Last weekend I had the pleasure of visiting Reno, Nevada for some training for my other, “real” job. That isn’t important. The important thing was that I was in Reno getting paid to work. Jealous yet? You will be (but probably not). Here are my takeaways from Reno:
- I’m a very well put together, attractive, skinny, young 25 year old male compared to many of the people I came into contact with in Reno.
- OMG, seriously, the best steakhouse in Reno, is still very crappy.
- If you stay downtown you get a lot of crackheads. If you stay out of town, you can replace crackheads with old people and its about the same thing.
- If Las Vegas wouldn’t host your shitty event, Reno will. That same weekend there was a quilting expo, bowling tournament finals, and a tow truck convention. I was there for warehouse training so its not like my excuse was any better.
- Blackjack dealers learn your name, which is kind of creepy when they are calling it out the next day as you walk by the tables. Its bad enough that I’ve got an itch to play, but do you have to cup my junk while I do it?
- Free drinks is one of Gods many gifts to men. Fortunately, my money is also a gift for the casino, so you’re welcome.
- No matter how gay sounding a slot machine is, it could still make you the biggest winner of the weekend. My friend won $200 playing a game called “Kitty Glitter”. He got a double super Persian cat bonus on a 30 point spin, whatever the fuck that means. End result, he won $200 and we laughed hysterically as he proclaimed, “look at all the kitties!”.
- Apparently you can cheat at the midway games at the Circus Circus and as long as no little kids are playing, the operators couldn’t give a rats ass how you won.
- Yes, you will get to go to Circus Circus against your friends wishes if you “accidentally” lead them there somehow.
- You will smell like cigarettes regardless, so you might has well smoke while indoors.
- Don’t go head to head with a cabbie on how disgusting you can talk about a subject, especially having sex with midgets. He will win, ALWAYS.
But do you want to know the real reason I get to talk about this trip? Because, I got breakfast! Hooray. The coffee shop at the Peppermill here I come. A recreation of the Peppermill coffee shop from its previous location (not always in a casino), it had a 40s dinner charm, if that 40s diner charm was located in the Mad Hatter’s dinning room from “Alice in Wonderland”. I really wish I had a picture of the dining room. Lots of purple and pink lights with a fake cherry tree in the center. So unbelievably awesome yet trashy I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or aroused. But yes, I’m getting behind myself here, the breakfast!
Corn beef hash and eggs. One of my more favored breakfasts. Corned beef hash, if you don’t know, if crubed corned beef and usually potatoes. If you’re good you put a little bit of onion and green pepper in there, like the best parts of a Denver omelet. Unfortunately the light in this picture isn’t that great (blame the purple neon), but I don’t know if it would have looked that much better regardless. It’s a little sad looking now that I take a second look. I was really tired that morning, as it was our last, and this was the only real breakfast we had our 3 days there. Maybe that’s why I was so excited.
If the eggs look like they are ready to bust out of there, its because I asked for them “over easy”. At the Peppermill coffee shop, this is apparently too easy. As soon as I grazed the top of one of these bad boys, the entire thing burst open and fell apart. It was a sloppy mess, like a flooded New Orleans. I had my two dikes of meat and potatoes to keep it contained to at least one part of the plate. Thank god we left the pumps on! Good thing they gave me all the bread on the left too. Its like the R(i)ed Bread Cross ready to swoop in and clean up the neighborhood. Looks pretty dry and ready to soak up some of that eggy mess. But this is before it was reveal that it was actually, (duhn duhn, da!) a butter sandwich Where was that in the description of my meal. Poor planning. Looks like everyone needs to make their own way into the Superdome, which is what I’m calling my stomach from now on.