Atlantic City

Atlantic City is like the Jersey Shore for homeless people and the elderly. The focus is a casino, and though centered on the beach, the setup of the hotel-casino complex is such that you never have to breath actual air. Think of a biodome, but with nothing “bio’ about it—more sterile and prison-ish than anything else. Further down the boardwalk is the façade of a building that, although it has no actual windows, has them painted on—to make you think it’s the Wild West.

Themes are big in Atlantic City, sort of like Disney Land if it was designed by someone who knew they were getting a C, and left it at that. The focus is on getting you to spend your money; with overpriced shops catering to every buyer whim and enough rum to make you feel like a king. When you first get there they give you a card with casino money on it, so you can play the slot machine. If you know anything about casinos, you know the whole point is to drink for free. You wind up losing a lot of money, but you’re too drunk to care—it’s a good business model.

I went with one of my oldest friends, Lorraine, two guys we met in high-school, and one of their friends, a girl named Abbey. The first thing we did when we got there was go to the liquor store. I was impressed at how rundown the place was; check out the genuine motel and pick-up truck in this reverse gold standard pic. It looks like what I imagine America looked like in the 70’s, not like New Jersey in 2010.

This guy even had a mullet, like it wasn’t a problem. You can tell by the 600 Corona’s to his left that he’s been drunk since it was a popular hair fashion, and now it affects every decision he makes. He’s governed by that hair, like a girl in a sorority or a man in Atlantic City with a mullet. Did I mention people come here to die or were you able to gather that? Also, is the guy in the store sticking him up? Does he come to work in boardshorts everyday? You know, like, just in case? But I digress.

This is the pan-o-rama view from the window; the window that we could not open. I swear to God, it was below freezing in that room. AC does not skimp on AC, apparently. Hotels make me think of cheating spouses in elaborate Southern affairs, pedophilia (because of Lolita), bedbugs, and politicians, in that order.

Reminder about Christ, in case you forgot why He died in your blackjack stupor.

After taking it all in, we drank and headed to the casino. It was bright and distracting. Someone told me to put my camera away about 6 seconds after the photo below was taken. It’s not that I’m not the smoothest paparazzo this side of the US, but the whole thing is cctv on steroids.

I put the camera away, and we drank headed to Hooters under the pretense of sobering up, or at least eating enough so we wouldn’t spew. Two things about this: 1. Never sober up at a place like Hooters. You want to be as obliterated as possible when a hootchie hands you you’re burger; that way you’re likely to be more crass towards her. They like it when you touch them when they aren’t looking 2. Hooters no longer lives up to its eponymous promise of hooters. It should be renamed “Ass”.

After Hooters, which was in the same complex as our hotel, we went to a different casino down the boardwalk. The whole “strip” or whatever is the equivalent of ten blocks; you can’t really escape. We went to this “Wild West Casino” and met the only decent human in the place—a cool security guard! This photo proves his coolness because the only rule in AC is to not take any photos in the casino and not only is he allowing it, he’s properly posed.

Here is where the story gets good. The girl I didn’t know, Abbey, was completely insane. She spent the entire night running around, lifting up and pulling down her dress and hitting on strange men. It would’ve been a good time, but several things made it totally weird. 1. She kept doing it. The first time I thought she just liked some guy, and she wanted to leave us and go with him. I thought this was ok, but I heard from the others that she was really sheltered and I could see she was unable to take care of herself. Also, these men were total strangers we had met in a casino at 2am on a Monday. 2. She wasn’t specifically a nympho—I think she just wanted attention.

After the first guy kind of stood her up -he didn’t really want her on his hands- she met another. And then another. To get rid of her potential suitors, Lorraine and I went on a cock-block patrol by demeaning everyone she spoke to, or could have possibly spoken to. Before she had the chance to glare a nipple at them, we would swoop in and say something like “is that mustache to distract from baldness?” or “I can tell you’ve never made a woman come.” After hours of this, she made a break with bachelor number 5. He was wearing a shirt that said, “I’m here for the gang-bang” which was appropriate.

Finally in some dark corner I hope to never return to, we met the belle of the ball, aka Mr. Atlantic City. You know that warm feeling you get when you meet someone who personifies a place and confirms all your stereotypes all at once? Feast your eyes on this guy. We told him he had shit stains on his shirt; here he is smelling them to check.

It was confirmed, so he removed it. I was going to photoshop this, but he really was that color.

That was about it. The sun was coming up, so we went to the beach and fled first thing in the afternoon.