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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For most players, there’s a turnaround hand that launches him or her down the path of poker for life. It’s something like an epiphany where a sudden clarity of purpose, a meaning to it all, a reason for waking up, breathing and buckling your belt, lands on top of your head like a milky gob of the Pope’s cum. It often converges with the moment you learn how to riffle chips.

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