Hot Sauce

I love my home state, really, I do. There's reasons that I live here. I'm almost tempted to launch into a list of wonderful things that my state offers, but that's a discussion for another day.

Because, sometimes, my home state is tacky. Truly, undeniably, high ick factor tacky.

I've complained before about people's perception of our state and its... eccentricities. Sometimes, we are our own worst enemy, perceptionwise.

I've complained, for instance, that one of our local brothels - yes, local brothels, let the snickering begin - advertised itself on its billboards as a "deli." Please.

One of the brothels in the southern part of the state advertises itself on its billboards, up for miles before you encounter the place, as a "travel center." Truly.

Most of the brothels in Nevada have small signs out front that say things like, "Free Truck Parking!" The brothels themselves are usually housed in trailers, or collections of trailers, painted some bright colors. My husband glared daggers at me when I pointed out, on a recent trip, the columns (attached to nothing) surrounding the pink trailers. "Don't they just class the place up?" There were shorter columns around the dirt parking area; tres chic.

The "travel center" either ran into too many irate patrons who hauled their cranky kids in looking for restrooms, slushees and prepackaged pastries, or they discovered that they made more money advertising their primary purpose, because they put up this onsite billboard:

OK, truth in advertising; I can get behind that.

The small print just does me in, though: "HOT SAUCE  PHOTOS  SOUVENIRS."

Hot sauce?

Whether that's a euphemism or a condiment, in this context, I don't really want to know anything more about it.

That leaves me contemplating photos.

When I was growing up, the stereotype of sharing your vacation photos was having friends over to dinner, then making them watch an interminable slide show. Now, of course, it's all about social media; everyone you know, and potentially anyone else, can and will see your vacation photos. "This is me and a prostitute I met near Vegas." Maybe Bob in accounting will be impressed when he sees it, but it's hard for me to envision that. The club of People Who Pay For Sexual Services is not an exclusive or prestigious one; in fact, the first people who come to my mind are serial killers and people with few social skills.

Still, maybe ol' Bob really will be impressed. This is the sci fi themed brothel - yes, there is such a thing, you can't make this stuff up; maybe he's always wanted his photo taken with a "real, live Andorian," but he just doesn't have the cash to attend a Star Trek convention. It's hard for me to imagine a situation in which someone will be excited about their prostitute photo op, but I'll concede that maybe, in some circles, such a situation exists. (The thought just depresses me.)

For years, souvenir shops in my lovely state have been awash in prostitution themed souvenirs. I wish I was making this stuff up. You can buy maps of "The Pleasure Spots of Nevada," with all the legal brothels identified. You can get keychains that say things like, "Crib #4, Mustang Ranch." (The term "crib" hearkens back to the days when that term was slang for a prostitute's room. I can't believe that I know this stuff.)

The idea of buying them at an actual brothel is just a little too ridiculous for me. "Went to Nevada! Paid a hooker! Got a snow globe!"

Maybe you walked past Bob in accounting with your new brothel mug in your hand, hoping he'd be green with envy.

Personally, I can't imagine being impressed because you paid someone to be with you. It calls up images of elementary school kids giggling behind the building - "I gave her a dollar, and she let me touch her boob!"

If a woman walked up to you on the street and said, "I want nothing more than to have all manner of sexual contact with you!" I might think that you're attractive or charming. I still won't be impressed, but it's better than, "She had to - I paid for it."

Living here, though, I've been exposed to how the women feel. I remember a local prostitute calling up a radio station to enter their "Most Boring Job" contest. She's not showing your photo around work, bragging about how great her weekend was.

Sorry, Bob.