Tuesday, November 28, 2006
"Mo-wrong-go: How it all went wrong"
That's the title of the Morongo adventure experienced this Friday past which was, all in all, pretty damn fun. Oh the lengths we'll go to see a dumb joke to the end. One night at Morongo feels like a full three-day weekend. And not even because it's that entertaining. It's because when you go there, you need to be high. This will erase all meaning of time for you.
As is to be expected, the crowd at a casino in the middle of the California Inland Empire is a... different one. You step onto the casino floor and you're struck with this ill feeling that you outclass everyone. It's an "ill" feeling because you've done nothing to better yourself and yet... There were precious few people under the age of 50 and seemingly everyone was either an Asian granny or trash. Who knew? The hotel/casino, itself, is a very nice facility. Our double suite had two bathrooms, one of which was broken at first. Fortunately, we brought some brownies with us. So in addition to getting tossed out of my tree of vodka and whiskey, I was high as a fucking kite all night. The worst (best?) was sitting down at the central bar on the casino floor which had tables decorated with glowing rocks. The pretty colors... the pretty bright colors... and then there's not-Lindsay Lohan sitting at the table next to us and I don't know... slkdjfldfnierun... FIVE DOLLARS?! Get outta here...
I'll say this, though. Blackjack dealers with curly blonde hair that look like Blythe Danner will love you, especially when you're asking for her to hit you with a 15 after being dealt a 6. She might ask you questions like, "What's that 'M' on your hand?" and you might completely ignore her, even though she keeps repeating the question, because you're so high, you can't fucking hear her. Only the next day, will you be told she was even talking to you. She like me, though. Know who won't like you? The blackjack dealer with the unpronouncable name who just wants to go home at 3 a.m. and end it all. You'll ask her over and over how to pronounce her name, but damn it, you can't understand Huizsen because, well, you're chasing that 13 after splitting three times. And you're high.
I woke the next morning in my terrycloth robe (you better believe I passed out in that thing) and the words running through me head were, "The regret... the goddamn regret..." But on the plus side, for the last couple days I've been kicking around the house in my Morongo slippers. Word.
Also, it's cold as shit at work today and, while I'm thinking of it, I caught the 1st season of The Wire last week. It's good stuff. One thing I found pretty ridiculous, though, was that just about every episode of the season -- at least 10/13 -- there was a threat to shut down the wire. "Oh no! They're going to shut down the wire! That's bullshit!" "Oh, wait, I talked 'em out of it. We've got three more weeks on the wire!" Seriously. Every episode. I hear rumors that season 2 has a B-storyline. That'd be nice.
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As is to be expected, the crowd at a casino in the middle of the California Inland Empire is a... different one. You step onto the casino floor and you're struck with this ill feeling that you outclass everyone. It's an "ill" feeling because you've done nothing to better yourself and yet... There were precious few people under the age of 50 and seemingly everyone was either an Asian granny or trash. Who knew? The hotel/casino, itself, is a very nice facility. Our double suite had two bathrooms, one of which was broken at first. Fortunately, we brought some brownies with us. So in addition to getting tossed out of my tree of vodka and whiskey, I was high as a fucking kite all night. The worst (best?) was sitting down at the central bar on the casino floor which had tables decorated with glowing rocks. The pretty colors... the pretty bright colors... and then there's not-Lindsay Lohan sitting at the table next to us and I don't know... slkdjfldfnierun... FIVE DOLLARS?! Get outta here...
I'll say this, though. Blackjack dealers with curly blonde hair that look like Blythe Danner will love you, especially when you're asking for her to hit you with a 15 after being dealt a 6. She might ask you questions like, "What's that 'M' on your hand?" and you might completely ignore her, even though she keeps repeating the question, because you're so high, you can't fucking hear her. Only the next day, will you be told she was even talking to you. She like me, though. Know who won't like you? The blackjack dealer with the unpronouncable name who just wants to go home at 3 a.m. and end it all. You'll ask her over and over how to pronounce her name, but damn it, you can't understand Huizsen because, well, you're chasing that 13 after splitting three times. And you're high.
I woke the next morning in my terrycloth robe (you better believe I passed out in that thing) and the words running through me head were, "The regret... the goddamn regret..." But on the plus side, for the last couple days I've been kicking around the house in my Morongo slippers. Word.
Also, it's cold as shit at work today and, while I'm thinking of it, I caught the 1st season of The Wire last week. It's good stuff. One thing I found pretty ridiculous, though, was that just about every episode of the season -- at least 10/13 -- there was a threat to shut down the wire. "Oh no! They're going to shut down the wire! That's bullshit!" "Oh, wait, I talked 'em out of it. We've got three more weeks on the wire!" Seriously. Every episode. I hear rumors that season 2 has a B-storyline. That'd be nice.
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