I'm chomping at the bit to be in the desert already, but there's one more day of preparation and patience ahead. I'm dutifully obeying my Burning Man ticket, which says the event begins on the 28th, despite the sneaking suspicion that I could head over there at any time. Besides, I was lazy yesterday, and I still have plenty of shopping left to do. Armed with a bona fide shopping list, it's time to venture back into the consumer wilderness. I have a dizzying experience in which I get lost in Wal-Mart, acquire a Safeway shopper's card just to take advantage of the weekly specials on dried cereal and canned soup, and clean out the Dollar Store in a nearby mall, purchasing everything I can think of that might have practical, survivalist, or creative value. By the afternoon, the backseat of the Jeep is swimming in bags of animal crackers, paintbrushes, and gallon jugs of water. It's still early, so I head back to the casinos. This time I muster up the cojones to hit the tables, with real dealers, comp drinks, and $5 minimum bets. I slide over to one of the semi-circular poker tables as inconspicuously as possible, grab a stool next to three other players, and plunk down 40 dollars to enter the game. Vegas visions of rollicking cameraderie, shared strategy and stories of lost fortunes give way to Reno reality - silent, hungry concentration. I hit a flush on a $10 bet; as the dealer piles $20 chips in front of me, I can feel the weight of jealous eyes. An hour later, I've lost back my little windfall and stand at even money once again. When I pull back from the table, my dignity is bruised, but my life savings is intact. The ways of the casino are strangely hypnotic - they breed a kind of glassy-eyed zombie state that you only really notice when you're not gambling yourself. If you don't pour every ounce of your concentration into the game at hand, you might accidentally ask yourself what you're doing sitting in a room without clocks as the day slides into evening, then night, then back into day again. But hey, at least you get comped for the breakfast buffet.
I'm slumming here, and I know it. Reno is seducing me with its shady allure. Emerging from the casino, I already have an idea of where I'm going to end up next. I follow the garish glow of neon straight into the Wild Orchid, a self-proclaimed "gentleman's club" up the street from the casino. It is an unspoken rule in Reno - the larger and more grotesque the sign, the classier the establishment. I pay my $7 at the door and wander hesitantly into the main room. Inside a host leads me to a table, where I slip into a soft-backed chair and will myself invisible. This place is unfamiliar turf, and I'm wishing that it were a bit more crowded; I feel conspicuous by my presence, surrounded mostly by empty tables. There are maybe twenty men here, and a couple of girlfriends in the crowd too. For almost three hours, I sit and watch as a parade of women alternate between pole dancing on stage and trying to entice the men to buy lap dances from them. It is alternately fascinating and intimidating, but not particularly arousing. A whole world of potential fantasies wilts slowly in my head as I watch the Wild Orchid professionals go about their work. I actually have a sweet conversation with a girl named Destiny for a while, until she figures out that I'm not going to be opening my wallet to her anytime soon, and moves on to more profitable prospects. Later, when a particularly sultry hardbody slithers onto my lap and whispers "I want your cock", I just want her to go away. At the same time, I feel like I'm not supposed to want her to go away - I'm supposed to get hot 'n' horny, stare at her breasts as she rubs them against me, talk dirty back to her... but I don't. I feel shameful, guilty, vaguely un-American. I politely stammer something about not being in the mood tonight, and eventually she gets the message. I am officially a strip-club chump. In a darkened booth behind me Destiny is dry-humping a balding, middle-aged man while he pulls lightly at her nipple rings. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember that prostitution is legal in Nevada. Two of the girls are slithering on top of each other on the stage, while the emcee encourages us to "show some appreciation for the ladies." Finally, around midnight, I stumble out of the club and into the Jeep. Motoring back to the Inn Cal, soul singers and 70's funk stream out from the radio. The soundtrack to this city is as worn and familiar as the faded glow of the casino marquees. Before my head hits the pillow, I make sure my alarm is set. I have to get up early for the drive north into the desert.