September 20, 2016

Toilet and trash can analogies (Las Vegas, NV)

After spending a few days driving around its back roads and state highways, I've concluded that Nevada is one of our most beautiful US states. 

It's incredible. Some of the places I visited looked like the surface of Mars or some other austere planet. By day, a billion identical rocks, all doing the same thing they've been doing since before humanity existed*; at night, glimpses of reflected deer eyes and thousands of hares, some bent on suicide by car. 

The firmament, seen from the mountains—I visited tiny Austin (pop. 192), snaking around hairpin turns in the middle of the night—is lousy with stars. I could see the Milky Way. I didn't stay long because I was worried the size of the whole thing (made apparent all at once) would overwhelm me. 

But Las Vegas is a toilet. My hotel has a sharps receptacle in the men's room for diabetic paraphernalia. Coming to Nevada to visit this place is like visiting Yellowstone so you can see the trash cans. 

* What event, I wonder, would qualify as the most interesting thing to have happened in those rocks' presence? They've been there for a long, long time. Outrageous comets passing overhead? Dinosaur battles? A visit from meandering Cthulu?

September 14, 2016

Back in the Saddle (Portland, OR)

9:46 pm. Luck House karaoke. 
Table full of losers is watching their sole female sing that stupid Queen song about wanting to ride a bicycle. I fucking hate that song and I can't tell what the woman looks like because of the lights. 

I'm here in part because I want to be; but in part because there's a pair of good-looking women I was kicking it here with a few weeks ago. Not at the same time, of course—those days are gone, unfortunately. But I didn't seal the deal with either one, so here I sit. 

Went out with a sort of unpleasant young woman last night—more tedious and not to my standards physically than anything else. Not a bad woman—a girl, really, at 23—but not very exciting. Rather looked like Jonathan's old gal, Pizza. Not my type. Nothing came of it. 

It sure is a lot of rednecks in here tonight. Why is it that so many people (who think they can sing really well) sing shittily in the same way: a sort of yelping, almost a moan, sort of performance?

10:30 pm
I'd almost completely forgotten that non-chord formed by two chicks (who can't sing) chasing the same note simultaneously. I'm listening RIGHT NOW to two blondes just, like, annihilate "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaac. 

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