I used to live in Reno, Nevada. It was America's Sin City while Vegas was still a mule turd of a mining town in an otherwise useless wasteland. Long past it's prime, Reno is an armpit at the foot of Mount Rose: the top of which rims a volcanic lake so deep that they have to estimate just how perilously close to hell it actually comes. Clustered around that golden rim lives titans of industry and the privately educated, ski-sweater wearing offspring they support. They gather in the standard Tahoe haunts in little packs. The women swill wine with cachexic fingers, laden with massive diamonds. The men ignore their wives, genetically blessed faces that are kept emotionally divoid through the careful use of various pharmeceuticals. The husbands' eyes dart around the room for anything to keep their predatory nature in check through one more obligatory family dinner. The children are oblivious to their creators. Little plastic entertainment devices seem to be the only thing that keeps them from going all Menedez on Mom and Dad.
People who have enough money to satiate every tiny desire seem to find out that the price to be paid toward that particular blessing is that there is nothing left to have to fight the good fight against, excluding the cremation room. The rich love to rub elbows with famous people. In Tahoe they throw ridiculously excessive golf events to keep themselves occupied in their charmed but boring lives. They hire athletes and actors to populate their events. The famous but not-as-rich are paid to pretend to enjoy the company of rich-but-not-famous, of whom most of the latter would be considered shallow, trite, and boring by any thinking man's estimation. Why else would anyone need to pay interesting people to come to their party?
I found myself amidst these charity golf events on several occasions. This series documents my brushes with fame and glamour between the years of 1999 1nd 2006.
Star Fucker Reminiscing #1: Patrick Swayze
Patrick Swayze was amazingly buff for a dude in his late 50's. He was the crown jewel of that year's charity golf event. He was also really small in stature compared to what one would expect out of the skull cracker from "Roadhouse". All of the old ladies were creaming in their hundred dollar panties to get a spot in the golf cart next to old Johnny Castle.
I met him in the VIP lounge of the best casino in town. (There is a room in every nice casino in which high rollers can drink for free, get shit scheduled for them by the most subservient of the professional ass-kissers on staff, and feel like they don't have to hang out with the sheep who are shoveling grubby coins into the 25 cent slots beyong the big gilded doors.) He was already half tanked, and was hoisting a comically large tumbler of bourbon and ice. My overly-fawning ex husband (who was, in fact, one of the high-ranking professional ass-kissers himself) weasled his way over by a less than inviting looking Patrick. No one puts Baby in a corner, but there he was, cornered by two rubes from Illinois.
He was very cordial, and discussed his love for flying. We found out we both had the same breed of dog and bantered uncomfortably about that for about the length of time it took to pound a drink. He was a nice guy, I think.
That was the first night of the event. Patrick Swayze proceeded to get shitty drunk all weekend instead of schmoozing and golfing with random boring rich bastards. The wives were pissed. Their panties dried up faster than spit on a Vegas sidewalk. My fat ass loved it. It was the highlight of my trip.
White Trash Peg, Wynona IL.