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Saturday, June 14, 2014

Trip Report Part Deuce -- The Magical City by the Sea

6:50 am. DING.  A bell wakes me up.  It takes me a minute to realize where I am.  In the air.  Stewardess gets on the horn and tells us we are in preparation for landing.  Several minutes later, a successful controlled crash at Philadelphia International.  Back to where this debauchery all started 6 days prior.

I grab my luggage and find my car in Daily Parking C.  Foggy, I roll down the ramp and merge on to 95.  It's rush hour on a Thursday morning.  Groggy people driving to skyscrapers downtown.  Me, groggy too, and possibly still a little drunk, making my way to Atlantic City to continue this epic bender.

I arrive at Showboat at 8:00.  I brush off the thought of immediately hitting some VP, and decide to see if I can check in to my room and get some sleep.  Success.  I head to a room on the 9th floor of the Bourbon Tower.  It's like a scene from American Horror Story.  A man in a robe, standing by a dirty window in the hallway, smoking a cigarette.  AC on a Thursday morning.

I enter my room and immediately wish I was back in Vegas.  Weird stains on the carpet.  Old, broken furniture.  Blood stains on the window shade.  Who had been here before?  And were they killed in this room?  I plug my phone into the only visible wall socket to charge, which requires me to unplug the lone lamp.  The room is now dark.  I try to get some sleep, but it never comes.  The running toilet is part of the problem.  3 Hours later, my phone rings.  The boys are back in town.  Time to get this show rolling . . . again.

We start with lunch at Whiskey Down at Revel, and then proceed to grind some slots.  Three grown "men" mashing Ms. Kitty.  I guess at some point, you just get so old you no longer give a shit.

Around 4, we hit the road for Philly.  It was a beautiful evening for bases. David Wright looked  amazing.  Here he is . . . rubbing down the shaft of his . . . bat:


Here he is standing:


Where's David Wright?



After a Mets victory, we headed back to Showboat and ended the evening like any group of self-respecting 40-year olds would -- by stuffing our faces with bacon burgers and onion rings at Johnny Rockets.  At 1:00am, thoroughly disgusted, we called it a night.

Friday was much the same.  We started with a trip down the boardwalk to Bally's for lunch and some sweet, sweet VP.   Then the beers started flowing.  And then it was on to the beach bar for some sun and some additional adult beverage.





Late afternoon it was back to Citizen's Bank for Friday night baseball.  An extra innings Mets loss.  We were halfway down the AC expressway when Philly knocked in the winning run.  Getting old sucks.  Seven days into the trip, fatigue was taking over.

Saturday started with a trip to Harrah's for lunch and mashing.  From there, it was off to Revel to mash some more.  It was there that CL hit the hand of the trip - a single, self-loathing, $4 Hail Mary over bet on a random slot which produced a $250 payout, earning him a new nickname, "Mr. +EV."  Just look at the excitement:

    

Meanwhile, Jimmy and I discovered the taco truck at Revel and started hitting the proverbial "sauce."  Corona Light after Corona Light.  By 6:00, we had a nice buzz going.  We decided to head to Borgata for dinner.   Izakaya for lobster rolls, sushi and sake.  Delightful.


After dinner, it was time for the petal to hit the metal.  Time to close out the trip with a bang.

We went back to The Boat.  CL called it a night.  Jimmy and I soldiered on.  A stop off at the Tapas bar at Revel for more drinks.  Then, buzzing hard, it was time to throw down on the black jack tables.  Back to Showboat to the House of Blues pit.  3 or 4 hours of beers and bets.  By 2:00 am, things were getting real fuzzy.   Each down about $250, with no intention of stopping any time soon.  And then it happened.  Rather than wait for the waitress, who was breaching her fiduciary duty to Jimmy and I by only coming around once every 20 minutes or so, thereby limiting our intake to 3 beers an hour, I took matters into my own hands and walked over to the bar to order a couple of 20 ounce drafts.  To the table I returned, with liquid gold in hand.  A full table of players place bets . . . the dealer spits out the cards . . . a round of betting begins . . . and, in the midst of it all . . . BOOOM.  Jimmy knocks his full cup over . . . . beer pours over the entire table . . . . soaking the felt . . . covering chips . . . and wilting the cards.  The pit boss comes over and oversees the end of the hand.  Now, I've seen people spill drinks many, many times.  Usually, the roll of towels comes out, the felt is patted down, and the game resumes.  Not this time.  The damage was too wide spread.  The table had to be closed down.  The pit boss was the opposite of pleased.  The fact that Jimmy and I were howling like jackasses the entire time probably did not lighten his disposition.  And, with that, our degeneracy and gaming was over.

But, the evening was not over.  We were hungry.  Ready for burgers.  So, off we went to Johnny Rockets . . . only to find it was closed for the evening.  What the fuck time was it?   A set back, for sure.  But, two raging drunks, hungry for grilled meats and bacon, were not to be denied.  So, we hopped in a cab, headed to Harrah's, placed an order at Bills Burger . . . and grabbed one last beverage while we waited.  Twenty minutes later, with burgers and onion rings in hand, we hailed a cab back to Showboat.

We get back to the room as the sun is coming up.  CL is already awake.   With a mixture of both pity and disdain, he watches as Jimmy and I attack our "breakfast".  Horrifically, after two bites, my burger slips out of my hands, and I watch, in movie-like slo-mo, as it drops to the ground.  Jimmy yells out, "FIVE SECOND RULE!!!"  But, even as drunk as I am (like, too drunk to hold on to a burger), I know I am not eating anything off the blood stained floor of this particular room.  An hour and a half of work to get that burger . . . wasted in one tragic instant.  This is no way to end an epic trip . . . .

The next morning, I awake at 10:00.  CL and Jimmy are already gone.  I stumble down to valet in a haze.  30 minutes goes by, and no car.  Then I see the valet supervisor walking around with an Infinity fab in her hand.  Ugh.  Flash backs of my trip two years ago when Caesars' valet "lost" my key inside my car . . . What now?  Turns out, the valet ran over a nail and my tire was flat.  Perfect.

After changing the tire and throwing on the "donut" (actually, a valet changed the tire . . . I just threw him a $20), I decided to tackle the issue prior to making the journey back to D.C..  The valet supervisor recommended a tire shop in AC and gave me directions.   A short ten minute drive and I arrived.  The shop was in a neighborhood that was . . . um . . . somewhat unlike Bethesda, Maryland.  Like, if I were trying to get hit over the head, this was the type of place I'd go for a walk.  So, there I am, noon on a Sunday, standing on the sidewalk with, let's say, enough hundred dollar bills in my pocket to pay my mortgage for several months, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.  This was no way to end an epic trip . . .

Yet, the trip had, indeed, come to an end . . . An hour later, with the tire patched, I was finally on the road.  Liver aching.  Vacation done.  Reality setting in.

In the end , I endured eight days of degeneracy and gambling . . . two fine filets . . .  4 sushi dinners . . . enough beers and cabs to intoxicate a village . . . and lost less than $1,000.  A win in my book!    






10 comments:

  1. Read several parts of this post out loud to my brother - awesome... :)

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  2. AC sounds depressing LOL .I thought i saw u on the TV during the game but it was another metrosexual holding a David Wright marry me sign.

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  3. AC does sound kind of depressing -- or as much as it can even though it offers casinos and gambooling.

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    1. that would b the ONLY reason to go to new jersey.

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  4. What a great post, Pete. Note only were there plenty of amusing things to report on, but this was just really, really well-written. The prose is novel-worthy. The beginning sounds like it came from a 1940's detective novel. Your description of the room--not quite as nice as the one at MGM in Vegas, huh?--is priceless. Also loved the telling of the tragedy of that last burger. Awesome.

    You could flesh this out and turn into a best-selling book. All it needs is some sex. Oh wait....there was the discussion of David Wright, and his shaft!

    Great job sir!

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    1. Thanks Rob. To be critical, the writing is slopping. Slipping in and out of tenses, etc. I've never spent the time to edit my blog writing. I just get posts up. Perhaps I should spend more time on it!

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    2. nah, fuck that. just let it flow.

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  5. P3 was channeling his inner James Ellroy New Jersey edition

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  6. I'm beginning to think you are, in fact, degen...:)

    Looks like a fun trip

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