“Ball so hard, this shit crazy”
It was a money-draining party and I had a blast.
Heart Of Douche-ness or “The Imperialism Of Young Assholes”
Take up the White Mans Burden, Hipsters. Conquer the middle class with your bougie contempt and self-loathing fashion. But don’t complain when you’re branded the enemy.
EULA, Life Size Maps & More at Shea Stadium
Five great bands at a Friday show in Shea Stadium.
Silent Barn Public Meeting Tomorrow
Panelists gather to discuss All Ages venues, with some necessary rocking out.
alt-J at Glasslands
Lead singer Joe Newman asked us to sweat with him and we did.
Atlantic City Confession: Cash Isn’t King
Atlantic City is all about cheap class. I spent money I didn’t have on a cab to Port Authority to board a Greyhound bus to New Jersey’s answer to Vegas. The trip was punctuated by electrical towers rising out of the gray and pungent bathroom smells. I was deposited at Bally’s on the boardwalk, a cavernous Wild West themed casino seemingly without end.
“You can tell the quality of the place by the girls,” my friend told me. And indeed, Bally’s with its tired waitresses sporting crooked weaves and dragging sad cocktail trays said it all. Yet, still the air of money, the fleeting hope of winning unimaginably needed funds attacked my tired brain and downing two dollar beers (a 24 hour happy hour) helped the gambling spirit. I won five dollars and change during a heady lucky streak.
Atlantic City is all about shiny dreams. After ditching Bally’s for Harrah’s the glitz really began to descend. For my friends and I, four broke twenty six-year-olds, the atmosphere was both giddily exciting and a reminder of what we didn’t have. This grinding open all night machine filled with desperation, but also seductive fun kept us enthralled. Cocktails in hot tubs as the pool lit up with red and blue lights at dusk further created the illusion that, at least for a few days, we were high rollers.
As children, we long for the playground, an arena where we can act out our fantasies and sometimes frustrations. I always dreamt of escape, ignoring sports for imaginary games where ancient feuds were waged and magic used. Later, I used drinking and drugs to achieve the same level of lonely otherworldliness. Atlantic City has caught on to this basic human need to get out of our own lives and made it into a business. Without realizing it, we didn’t leave Harrah’s complex for three days, shocked on the third to stumble out into fresh air. New York’s repressive non-smoking laws do not apply and I carried drinks around the halls of the hotel, puffing Marlboro Reds greedily. The lights and sounds of slot machines, happy wails of winners, warm air pumped through vents along with who knows what gold dust, commercials on television all added to a spicy consumerism that was fun to try on.
Yet, I left feeling less charmed by money than ever before. I’m not an Occupier, have never built orphanages in foreign countries and in fact, relentlessly chased fame and riches in my late teens and early twenties. And though I had an amazing time getting out of the New York grind with great old friends, that is essentially what the trip was about. Not the cha-ching of winning or the luxury of lavish meals but about experiencing these things with people I love. Returning to my city with a new perspective.
Atlantic City is about staring into the glittering glow and seeing through it. Or maybe it’s just about having fun and fist bumping to David Guetta after a few tequilas.