Peter Thompson


So, I’m coming out of the Fandango sports book this morning and there’s this guy in the IHOP parking lot and he’s got a gun and shooting people and he blasts this dude on a motorcycle and then walks into the IHOP and starts screaming and blasting National Guardsmen and then comes out and fires into a BBQ place that I hate and an H&R Block which I kind of hate too, because I think they’re owned by Sears.

So, because I almost died today and the only reason why I’m still here is that I sold my car and invested in H instead of a plane ticket… yadda yadda… moving back to NY ASAP… my pal Danny Jock once told me I should send something to you and I always do what Danny tells me to, usually six years after he first tells me. So, here is something I’ll write in a few minutes. I hope you like it and I hope you like yourselves, because that’s what matters, though some say yoga is the answer. It’s all a fucking yoke, that’s for damn sure. I write a monthly piece for HIGH SOCIETY and do some other freelance and was married to a hooker who worked at the same brothel as her mother. I’m at their house right now. I’m sorry for the lack of professionalism, but you must understand, I come from a broken home. My parents got divorced when I was 9.

Let’s see. I’ve been here in Northern Nevada since 2002 when I got married. It’s near impossible to get tossed from a downtown Reno dive with money in your pocket on a Tuesday night in the middle of a recession. If you’ve got a wad, you may not be able to buy your way to the top of the karaoke list, but you can sure as shit get up there and do your song without any pants, afterwards shoot a game of billiards with your dick, nobody’s gonna make a face so long as you’re spending. Maybe if you’ve got real money, like hooker money, you can drink from the Newcastle tap and put your sack in the popcorn machine, go fuck a hole in one of the overstuffed vinyl booths in the back––nobody’s gonna bother you so long as the money burns and the gratuities flow. Reno’s that kind of town. By no means is it a lawless place, I think the college word is ennui, but don’t go up to UNR and ask what that means because nobody’s gonna know. That exact same bad behavior that draws an appreciative smirk from the bartender, say when you toke him right for a round but are so stank drunk that you spill the next half dozen rounds all over yourself, fall out of your stool, break glasses––it’s tolerated. You can even get away with having a really sloppy personality and bad social hygiene in some of the casinos if you got enough cash to spend. I’ve seen pit bosses give some black-out drunks the benefit of the doubt and pretend they’re simply retarded, spilling beer all over the blackjack baize, so long as they keep losing. But as soon as the money is gone, you end up like me, usually a lump on the head, up on Parr Blvd. in the tank with some bullshit add-on for pissing yourself in the cop car. They used to do this thing with the homeless. Buy them a one-way ticket, $19, to somewhere in California and put them on the bus. Problem solved. Most of them eventually make it back in to town, usually with some money to spend and a gambling strategy that lasts them a night and a half or until morning and then it’s either a high hop off the top floor of the Silver Legacy parking deck or they end up spending a week’s vacation locked up, until the cops decide which California town they’re gonna fuck with and load up a whole Greyhound full of them and send them back. It’s basically bum catch and release.

Best &c.