked my boyfriend if he'd checked the porn section out yet--it's like 95% off, I said. Barely looking up from the last of the soundtracks, he replied glumly, nah, the good stuff is already gone. See, that's why we're together--because he can say almost exactly what I'm thinking.

All of this whining has a point, sort-of. Sometime around the Thanksgiving holiday, a friend of ours, David, opened up a used cd store called Discology. I am so freaking relieved I can't tell you what. I was like, Thanks David! The place is located at the corner of Sierra St. & California Ave, on the second floor of the building with The Satellite and Blue Moon Pizza. If you live in or around Reno, if you were even half as heart-sore as I was to see another small guy throw in the towel (R.I.P. Soundwave), then get to Discology, pronto.

Wow, I just ran out of words fast. I'd better beat it.

Family and Stuff and Other Things

I recently returned home from a weekend trip to San Diego, where I met with my genetic cohorts. I drove down with my Mom, in a rental car that had to be traded in upon arrival due to a minor mechanical mishap--a real drag. The purpose of the trip: My family had called a spur-of-the-moment meeting to discuss my Grandparents' living situation. My Nana & Papi live on a ranch that they own in Mexico, near Mexicali--just over the Tecate/San Diego border for the uninitiated, where they were recently the victims of a frightening act of vandalism.

The talk went well and the details of the family's conclusion are still being worked out, but the gist of my blab lies in this question: How does one care for elderly family members who live in another country? As an American citizen, I admit to having unreal expectations about the beneficient reach of legal systems in other nations, especially, I feel at this moment, that of Mexico. The above question was rhetorical, so you may have to wait for the next blog for something engaging--or for the next blog after that one, or after that one.