Sierra Most.

(NB: This makes up for not writing anything in November except a vengeful blow against my upstairs neighbor. He was kind enough to move his car from in front of my garage when prompted by a long, vengeful horn blast this afternoon, so he's off the hook.)

This was my first Thanksgiving away from family, and most friends. At first, it resembled Kevin McAllister's plight in Home Alone. I went to the grocery store, fixed myself some dinner, sang into a comb after a shower, watched some movies, and thwarted Joe Pesci from breaking into my home. But most of all, after vegging out to my heart's content, I realized that something was definitely missing from the holiday, and I should have spent the time, vacation days, money and effort to go back home for the holidays.

Alas. That was Thursday. When I woke up Friday morning, I had two options. I could spend a few more days moping about or meandering through the city (that would be the default), or I could sack up, take advantage of my freedom, and do something different. I decided that I missed snow and wanted to see some. The forecast for the Reno-Tahoe area called for a good few inches, and at 200 miles away, was easily accessible for a day trip. For the hell of it, I made it an overnight trip-- staying at the Best Western in Truckee, California. I made a few calls, planned a few stops, picked up an atlas and a disposable camera (I still haven't gotten a new digital), and headed for the mountains.

Now, let me pause here. The reason why I haven't posted much lately is that not much unexpected or surprising has happened. And I like to write more about that. I've gone places, sure, but they've turned out to be just like I imagined. Went to a winery, drank wine. Went to the Castro, saw Bush's worst nightmare. Went to IKEA, bought some funny-sounding furniture. And don't get me started on work. Work is exactly how I imagined. So you could say that living in Northern California is pretty much as how I imagined it would be-- maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy, but nothing had been as stand-out as say, bowling as "Wei Chan" on no sleep after the Sox victory parade, or getting free hot dogs and beer in exchange for umbrella protection at a Phish concert, or, dare I say, getting stalked by a convicted anal rapist in Central Square. But this weekend turned out differently than I had envisioned. So bear with me. Back to the story.

First, the important thing to keep track of is the my profit for the weekend. I will highlight this by using bold text.

CURRENT PROFIT: $0

So I arrived in Truckee at about 4:30 in the afternoon, as sunset was about to give way to twilight. It took me a drive through town to realize that there was basically nothing to do for a non-skier (which I intend to correct while I'm out here) after dark in the town. Think if Sausalito was in the mountains, and also on the Oregon Trail, and you'd have a pretty good picture of the town. So after a little Pizza Hut, and checking into the hotel, I was off on a 35-mile drive to the lights of Reno, the self-proclaimed "Biggest Little City in the World."

Reno is weird, if you haven't been, or watched Reno 911!. It's a lot of things. It's a resort town, since it's at the foot of the Sierra Nevada. It's a college town, home to the main campus of the University of Nevada. And of course, it's a place where people from Northern California can go to gamble. I'd include people from Nevada, but the only people who live east of Reno in Nevada are aliens and Indians. And both have their own gambling establishments.

After poking around the six or seven main casinos in the town, and noticing the sketch factor was quickly increasing the farther I got from the Silver Legacy, I checked into the poker room at Circus Circus. Nothing major, just a wimpy 2-4 table, since I didn't want to spend too much, and had only played in a casino once (at a wimpier game at the Excalibur in Las Vegas on the cross-country trip over).

The table was rather colorful, being the 2-4, a mix of beginners and drunks and people who didn't have the fancy shirts necessary to hang at the no-limit table, where Josh Arieh-wannabes practiced running their hands through their hair and standing up, just in case they make it to the World Series. But by far, the king of the table was Daniel, the self-proclaimed "Kid Reno," who annoyed and amused the table for hours with his repetitive catchphrases and offbeat observations. Among them:

"I'm all about Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, and Duran Duran, the best bands in the world."

To the dealer: "Want a tip? Stay out of dark alleys." (he said this maybe 20 times)

To the attractive ladies who played him: "I don't want your money, I just want your body."

"Did you see the Tears for Fears concert? It was awesome. Awesome. AWESOME."

"You gotta get in the river, 'cause that's where the fishes are."

And of course, whenever anyone made a motion to get a drink, he would yell "Whiskey Wench!" Kid Reno, a regular, was not allowed to drink in the casino, as he probably had that taken care of beforehand. He also claimed to be a doctor, a bass player, a homicide detective, to have two cats and three dogs, that his sister slapped him in the face over politics during Thanksgiving dinner, that he had played in the poker room for 25 years, that the dealer had gone to jail for embezzling money (which the dealer didn't deny, so I think that might have been correct), and that he had killed three people. If he didn't keep singing the lyrics to "Into the Fire," "My Sharona," and whatever the name of the song which has the lyrics "Is she really going out with him/Is she really going to take him home tonight" incessantly, I would have taken a liking to him. But beating my pocket aces with a 2-6 straight on the river, beating my 7-8 full house with an 8-7 full house did not help relations. Despite the late appearance of two Berkeley guys who resembled Oscar and Praxedis in looks and demeanor, I could not beat my bad luck, and could not get enough chips to go in with junk. After four hours, and after folding quad 6's on the second to last hand pre-flop (6-5, three 6's on the board), which would have netted me about $200 as a bonus, I ended up with a single quarter for my troubles.

NET PROFIT: -$59.75

I took my quarter and hunted for a magic slot machine, which would bring some solace, or at least some ringing, to my evening. And lo, what did I find but our favorite machine from the Trimuphant Cruise of Epic Glory-- the Fourth of July machine! I put a quarter in, expecting magic, and... crap. Nothing.

NET PROFIT: -$60.00

Dejected, I headed toward the exit, with hands in my pockets. Where lo, I found three quarters! I had not yet heard the sweet "Can-Can" song that plays whenever the third wheel on the Fourth of July machine hits the Fourth of July, which plays and respins until you win. With three quarters, I could max out as well. Throwing caution to the wind, I put in the three quarters, and gave it a spin. Blue 7, red 7, red 7. 240 credits. Or, in layman's terms, 60 bucks. Kinda like the Pull of Glory. Man, I love the Fourth of July. And in less time it takes to play a hand of Hold 'Em, I was right back where I started.

NET PROFIT: $0.00

Now, I should have stopped here, given the beautiful symmetry that presented itself that evening. But I found one more loose quarter-- and any loose quarters you find in a casino are tickets to riches. Or, as it turned out, tickets to a quarter you can't use to do laundry. The order of the universe was disturbed. (You mathematicians out there should be arguing that I'm actually down a dollar at this point, but I don't count quarters as assets). And the order was going to bite me in the ass the next morning.

The ride back, at about quarter to one, was surreal. There was a near-full moon behind the mountains and snow-producing clouds, faintly illuminating the mountain ridge. For good stretches, I was the only car in sight on the road. Finally, I was listening to the very spacey Set II of Phish's 11-2-98 Salt Lake (Dark Side of the Moon complete cover) performance, which must have been inspired by a similar drive. The spacey YEM (which harkens pre-show planetarium music) played while I approached the incline west of Reno, and as soon as I hit the "On the Run" cover, 9 miles from the hotel, the snow started sticking to the road. I was on the run, indeed, from being snowed in at night at 6000 feet. But, I made it into the hotel, as the snow started to accumulate.

The forecast called for 3 to 6 inches, but when I started digging my car out this morning, there was already 9 on the ground and it was coming down hard. My front-wheel drive car did pretty well, given that the roads were snow-covered, and I got onto the interstate with no problem. Well, no problem until I saw the sign that chains were required for non-4WD vehicles from Truckee, over Donner Pass, to Baxter. At the checkpoint, I pulled over to a Caltrans-licensed chain guy, who installed chains on my front two tires for the low, low price of... wait for it... 60 bucks. Something tells me that if I had kept that quarter, the storm would have been less intense.

NET PROFIT: -$60.00

After the checkpoint, traffic stopped, as it snowed just about as hard as I've ever seen. Three inches came down on my hood in the time that we were parked and just hangin' out on I-80 with engines off-- about 45 minutes. Incidentally, we were stopped on the shores of Donner Lake-- or exactly where the infamous Donner Party set up camp in the winter of 1846-1847. Going a mile in two hours, and knowing that I still had old Platinum-flavored Rap Snacks in the trunk was just enough to drive away any temptation to eat the flesh of any of my fellow travelers. Hey, you can read about the storm here; it was much worse eastbound, as a bus had spun out and blocked every inch of pavement not far from where we were stopped.

After 25 miles of driving on snow and ice, the sun burst forth, yielding breathtaking mountain vistas and wet blacktop. Chains were no longer good. Chains weren't good to begin with; I hadn't known that you could fishtail a front-wheel drive vehicle. Apparently, with those useless metal POS's, you can. When I pulled over to remove the chains, I noticed that my right front had already decided to dispose of its metal cage; apparently sixty bucks gets you top-notch craftsmanship. Still, I set to work, as tractor trailers bounded by the slick road at forty miles an hour--comforting, to say the least. After about twenty minutes of struggle (the chain had wound itself around the suspension as I tried to pull forward to drive off it), and rolling around in the snow and sand, I triumphantly freed the stupid thing, and threw it into the woods, arms raised in the air.

The woman in front of me, seeing as how I had liberated my tires from the chains of tyranny, asked for help. At this point, I knew what I was doing and had her right tire unhooked in about thirty seconds. Of course, my celebration prompted this question, asking as honestly and straightforward as possible:

"Now, was there a particular reason you threw your chain into the woods?"

Seeing as how she had four kids in the car, I decided to set a better example, and trudged up the hill to retrieve the chain I chucked. After doing that (which the hippies two cars back applauded), she motioned for me to come back and help with the left tire, and I did so. Apparently, her only motive there was to slip me a twenty dollar bill, plus a bag of Tostitos. I tried to accept only the chips, and tried to pass the 20 onto one of her kids (good kids-- they refused), and finally had no recourse but to take it. Which brings my final total to:

FINAL PROFIT: -$40.00

The rest of the trip went uneventfully, or about as uneventfully as it can go when it takes you seven hours and fifteen minutes to go 200 miles, with stops for Burger King, Tire Chain 101, and Mother Nature.

Anyway, what did I learn from the trip? First, if the forecast calls for snow in the Sierras, don't plan on driving. Or at least don't stay in Truckee, which averages 206 inches of snow per year. Second, Reno is awesome, for those of you seeking cheap thrills on a relative budget. It's like Las Vegas' cheap uncle that everyone talks about behind his back. Finally, I learned when you come into something with absolutely no expectation, and absolutely no plans, even the little things will seem exciting. I mean, I wrote a Sports Guy-length entry on a traffic jam and breaking even, sober, at a casino. Yet I never wrote at length about my cross-country adventure, and I never write about my job. So my early New Year's Resolution is to do more open-ended things like this weekend. When there's just a blank slate, you have no choice but to fill it.

(Like this text box.)

OK, good night, everyone. And go see The Incredibles. Damn.