I’m sorry to report that it has turned into this:
That town is a peroxide blond who can’t afford a new bottle. I am amazed at the dichotomy between the glamour depicted in the ad campaigns for Atlantic City and Las Vegas and the harsh reality. Those cities are successfully marketed as bastions of elegant sophistication. Beautiful, well dressed people frolic into the night. The reality couldn’t be more different.
Do you know who gambles in Atlantic City on a Wednesday afternoon? The downtrodden. The hand-to-mouthers. The people who are bankrolled with that month’s mortgage payment. I can’t explain its appeal. It’s like a horrifying traffic accident that I can’t take my eyes off of.
Good God almighty I love craps. I love it so much that I play it sparingly. I love how the points of the dice dig into my palm when I squeeze them. I love the clacking sound they make when shaken. I love the feel of the felt on the table. I love to rifle the chips in my hand and run my finger along the smooth edges of the wooden trays.
I like the lingo and the chatter by the stickman. (Six. Six. The number is six. Stevie Nicks. Pick up sticks. John Hicks and his Hot Licks. Put your money on the six.) They try to get you to bet the sucker bets. Sometimes I fall for it. I’m only human, after all.
I returned from the dark side of the moon in time to have dinner in the sunlight with my girls. While I was away, Mrs. Wife whipped up some ribs on the auld grill. I looked at The Daughters BBQ sauce-smeared faces and thought I could not be further away from where I was just a few hours ago.