Atlantic City New Year Part Two

Down here it's just winners and losers

And don't get caught on the wrong side of that line...

With the ugliness behind us, Simone and I got some much needed rest for the big splash that was to be New Year’s Eve in Atlantic City.

Our accommodations were at the Sheraton, one of those middling chains that refuses to admit it's not four star. The Sheraton is like that semi-attractive girl from high school who thinks she is way hotter than she actually is. She dresses alluringly enough, says the right things now and again to appear cool but, at her core, she is little more than a cut rate whore with an over inflated sense of worth and purpose. Sort of like Madonna.

Yes. Madonna is quite like the Sheraton line of hotels.

And so is Atlantic City for that matter.

We decided on Caesar's Palace for our evening’s dining. There was a restaurant (Buddakan) there on “The Pier” that Simone had been dying to try. An overpriced Asian/French fusion experience that had come highly recommended. And by damn the food was good.

I typically abhor “fusion” of any sort, whether it be culinary, jazz, cold or con, so it came as a nice surprise to have the most cleverly prepared and plated fish of my life here. Whole red snapper filleted then deep fried, plated with the curved, crispy battered carcass as sort of an amphitheater shell to its meaty middle, finished with a sweet and sour glaze.

As you may recall, the last time the Asians and French got together, we were served a little dish called “The Vietnam War”. This snapper was a bit more pleasant. And Henry Kissinger was not involved, which always makes things much more enjoyable.

As it turned out, it was to be a night of firsts for Simone and I. Our usual visits to casinos and gambling resorts inevitably end in drunkenness, shame and degradation. This night, we both brought our “A” games. A peculiar sense of camaraderie, an esprit de corps if you will, embraced us as the evening turned strange and celebratory, but never dealt us anything that wiped the sardonic grins off our faces or, as the neo-hippies say, “harshed our mellow“.

The next few hours brought our full bellies to “Red Square”, a vodka bar so smartly conceived and decorated that even Lenin himself (his fifteen foot statue looms outside the entrance) would admit that sometimes a little gaudy capitalism and western decadence can be great fun.

“Fuck the masses, Comrade, and pour me another Stoli", he would say, “I’m gonna pay that Nigerian hermaphrodite over there 500 rubles to lick my big red sickle.”

If there is anything on this foul, dumb, miserable, godless planet better than smooth, freezing-cold vodka, I have yet to meet it. And here at “Red Square”, hunkered over the ice bar with glowing bottles beaming at me from behind tinted glass and painted images of stout, Russian, wheat harvesting women eyeballing me from the walls, I fell in love all over again with that beloved spirit.

Mother Vodka; bringer of life, sustainer of sanity, wetter of my whistle, fuel of my sarcasm and earth goddess of everything I hold sacred.

They say Hitler couldn’t drink vodka.

Apparently it made him mean.

But not me, My Friends. And certainly not Simone. We had a good ole time. Simone ordered Bloody Marys, infused with the house’s own liquid potpourri of vegetation and spices. I hate tomato juice, but this stuff was approaching manna. Beautiful, peppery manna. I’m going to name my band that- Beautiful Peppery Manna. We will not play jazz fusion. Or Sun City.

I chose the “Chernobyl”, a vicious combination of two vodkas, a cranberry mixer with a hint of strawberry, and a third shot of vodka as a float. It came garnished with a candied, three-eyed fish swizzle stick. Who says these Russkies are humorless? The drink is deadly. Quite deadly. KGB deadly.

Three of those and you start spitting vitriol, questioning the tactics of the Stasi and weeping for the dead of Stalingrad.

We got out in time. I cannot recommend that bar enough. And to think, a mere 20 years ago, a place like this would have been impossible to open in America due to our petty political prejudices.

It was a unique drinking experience. And I’ve had a few. I once sipped tequila from the inverted nipple of a one-eyed Mexican whore who… oh never mind.

It was closing in on midnight at the Tropicana as we lumbered around the slots and lounges waiting for the countdown. Now, I had spent Christmas in a casino before with my family (we roll like that) but never a New Year’s Eve. Should be quite something I thought? Eh? Uh? C’mon! Baaaaaaaa!

It was not.

The countdown started with the number five. Five! How’s that for a last few seconds afterthought? It proceeded to zero as most everyone muttered haphazardly “Happy New Year”.

Then they immediately and I mean IMMEDIATELY, turned their attention back to their gaming. No fuss, no unnecessary fanfare, no maudlin singing or toasting or carrying on. The bets were still on the table and people were focused on their money. New Year’s Eve comes once a year. A full house, aces over jacks, maybe every five. Priorities need to be set.

Quite sensible I thought, considering.

What an empty ritual that countdown is anyway. When’s the last time it meant anything to you? You give hugs all around, sip champagne and kiss the same fucking people you kiss every time, every year, at the exact same moment. Big hairy fucking deal.

New Year’s Eve is a vastly overrated holiday.

“Amateur night” is what a hard partying friend of mine always called it. He stayed off the roads that evening. The other 364 nights of the year you could find him drunk behind the wheel, tooling down the streets with a belly full of whiskey, a head full of bad ideas and a Budweiser in his hand. He feared the inexperienced drinkers… and little else. And he was right.

After the midnight letdown (we really thought it would get crazy) we headed back to the room and ordered a pie.

It was another Atlantic City oner. The worst pizza of our lives from a place called Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart weeps. A pizzeria with the distinguishing characteristic of a crust that defied an oxygen/hydrogen/yeast/flour explanation. The dough was as if Pauline Kael kneaded it. Dry, lacking, full of repressed anger and disturbingly unpalatable.

It was an appropriate ending to the festivities. A nod and a wink between Simone and I that encapsulated our Atlantic City experience.

Another year gone. Another set of resolutions unfulfilled. Another shot at a future with the broad I love more than anything on this earth.