Nevada is for lovers. . .the kind that charge by the hour.

Not a big fan of Nevada. After our purge in Auburn, CA, we made it to Reno around 11pm, and slept in a cruddy neighborhood in the Beast. Didn’t feel nervous, it was just loud all night. People yelling, boom cars, rice rockets, all that sort of street noise. Then we got gas at a station full of toothless, mullet-sporting 50-year-old hookers and loose rottweilers with saggy dog-tits. Yes, I said “saggy dog tits”. No, I will not take it back.

After a boring day traversing Nevada, we stopped to sleep in Wells, NV. Creepy, creepy small town. Got settled at a decent hour but picked the wrong place to park–in front of an abandoned casino straight out of a horror movie (clanking chains and blowing shreds of fabric included) . Dog woke us up around 11pm growling and barking at someone trying to get into our trailer. Threw sleeping babies in lower bed, pulled down top, and put that sucker in gear without looking back. . .”slept” rest of night in a dog pile on lower bed in a very bright, noisy gas station on the other side of town.

this is the only pretty place in Nevada. The only thing those Nevadites have going for them is a small population of wild horses and probably some mountain lions and coyotes. And that cheery line in Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues, “I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die”. . .yep, Reno makes you want to shoot people. And escape to Utah. . .


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