I wish I could take a bath in Purell™.  I’m standing on the end of a two day session of filthy dirt in the mecca of degenerates- Atlantic City - and still trying to make sense of it all.

We’re on the Atlantic City Expressway when the AC skyline comes to view over the horizon.  Half a dozen giant gold and silver hotels are hapharzardly staggered across the skyline like broken teeth, shrouded in a yellow-brown haze from the heat and the humidity.  Something about it all looks greasy and it’s a feeling I won’t shake until we leave.  I think it’s the way the dense, wet air clutches at and clings to your skin, even in air conditioning, but I further suspect it’s the collective atmosphere of the people there.  A group fog built from the diminished expectations and hopes of countless would be’s, could be’s, should have been’s.  When we cut through the poor neighborhoods to get to the shiny oasis’s of greed and even more greed, it only agrees with my suspicions.  The stark contrast between what comes before the casinos and what comes within their walls is nothing short of astounding.

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(3 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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It’s a quarter to ten and I’m standing in the dingy vestibule of an old brownstone somewhere in soho. The routine is always the same. I ring the buzzer, the intercom crackles and I’m asked my name and told to stand in front of the camera.

I oblige, telling them my name for the 10th time and removing my hat so they can get a better view. I’m told that I’m OK and am buzzed in through a series of doors.

The interior of the club is dingy and sloppy, it looks to be somewhere between a living room and the back room of a bodega. White walls with glossy lime trim, unflattering fluorescent overheads and dingy green checker board tiled flooring. A tabby cat sashays between the legs of the players, looking for attention. Something about the acoustics causes the usual clatter of chips to be amplified, but it’s a soothing sound so I don’t mind.

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(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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