Sunday, August 17, 2014

Dear DJ's, revisited

For the second week in a row, I need to revisit an enemy I've already addressed.  This time, I'm not angered at your astonishing lack of originality, or by the fact that you let Pauly D. into your ranks.  Your horrid masses culminated what ended up being a day of the universe holding me down and trying to spit in my mouth, and I cannot hate you enough for that.

I was able to snag one extra day off of work, and booked a trip to Atlantic City.  I went through all of my casino mailers, and found that I had free rooms for the Taj Mahal, like I usually do.  However, I couldn't book them for some reason.  When I called, I was only told that due to occupancy issues, my comp rooms were discontinued for only the exact dates that I was able to attend, but that I could book at a reduced rate.  With little other choice, I booked.  Looking into it, I figured the rates were up because on the Atlantic City air show, which I somehow have stayed through at 3 other times previously without having planned.  This would seem serendipitous until one realizes that with my anabelpophobia, looking up at low flying planes will tend to make me vomit on myself.  I cursed my luck, but still looked forward to my vacation. 

I never make big plans for the first day, since it mostly involves traveling, getting situated at the hotel, and losing most of the money I brought to gamble that was supposed to last for the next two days.  I started things out extremely well, to be honest.  I ate lunch at my favorite diner in my favorite town on the drive up Route 40.  I hit little traffic, was able to check in with minor hassle, and ended up even on the slots by the end of the night.  Even with the torrential rain outside, I was not hindered.  I had a great dinner for one last time at Showboat before it closes for good, and got to bed early for AC standards in preparation for the next day.

The middle day of the trip is the crucial day.  I had it planned out almost hour by hour.  I'd get a breakfast hoagie at White House Subs in my casino, have a cigar and play in the smoking section, hit another couple casinos before a quick lunch at the Irish Pub, then golfing down at the Renault Winery.  I'd end the night with dinner from Tony Baloney's Pizzeria, and have some cigars and a Collins at the Almost Angels show.  It would be as close to a perfect day as I can have in my sad little world.

I awoke to the first sunshine I'd seen since leaving Maryland and took this as a sign that maybe my luck was going to finally turn around for good.  As I waited for my egg and pepper hoagie, I sat and checked my emails, only to see that due to the rain the night before, my tee time at the golf course was cancelled and the course was closed.  I tried to shrug this off.  Yes, I was really looking forward to playing the course and enjoying the amazingly mild weather, and yes, I had now lugged my golf clubs across three states for no good reason.  This would not put a damper on the day.  I would still have the best day ever, I told myself over my delicious meal.  The smile faded from my faces as a cacophony of voices muted out the top 40 on the radio in the restaurant, signifying what appeared to be the Tenth Annual Running of the Middle Aged Hipsters. 

What I'd failed to notice as I'd wandered through the hotel were the myriad signs and banners welcoming all of you jockeys of discus to your exposition.  My once peaceful breakfast was ruined by a long line of potbellied, pierced fortysomething wedding DJ's discussing the merits of Pitbull while standing in line for the Panda Express next door.  The urgent need to be taken seriously was sucking most of the oxygen from the room, and I was forced to flee for my safety, sanity, and sandwich. 

This is what you miss when you stare at cocktail waitresses who end up calling you "bizarre" when you hand them your business card. 
Realizing that I need to get as far away as I could from this madness, I took to the boardwalk, only to receive a flyby from an old CeeBee from the airshow.  Faced with the choice of either vomiting outside or inside, I ducked into the next casino over, but felt that it wasn't far enough.  The faint ghosts of "Ooonce  Ooooooonce  OOOOOOOOOOOOnce" bled through the walls and through my soul.  I jumped into the most rickety Jitney ever constructed, and spent the rest of the day out at the Marina casinos, where the only Dj's they knew of were Tanner and Qualls.

My life in exile couldn't last, I knew this.  Even if I were to have Tony Baloney's delivered to the front stoop of the casino, I'd still miss the Angels show.  Reluctantly, I boarded and even worse jitney for the ride back home and dialed the pizzeria as I sat in the tiny, non Greg regulation sized seat.  After a ten minute hold, I slowly realized yet another joy was being stolen from me, as there would be no pizza in a timely fashion.  Resigned, I again went to White House, thankfully dining peacefully and alone. 

I adjourned to my room for a shower, shave, and all over gussification for the show.  I chose my finest cigars, and headed to the Ego bar.  Tremors twitched my nerves as the familiar "oonce  ooonce ooonce" started getting louder as I approached.  When I crossed the threshhold, The lovely ladies of the Angels weren't onstage.  There was a DJ rig manned by someone who looked like he'd had his hair chewed off by an overzealous goat was thrashing about to a song that, if it were named by Onomatopoeia, would have been called "FLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLORRRRP DUMPDUMPDUMP TWICKA bip Hanson." 

I knew better.  I knew what this day had became, yet I still turned to the bouncer and asked the question I didn't want the answer to.  Yes, the Angels had been bumped tonight so that some of the DJs that were lecturing at the seminars could show off their skills.  I pointed out that's like asking the best t- ball player on the field to show how they were the best at running.  It was bound to be awkward, and someone was likely to get hurt for no reason.

Somehow, in my sorrow spiral, I found myself on a deck at The Revel, which had just that day declared they would be closing in three weeks.  I sat in a chair, smoked my Arturo Fuente 858, and looked out to the Atlantic City skyline.  Some things are good enough that even DJs can't kill them. 

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