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July 2017

Reef Dispensaries marijuana photo

Striking Green in the Cannabis Boom

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In a small store tucked discreetly behind a shopping center in Sun Valley, Nev., 29-year-old store manager Greg Pulsipher chats with a returning customer. Outside, the pounding rain is repeatedly hitting the black bars that encase the store. The rain outside competes with the sound of energetic rock music from overhead speakers as Greg asks the older woman about her day. She paces around an oak table neatly lined with rows of glass jars filled with marijuana, occasionally picking up a jar and smelling its contents before she makes her final decision: White Sangria. Greg compliments her choice, it’s his favorite strain as well. She exits the locked room and re-enters the reception area, where an employee will pass her a three-ounce jar of marijuana through a bullet-proof glass window.

Every customer at Reef Dispensaries undergoes the same orderly process to purchase medical marijuana. He or she will first ring the bell front door and wait for an employee to buzz them in. If the customer is new to the dispensary he or she will fill out a brief application and show proof of recommendation and their medical marijuana card. Nevada is the only state that allows out-of-state cardholders to purchase medical marijuana, therefore, the customer may be a cardholder from any state that has legalized medical marijuana. After signing in, an employee of the dispensary will call the customer back into the locked room that houses all of the products: from edibles, to vape oils, to “the flower,” as Greg would say. The customer will select a product and wait for the employee to punch all of their information into the system before returning back out to the reception area. The employee then goes to the storage room behind another locked door and gets the product the customer chose. The final interaction occurs with bullet-proof glass in between the employee and customer, as the customer pays in cash—the only accepted payment—and heads on their way. Each medical marijuana cardholder may purchase a maximum of 70 grams every two weeks, to put that in perspective, about 3 grams is an eighth, which is the typical amount sold per visit.

Reef employees

“I’ve got all walks of life coming in here,” Greg says. “Some people come in and you know that they probably do not need to be using. For every one person using recreationally, there’s one person who is using marijuana for a legitimate reason.” However, the dishonest aspect of the industry is okay for Greg because almost daily he will hear a story from someone about how medical marijuana has positively impacted their lives. “People with chronic pain, or people previously addicted to opiates come in here and find comfort in a manageable treatment.”

Reef Dispensaries in Sun Valley is one of the five franchise locations in Nevada and Arizona. The chain owner is taking advantage of the booming cannabis industry in Nevada, especially in light of the newly passed ballot initiative which legalized recreational marijuana throughout the state. As soon as June, Reef Dispensaries may be one of the 20 designated recreational dispensaries in Northern Nevada. But for now, Reef Dispensaries is one of 10 different medical dispensaries that has arrived Reno-Sparks area over the past two years. Medical marijuana has been legalized in the state of Nevada since 2001, however, Silver State Relief was the first medicinal marijuana store to open its doors back in 2015. Since then, dispensaries including Kanna, Mynt, Blüm, and Reef have opened in rapid succession. “It should not take too long to get recreational dispensaries up and running in Nevada, because we’ve had a long history with regulating ‘taboo’ things, like prostitution and gambling,” says Greg. And while it took the state 14 years to license the first medical marijuana dispensary, Nevada made sure that there were good practices in place for when the substance did go recreational. “All 10 of the medical dispensaries will likely be ‘grandfathered’ into becoming recreational dispensaries, and then 10 more licenses may become available,” says Greg. Northwestern Nevada is allowed 20 dispensaries, while the Las Vegas area is allowed 80 dispensaries, according to Greg. Nevada also requires marijuana to undergo stringent testing. The majority of the “flower” sold at Reef is a product of the company, while the edibles and vaporizing oils are from several different companies that most stores carry.

The Sun Valley location of Reef Dispensaries is only three months old, and the newness is immediately apparent. The decorations are ocean-themed yet sparse, the new white paint in the reception room is a stark contrast from the basic black chairs that line the walls, and the back office that Greg shares with his staff is empty, given a couple notebooks and lunch bags. But soon enough this location will look like the Sparks and Las Vegas locations, which are decorated in a style that mirrors high-end boutiques. The director of Reef Dispensaries is coming to “revamp” the location by the end of February, giving it the look and feel of the other locations.

Greg jumped at the opportunity to work at Reef Dispensaries in late July, 2016. He saw a post on Instagram about a team member job opening and applied immediately. He had been trying to find a job that suited him for some time. During the summer of 2016, Greg went from managing a summer day-camp, to driving a tow truck for an insurance company, to working at Reef Dispensaries. He also has experience selling wine at a local wine store. While he seems to be a jack-of-all-trades, Greg has a bachelor’s degree in education from the University of Nevada, Reno. For a short amount of time, he worked as a P.E. teacher at a public elementary school. However, after 10 years of managing an aftercare and summer camp program, he lost interest in teaching. Maybe elementary education is something he will go back to, but for now, he enjoys educating his customers on the right way to use marijuana. Greg worked at the Sparks location on Glendale Avenue for three months before being promoted to manager and being tasked with opening the new franchise location in Sun Valley. In August, Greg worked 14 hours a day for weeks straight—he only got one day off.

Reef Dispensaries hopes to begin selling recreational marijuana by the beginning of the summer. Reef Dispensaries is the only dispensary in Northern Nevada without the colors green or black in the logo, and the brand message is straightforward: Reef Dispensaries is simply a marijuana dispensary. While Greg looks forward to having an increase in business, he feels uneasy about the new source of income.

“I don’t know how I feel about this issue. It kind of seems contradictory as a society to discourage people from smoking tobacco, while saying it’s okay to smoke cannabis,” says Greg. “We don’t really know what kind of health effects smoking cannabis could have in twenty years.” Although Greg is excited about being able to “upsell” customers once the store goes completely recreational.

“When a medical user comes in here, they know what amount of money they have and they know what they want to buy. Medical users have a purpose for buying marijuana, while recreational users are looking for a good time, and we can make them pay more money than they need to for that good time.” Greg’s wife Kari is a pharmacist, and he shared that her opinion of the cannabis industry matches his. She agrees that medicinal marijuana has its benefits to people using it correctly. “Her moral compass is in the same place as mine. We just don’t know if the recreational ‘good’ outweighs the potential harm,” says Greg.

Not knowing the potential harm of marijuana did not stop Greg from getting his own medical card. “If I’m selling it, I might as well be using it, right?” Greg joked with his staff. They laughed and agreed—most of them had a medical card, too. In Nevada it costs around $250 to $300 to get a medical marijuana card. In California, it costs about half that. Nevada is unique in that the state allows any medical marijuana cardholder to purchase marijuana at a dispensary People interested in getting a card can easily go to California and get an inexpensive one. “Nevada is more difficult in giving out medical marijuana cards,” Greg shares. “I first went to California to get mine, but then I came back and got my Nevada one to avoid the risk of being pulled over and heavily questioned.” Side-by-side, Greg’s driver’s license and his medical marijuana card are identical.

Greg’s experience in management and the patience he learned from working with children has paid off in this new career path. The only curveball for him has been doing inventory of all the diverse products. But the environment is laidback and friendly, “These guys remind me of everyone from my aftercare days. Everyone is younger than 25, and we all get along.” In the background, Greg’s coworker Nina jokingly calls him a bad manager. Greg whips his head around and flips her off, just before reaching to hold the door open for an incoming customer.

winding road with plains on either side


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Bitch better have my money! Y’all should know me well enough. Bitch better have my money! Please don’t call me on my bluff,” I belt out, wondering if the people I’m passing on I-80 are getting a kick out of my half-assed Rihanna impression. At least my oversized sunglasses are covering most of my face, on the off chance I pass another Nevada student heading home for winter break. My ice-blond hair is pulled into a ponytail under a baseball cap to further complete the disguise. I’m like Leo DiCaprio, hiding from the paparazzi and my adoring fans.

“Pay me what you owe me. Ballin’ bigger than LeBron. Bitch, give me your money. Who y’all think y’all frontin’ on?” My voice may be cracking, but I’m really feeling myself. The only other time I’ll sing like this is drunk, or when I know for sure that no one can hear me. Maybe it’s the adrenaline of racing through the turns in the road, or the excitement of Tara finally speaking to me, but for some reason I can’t help but sing my heart out.

Something about the road, especially at the beginning of a long drive, is so freeing. You’re only responsible for yourself; you have complete control. You can choose when and where to stop, how fast to drive, what to listen to. You could make a sharp turn and throw your car through the guardrail into the ditch below, if you really wanted to.

The Sierras, outlined by the remains of last week’s snowstorm, are rushing towards me, cutting sharply through the blue sky. I’m passing Cabela’s and Boomtown, racing towards California. I can’t wait to get back; to see my mom, my dad, my sister, my dog. The little red Corolla in front of me is only going five miles per hour over the speed limit in the fast lane. I sigh and step on the gas to pass them. I don’t plan on postponing my homecoming by another second, if I can help it. I’ve got to see Tara. Plus, when I drive somewhere far, I like to play a game with myself, where I try to beat the GPS-estimated arrival time by a good ten minutes or more.

As I begin to pass, the Corolla driver notices me and speeds up, shortening the distance I have to pass. There’s a huge 18-wheeler Budweiser truck in front of me, and I’m gaining on it—fast—so I stomp on the gas and swerve in front of the car, missing the back of the big-rig by less than a foot. The reckless asshole honks at me, but before long they’ve disappeared from my rearview.

I always get myself into things like that, but God or the universe must be looking out for me, because for some reason I always end up okay. Scared, but okay.

Last year, I was driving home for Thanksgiving in a snowstorm, and I nearly wrecked my little orange Subaru—Frida. It was my first time driving in the snow, and despite having thoroughly prepared myself with a quick Google search and a call to my dad, the expert driver, I still managed to forget to slow down to less than thirty-five miles per hour.

I couldn’t even see the outline of the mountains, the air around me was thick with white, like the inside of a terrifying snow globe. I half expected a Yeti to jump out in front of me. I had left my music off to focus, so I could only hear the sound of the wind rushing around my car and the ice crunching underneath my tires. Squinting through the blizzard, I saw a line of brake lights up ahead, and began to slowly tap on the brakes to avoid skidding.

But I came up to the stopped traffic sooner than I had thought I would, and I had to press down on my brake pedal, hard. Underneath me, the wheels lost their grip on the road, sliding over the ice. I was heading straight for the tan suburban in front of me, with no control.

At the last minute I swerved, slipping through the middle of the two lines of cars and in between the two cars in the next lane over. I finally reached a 43 INSIGHT stop on the shoulder, shaking. Later, my recounting of the accident would result in a sympathetic look from my mom and a twenty-minute lecture from my dad. They always had their own specific ways of showing concern.

Despite having to be alone for the close calls, these drives are still a lot better than the strained family road trips I used to endure. Every year or so, my parents would find some reason for us to make a five-plus-hour drive, and every time my parents would be tearing each other apart before we even started the car.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but being trapped in a car with them for a long time tends to be a little more than I can handle. Dad will always drive way too fast, cutting it close at least once every time and making us all carsick (a trait I clearly inherited). Mom will always find something to complain about, like where we’re going or the place Dad and Tara want to stop at for lunch (a trait I also inherited. I’m not picky, but I can’t stand any fast food other than In-N-Out). She gave up on complaining about Dad’s driving, though. And Tara, well, let’s just say I’m glad she always kept her headphones in to avoid fighting with Dad, blasting rap or hip-hop at a level that doesn’t even seem comfortable to me.

Goosebumps are slowly forming on my bare forearms despite the sun beating down on the road, so I turn up the heat in my car a couple notches to warm up. That seems to help a little. Back to my family.

One trip in particular turned out really bad. The summer before my senior year, my parents decided that it would be a good idea to make the eleven-hour drive to the Grand Canyon, since they wanted Tara and I to see it and to have one last family trip before I had to leave for college. So, from the start, there was sadness and desperation hanging over the whole thing. Mom nearly cried about ten times, Tara kept pointing out the things she would have to deal with alone once I left, and Dad was straining himself to make sure we all had a good time, trying to show how much he cared since he could never quite say it himself.

Rancho San Rafael road

In the car, dad was doing his thing, swerving around, revving the engine, flipping people off when they did something he thought was wrong. Mom tried to focus on her book, but after a few hours she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Brian, could you stop antagonizing people? I actually want us to make it there in one piece, believe it or not.” She was practically gritting her teeth.

Tara and I looked at each other. Somehow, my mom’s voice had reached through her music, and she took out one of her earbuds.

“Here we go,” Tara said, clearly under her breath.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” Dad growled.

“That’s not what I said. I just want you to consider everyone else in the car for once. Tara and Jo are practically green right now; you’re making everyone sick.”

“I’m not the one who’s crashed two cars. You can tell me how to drive when you haven’t had an accident in ten years.” His tone was hard, definitive; it was clear they were done arguing.

And like that, she went silent. We all knew we had to pick our battles with him, and that insulting his intelligence was the easiest way to piss him off. Tara shot me an angry look, as if to say, “Look what you’re leaving me with.” Not knowing this would be the best we could ever communicate again, I just shrugged sympathetically and went back to reading.

And so we continued to go see that huge hole in the earth. It was pretty incredible, and of course there were a lot of nice moments on that trip, but the thing I remember most is that snap. I can remember all of his snaps, actually, no matter how hard I try to forget.

But despite how scary he could be, I stopped being afraid of him when I figured out that all I had to do was act sweet around him, feign respect, and never argue or insult his intelligence. Once I did that, I could do what I wanted without suspicion, and he would keep treating me like his perfect little angel.

Like most r e s t l e s s teenagers, I would lie about where I was, what I was doing, and who I was with constantly, knowing exactly how to avoid getting caught. If I told my parents I was with someone they didn’t know well, I could go see one of the twenty-somethings that helped boost my low self esteem. If I told them my friends and I were having a sleepover, I could get as drunk or high as I wanted and not worry about having to come home soon after.

Half of me was this depraved, careless person looking for happiness and attention in the wrong places, and the other half was a good student and daughter, working hard to get into college and get my own life. I couldn’t wait to get away from where I grew up, away from all of the people I had fucked or fucked over that I couldn’t face anymore. It seemed like, with every relationship I broke, the town got smaller.

The one relationship I never thought I could break, though, was with my family. No matter how awful I was, I didn’t think I could be awful enough to make any of my own relatives hate me. But I guess I was wrong about that.

There’s the damn goosebumps again. My air conditioning is on a dial, with half cold and half warm settings. It’s almost at the halfway point of the dial, so I turn it a couple notches past halfway. That should work. So—back to the horrible thing I did.

My sister was a junior in high school while I was a senior, but she’d always been a lot better at making friends than me. Tara played volleyball, basketball, and soccer, and her boyfriend, Carlos, a senior, played football. Needless to say, she was popular. I, on the other hand, had managed to find the seven most negative people in my class to spend all of my time talking shit, getting drunk, and doing drugs with.

Somehow, though, Carlos and I crossed paths. I can’t really remember now, but we had some class together. Spanish, I think. Yeah, Spanish. Anyway, we knew each other through Tara, so we were friendly towards each other, and we exchanged numbers in case either of us needed help on the homework.

Up until it happened, I didn’t for one second think that I would be capable of hurting my sister the way that I did. I loved her like crazy, and I considered her one of my best friends since we were so close in age. With the same ice-blonde long hair and tan skin, we were practically twins. I was dating someone at the time, too—but only casually. She was a senior at the rival high school, with dark hair and a sweet face, and we had met through mutual friends. I had cheated on a few people before, but I hadn’t planned on cheating on her.

Then it happened. I was at a small party one of my friends was throwing while his parents were out of town, and I drank and smoked way too much, way too fast. Tara didn’t come with me; she didn’t really like any of my friends. The girl I was with wasn’t really into parties, so she wasn’t there, either. The night itself is almost completely faded in my memory now, but when I looked at my phone and talked to my friends the next day I was able to piece together what I did.

I texted Carlos, basically asking him to come to the party to “keep me company,” but to not tell Tara. I guess he hadn’t been too concerned about her, either, because he showed up shortly after without asking anything more than the address. He wasn’t there for more than five minutes before I led him upstairs to my friends’ room. About an hour later, he left, I came downstairs to drink some more, and passed out on the couch shortly after. I woke up the next morning with a piece of my hair sticking to my cheek, feeling sick to my stomach and vaguely guilty before I realized the extent of what I had done.

After vomiting, I stood in the pale blue bathroom, staring at myself in the dirty mirror. It was summer, so I had on a low-cut black tank top with thin straps and a pair of light-wash cutoff shorts. There’s a little spot of vomit on my shirt, but I didn’t bother to try cleaning it off. My skin was sticky with sweat, and my face oily and bare, with most of my makeup faded off. Gripping the cold tile countertop, I closed my eyes and dropped my head. Looking up at myself, I saw lifeless, cold eyes and a harsh face, close to what I would see when I looked at Tara after she found out. I hardly recognized the person in the mirror. When Tara found out, she was beyond livid. He told me the day after that he didn’t want to tell her, since it would probably be better for her to hear it for me. When I asked what he would do if I didn’t tell her, he told me we could just forget about it. But I couldn’t just forget about it. I might be a shitty person, but at least I’m open about how shitty I am—for the most part.

So I told her myself, in the car on the way to school. Since I was older, my parents had only gotten me a car, knowing that Tara and I could carpool until I left for college. Needless to say, this thing I did made driving to school for the last four months of the year pretty tense. Right when I said it, explained what happened, and confirmed that no, I was not kidding, she lost it. “What the fuck, Jo? How could you be so fucking selfish? I don’t care how messed up you were or what was going on in your head, there’s no reason good enough for you to go and do something like that. What were you thinking? Were you trying to— “

“I know. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Let me fucking finish!” She was yelling now. “You slept with my boyfriend! And I know we weren’t that serious, and I’m not naïve, I know he would have cheated on me eventually, but that’s not the point! You’ve never cared about how I feel, you’ve always stomped all over me and you never once stop and think about how all of the stupid shit you do is going to affect anyone else! How selfish can you be?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I’m sorry,” I choked out, knowing now that my hope of her forgiving me was just that, a hope. Judging by her voice and the look on her face, there was no coming back from this. I really, really fucked up.

So I left home, six months later. Those last six months were the most painful ones I’ve been through in all twenty years of my life. Tara and I, who used to go out to eat, talk, shop, and work out together all the time, couldn’t even look at each other, much less talk to one another. I had lost one of my best friends, and it made me constantly anxious and sick. When I asked my friends what I should do, they were stumped.

“I don’t know, Jo, what you did was pretty bad,” Trevor said, shaking his head. Everyone else was quiet. They were some of the shittiest people I knew, but even they could tell it was beyond bad.

So I retreated into solitude. I focused on school, took a break from dating, and only saw my friends in between classes. I talked to my mom more often since I no longer had Tara, and she knew that I was sad about something but didn’t ask what after I told her I didn’t want to talk about it. I spent a lot of time writing. I went on hour-long runs five or more times a week. Luckily, Tara felt no need to involve our parents in the drama, so at least they didn’t hate me. I moved into the dorms as early as possible, and decided I would try to use the next four years to become as good a person as possible.

So far, that’s been working out pretty well. I made some genuinely nice friends my first year, and I’ve been doing well in all of my classes so far. I cut my waist-length hair to my shoulders, and continued with running to keep myself sane. Things with Tara haven’t improved much, until today. I called her as I drove out of the parking lot, and she actually picked up the phone.


At first I was startled, and since I hadn’t thought she was going to pick up I hadn’t even thought about what to say. I was trying to get out a simple “hello” but my voice was stuck.

“What do you want, Jo?”

My eyes welled up, and I managed a low, “I’m on my way home.”


“I’m excited to see you.”


“Will I see you?”

“Sure, we can go to John’s after dinner.”

“Thank you,” I clumsily blurted out as my music started to play again. She had already hung up. Hopefully, she’ll stick to her decision to talk to me this time, and I can finally fix things. It has been three years, after all. How long can someone hold a grudge?

I think my heater is broken, because I’m practically frozen right now. My car says it’s seventy degrees out, and the sun is beating down on the Sacramento river to the right of me. But for some reason, I’m so cold that my joints are stiff. I lean down to take a closer look at the heat settings, accidentally turning the wheel to the right as I do. I feel my tires scrape the gravel, but suddenly the car jerks back onto the center of the lane as if it was pushed.

Startled, I sit up, looking around me to see if anyone saw that. The road is empty, which is weird for this time on a Friday. Actually, now that I think about it, there should be way more traffic than this. And how long have I been driving? I grab my phone to check the GPS, and it says there’s three hours left until I reach my destination. Usually, I would have only an hour left from here.

Weird, I think. For some reason, I really can’t estimate how long it’s been since I left Reno. Bitch Better Have My Money starts playing again, and I realize that this is probably the tenth time I’ve heard it since I started Pandora, which seems a little much.

But that doesn’t explain the lack of traffic here, past Sacramento. And I’ve been on this road for a lot longer than I should have been, especially since the speedometer says I’m going eighty miles per hour. I look as far ahead as possible, and I see the big curve in the road before the bridge. It doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. I press down on the gas all the way, until it touches the floor, and my speed stays the same. I hit the brake, hard, and nothing happens.

I start panicking; my cold breath shortens. This doesn’t make any sense. I turn the wheel, hard, to see if that will change anything. It doesn’t. My car stays straight forward, at the same speed, no matter what I do. I try the door, and it’s stuck shut.

What is happening?

I change my car radio from Pandora to AM, hoping to hear some traffic news that will explain where all the other cars are.

Expect considerable traffic this evening. A fatal accident involving a commercial vehicle occurred on I-80 around 2 p.m. this afternoon, just before the California border. The commercial driver was not harmed, but there has been report of a fatality.

My phone rings and I grab my phone to answer it. It’s Tara. Her voice comes out over the car speakers, and I can hear stress in her voice.

“Jo? Where are you? It’s been six hours since you left!”

“I’m almost at the bridge! But it’s taking a long time…”

“Jo? Why aren’t you saying anything? Hello? Hello??”

I look at my phone, and the call isn’t on mute. I turn off Bluetooth to talk directly into the phone, but she still can’t hear me.

“Jo what’s going on?” She sounds scared, and I can hear a quiver in her voice. “We’re all really worried, please just come home. I want to see you.”

“I’m here, I’m here, I’ll be home soon,” I cry. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I love you Tara.”

“I love you Jo, please come home.”

Midtown art structure

Ford Corl Exposé

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Ford has really gone off the goddamn deep end now! What was he thinking?” reads the description on the Bandcamp page of local Reno musician Ford Corl’s latest release, ‘Mr. Acid Head’. Over the past decade, Corl has released five solo records—all of which deviate from each other in both musical sound and concept.

With a catalog as dense and spanning as Corl’s, it’d be easy to become immersed past the point of distinction. Yet Corl’s fluidity between genres finds his catalog shifting from fuzzy indie rock, to ambient soundscapes, to feel-good indie pop, with some of his releases combining all of the above.

On his fifth record, ‘Mr. Acid Head’, Corl breaks ground on territories he’s not yet explored— a feat for a songwriter with four eclectic solo records. ‘Mr. Acid Head’ departs from his psychedelic and alternative rock leanings, incorporating interludes between every track. The record is a concept album; one that tells a story of a ghost named ‘Mr. Acid Head’—a name he came up with one morning while enjoying his morning coffee. His aspiration for the record was to create one that was more enjoyable as a cohesive whole rather than picked apart by releasing singles. “I’ve always been more fascinated with full albums that would flow so seamlessly from the first track to the last,” states Corl.

Ford Corl in downtown Reno

Corl has been making his own music since age 11, but it wasn’t until college that Corl began taking recording his music seriously.

After a move to Reno from Tucson and an upgrade in studio equipment, he put out his first solo record ‘The Robot Detective’ in 2007. Corl says “as the years passed I continued to upgrade my equipment and microphones, all the while continuing to experiment with writing and recording more complex music.”

His ambition pushed him to constantly reach for better and hone his craft. What further refines Corl’s music is the incorporation of cinematographic elements into his music. On top of recording and releasing solo albums, Corl’s passion also lies within cinematography. Along with making his own feature films, he is the co-creator of the Reno Sessions, a live performance video series hosted on

“The Reno Sessions was something I came up with along with my friend David Ware. We, along with audio master Shawn Sariti, create live performance videos for local bands”, he says. “In many ways, it’s the perfect combination of my passions; filmmaking and music production.”

His work with the Reno Sessions landed him and his co-creators a ‘Best Arts and Entertainment Program’ award at the 2014 Emmys. Since then, the Reno Sessions continues to grow and progress as a springboard for local musicians.

His fascination with the symbiotic relationship between music and film is most evident on ‘Mr. Acid Head’. As the title might suggest, it’s his most experimental work to date.

He cites Stanley Kubrick and P.T. Anderson as inspiration on the filmmaking front; “Surreal, psychedelic, and just plain weird. That’s how I like my films.”

For the conceivable future, Corl has his stake planted in the Biggest Little City. Corl mentions putting together a full band for live performances as a goal for 2017.

“I like Reno because it’s constantly changing. When I first moved here I was certain I wasn’t going to stay. As the years passed, Reno kept changing and I kept falling in love with it. Eventually I just said, ‘Alright I’m staying and seeing what direction this crazy town takes. I still love it.’ This town has a scene that I root for. I’m constantly thinking about ways to be a bigger part of it.”

Later on in the description for Mr. Acid Head on his Bandcamp, it reads “He’s made a lot of albums over the past 10 years and he has a tendency to experiment and skip around to different genres. Perhaps this is just a weird phase he’s in.”

Perhaps, but the Reno music scene can only hope it’s just more than a phase.

Plato's closet racks

The Fashion Purge

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How many of us have felt the inexorable pull of the new, the exciting…the expensive? Everything costs money and although we may actually need new clothing for the adult world (let’s face it, leggings and Sperrys are not going to cut it in the office), is it really justified if we cannot even squeeze another sock into our closets?

The simple answer is no. It is wasteful, irresponsible, and quite frankly a bit ridiculous. Why do we buy more things when we already have plenty of the exact same thing? However, having finally landed a job outside of the food industry (an office job, where did my youth go?), I realized that my favorite Tardis skirt and trusted combat boots are not going to work in the professional world. I actually need new clothes, for once. But, how could I get them without being “wasteful” and “irresponsible”? Luckily, I found a solution.

It is time… for the first annual Spring 2017 Purge (*cue sinister laugh*).

But, seriously, part of growing up is letting go, and that includes those favorite jeans that have been worn to shreds, or that super cute Little Black Dress that literally matches with everything and makes your—

No. All of it. Gone.

Welcome to The Purge.

Shopping for clothes in Reno

How do you accomplish this? Well, I am glad you asked! Here are three simple solutions to rid yourself of all your closet nightmares and make room for your new, snazzy suits and business wear.

1. Give it to Goodwill (or Savers).

This seems like an obvious solution, but you would be surprised by how few people actually carry out this advice. That “giveaway” basket or bag collects YEARS worth of clutter before finally being donated, or trashed. Google the nearest Goodwill drop-off (there are tons!) and get that stuff out of your closet and to someone who needs it more than you. Savers will even take stained and/or torn items, and recycle them into rags and clothing. They even have a program to send them to support developing countries. It’s a win for everyone! *Added incentive: Savers will give you a donation discount punch card!

2. Sell it to Plato’s Closet, or a consignment store.

If you are really in a tough spot financially, then selling, or exchanging your clothing might be your best bet. There are plenty of local spots like Plato’s Closet, Clothes Mentor Reno, and Labels Consignment Boutique that would love to buy your gently used, stylish fashion. Swap, buy, and sell to your heart’s content!

3. Make your own wardrobe.

This one sounds intimidating, but believe me, one Star Wars infinity scarf later, I was hooked on my sewing machine. YouTube is truly one of God’s gifts to mankind and it is blessedly easy to find tutorials on how to make anything and everything. Plus, in the long run, it is cheaper! You can recycle and/or upcycle to your heart’s desire, taking anything from pillowcases to jeans and creating something worthwhile. A friend of mine actually just made a new motorcycle seat out of a pair of old jeans, and it worked wonders for his wallet!

“Purging” your closet is not only good for you, but good for the environment, local businesses, and everyone around you! Be a part of sustainable fashion today, and save your wallet and planet, one swap at a time.

Live long and prosper fashionably, my friends!

two coffees with foam art of leaves

Coffee Bar Review

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LattesLocal and unique, the Coffee Bar on Mt. Rose Street provides anything from lavender lattes to wine, soups to gluten-free donuts, and all in between. Coffee Bar uses local farms’ produce and a specialty-grade coffee to make your dining experience one for the books. Every item that touches your lips is carefully thought out and crafted by the baristas and cooks, all made with you in mind. Consider trying a different drink every time you visit!

A collage of words hide beneath your work and cups, so look carefully! Perhaps you will learn something new. Different paintings canvas their brick walls on a regular basis, but their mosaic lion stays above coffee cups attached to a wall, often with hidden notes inside. There are many tables available, inside and out, but plan your visit with care! This place can fill up quick. With a small parking lot on the side or residential parking, you may need to make a short trek during their busier hours. Worth it though? Absolutely. If all the small tables are filled, make some new friends at the wooden community tables, it’s okay to talk to each other. You can do this.

You never know what you will find in the café, but two things are for sure, their drinks will always leave you craving more and soon enough, you’ll be a regular like the rest of us.