WEIRD AL & Atlantic City! (finally)

How late is this damn post, huh. Yeah, about a whole month. Oh well.

Kathleen drove up from Winston (shit, or do I mean Greensboro; I’m an asshole, I don’t know) and met us at the house bright and early and TOTALLY ON TIME Thursday, 6/17. I had Greg pad the meeting time because several of our friends pretty much always run late. Not Kathleen, so I did her a disservice. Also? *I* was an asshole: *I* was the one running late, because I was packing and primping. That’ll teach me, huh.

The drive up was pretty sweet – I started it, made it around three hours, and then Greg took over. I didn’t get too terribly anxious, and when I did, well, I had the clonazepam. We talked, listened to music, Kathleen read from an old-ish journal of hers, I slept alot (due to the clonazepam), crocheted a little bit. We stopped a couple times for gas, or food, or bathroom breaks, but made pretty good time. We checked into the hotel, and then we puttered around Atlantic City a bit, and had the most delicious food at South End Pizza II (on Ventnor Avenue). Seriously – soooooo delicious, and everyone was very nice and friendly. If you’re in Atlantic City, and hungry, hit them up! Then we went to Flanigan’s Bar (also on Ventnor). Greg and Kathleen had some beers, and I got free soda as the DD! Yay! It was a pretty nice, cosy bar, and other than the bartender, there were only two other people there, a man and a woman. And at one point, I caught a whiff of some delicious scent, and then realized it was my own perfume. (Wiggle’s Manora. And I love when that happens.) I remarked on it to Greg, and the bartender heard PART of it, but not the part where I said, “…and it’s my own perfume!” and told me it must be the other woman in the bar, Angie. So Angie came over and graciously let me sniff her neck (it was a little weird, actually, but what could I do), and it did smell pretty good. So she told me what it was (Dolce & Gabbana’s Light Blue). She also suggested I might be smelling the guy’s Axe. Shudder. I had the good sense to say, “No, I recognized that scent,” rather than, “Oh gods no! That stuff smells like DOUCHEBAG!” And then we played pool. Then we headed back to the hotel, to meet the New York Contingent (minus one).

Danny, Michel, Carol, and Dylan had driven down from New York. (Brian stayed behind to watch a World Cup match, and caught a bus up the next day.) In honor of Michel’s birthday, Danny made French 75s and shortcakes. Delish! There were some slight drunken antics, mainly in the other room, because I went to sleep early. Kathleen, Dylan, Greg, and I were in one room; everyone else was in the room across the hall. (Oh, also, when we checked in, we were on the ground floor, with no fridge in either room, and the check-in guy said we couldn’t substitute for a room with a fridge. Until we tried to get INTO one of the two rooms, and it wouldn’t open for shit. So then, since we needed two rooms close to each other, we ended up on the fourth floor, with a fridge in one room. Sweet!)

Here are two views from our window Friday morning:

On the drive up, I had confessed my new-ish makeup obsession to Kathleen, and Thursday night, she’d suggested I give her a makeover. I wasn’t quite sure if she was joking, and I tend to assume that other people aren’t as excited by makeup as I am, so it didn’t happen. But Friday morning, after breakfast and before we headed out to hit the casinos, she asked again and was serious, so I did:

I enjoyed myself immensely, and she liked the outcome (as did I). And I got to talk to her, Michel, and Carol about bb creams and gush about Fyrinnae. (My second-to-last order with Fyrinnae was actually samples of eyeshadows, lip lustres, and PE to give them, so they could experience the wonderful sparkly goodness.)

At this point, Greg was taking pictures. Here’s one of himself, being cute:

Everyone was pretty much pre-gaming at this point (except me – I don’t really like drinking that much), and watching some World Cup matches. (Again, except me – I don’t really follow soccer, although I can see how it would be exciting. I played with makeup, read Soulless, and played Peggle.) So, bitches were pretty drunk, is what I’m saying. And shenanigans happened. Like this:

That would be Greg’s ass, although I don’t remember if he was stumbling off the bed, purposefully sliding off it, or actually pretending to hump it. I think maybe the latter? And then, because butts are funny, Brian (in the back) and Dylan had to pop in and approve it. (This whole weekend was one of the happiest, most joyful group reunions I think I’ve ever participated in. Even without the alcohol. And now I miss all those fuckers who moved up to New York. Damn y’all. Hmph.)

Here we are waiting for the shuttle to the casino:

More shenanigans. I think Carol was next to me, taking a picture with her own camera. In the back we have Kathleen looking a little goofy; and Dylan, who looks surprisingly sober even though he’s most assuredly not, playing with Greg’s braids. (Greg asked me to braid his hair, so I did, and he kept them in for about five minutes before deciding they weren’t manly enough and ripping them out and losing two of my ponytail holders. I had to squint at him for that one, and then laugh about the “manliness” line.) In the front we have Michel in the lucky bling cap; her husband Danny with his head up her skirt (classy!); my little monster with his hand on Danny’s head, and the other arm around Brian; and Brian opening his mouth really wide. I can say with complete honesty that they were all pretty much shitfaced at this point, Carol included. I was sober, because that’s how I usually roll. (Teeny tiny tolerance plus absolute horror of vomiting equals me usually pretty damn stone cold sober, occasionally a little tipsy.) In the other pictures, though, Carol did a standup job of looking sober. Greg was so goddamn rowdy, I thought we’d get kicked off the shuttle. The seats were paired (it was like a 40-person bus, actually), and Michel and Danny were seated in front of us, and Kathleen and Dylan were across the aisle. At one point, Greg started clambering drunkenly over the back of Danny’s seat to fuck with Danny – and I yanked Greg down by his belt and yelled, “Sit. DOWN!” in my best “Mom voice.” And then Greg pretended to pout for a bit. But we made it safe and sound to the casinos, and got dropped off at the Tropicana.

We all had dinner at Punjab Palace, an IndoPak restaurant on Pacific Avenue that Kathleen, Greg, and I had spotted while driving around the previous evening – and it was fucking delicious. And while we were dining, we got to see some sort of Indian talent show for kids (that was actually pretty sweet, even if I couldn’t understand what they were saying; mostly dancing), as well as some soap opera that I was actually following pretty well, and was sad when we left and I didn’t get to see how it played out. Oh well, there was gambling to be done.

We started at the Trump Taj Mahal, which was pretty cool, although I didn’t get any damn free drinks. (Okay, I know I said I don’t drink much, and I don’t. But as I see it, you basically throw your money away at casinos, and they know this, which is why they give you free drinks – so you’ll get drunk, less inhibited, and spend more cash. So I just wanted *a* free drink. Just one. But in all the time we spent in casinos over those two days – and it was quite a bit of time – I only got one free drink. 😦 Pobre mio, right?) Then we walked around on the boardwalk, and I decided I absolutely needed “the most Atlantic City tshirt” I could find. Preferably something airbrushed and cheesy, like with a big heart that said “Greggy and Kathy” on it. And NOT for wearing it ironically. (I wholeheartedly and unironically love cheesy stuff that cracks me up. It is awesome. And what.) I found some contenders, but didn’t buy any that night. But I did buy a pretty sweet wrap skirt for bellydancing in. (Especially when the others were $40, but the specific fabric I wanted was without a price tag, and old dude was like, “Um, $20.” SOLD! And I wore it last Sunday, and it was lovely.) Then we went to the Wild West Casino, and it was pretty neat, too. There are several pictures in the Flickr set (which I’ll link to later), including one of the “infamous goldshitting woman.”

Not really infamous, just to me, Greg, and Kathleen. We had seen it while driving around Thursday night, and then all eight of us passed it Friday night. It’s a sign outside what must be a nudie bar, and it’s lit up, and it looks like a woman shitting out gold sparkles. No lie. (It’s on Flickr. Sorry – I neglected to edit a thumbnail and shit so I could put it up here, and I ain’t delaying this post any longer.) I took pictures of it as we walked past. And then we went back to the hotel, but I had a craving for pizza, so I had some delivered, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, truly. Late night pizza, after a long, hard day of boardwalk-walking, and gambling, and…yeah. Yum. Then we went to sleep.

Saturday was the big day! WEIRD AL! We caught another shuttle, this time to the Hilton. We went right away into the Hilton and figured out exactly where the show was taking place, and then got food and people-watched on the boardwalk, and then got in line for the show. And when I ordered a strawberry daiquiri to drink while in line, I got carded, and when the bartender couldn’t believe I was thirty, two other people at the bar commented on how young I looked, too! Which, surprisingly, quite pleased me. I don’t really care about that age shit, and have never lied about my age, and can’t wait to be an old lady because it will be awesome and I plan on getting a cane to whack whippersnappers with and be even more crotchety than I am now. So I would never have expected to be so pleased to hear three people sincerely disbelieve that I could be anywhere near thirty. But apparently, I was pleased. It was nice. Huh.

And then it was time for WEIRD AL!

Weird Al fucking rules. That is all.

When he does “Wanna B Ur Lovr,” he will straight-up grind in your fucking face! He will. He will do it. I mean, straight climbing on the seats and armrests and in your fucking face. (See the second picture below, especially.) And he will do it to bitches sitting in the comp seats area, who clearly have no idea what is going on, and just seem bewildered that this Weird Al person is grinding his crotch so close to their face and crooning at them, and you – sitting nowhere near this action – you will be jealous. But you will love it. Because it’s goddamn awesome. I kind of wanted to throw my bra onstage, but I really liked the bra I was wearing. (It can be really hard to find a bra that fits me, is cute, and gives me good coverage. In other words, isn’t too skimpy and revealing to wear to work. So I tend to hoard the few I have.) But I swore to Greg that next time we see Weird Al, I’m bringing extra bras I don’t even care about, in my purse, to throw onstage. Maybe some man-thongs, too, because that would amuse me immensely, and also you could probably launch them shooting-rubber-bands-style.

And of course I lost my shit when he did “White & Nerdy” – it’s one of my favorites! And you probably know I am not normally a fan of children, but I swear to god, the coolest kid EVER was sitting in front of us, with the most perfect adorable little nerd hairstyle for a Weird Al show (complete with front cowlick), and he bought a “White & Nerdy” tshirt (only in kids’ sizes, dammit, so I got a hoodie), and he made his mom take a picture of him in it, and he was cheesing so big and so proud. I loved that kid. I wanted to take a picture of him, his existence and exuberance made me so happy, but I figured his mom would probably find that pretty creepy, so I didn’t. He also lost his shit when “White & Nerdy” happened, and seemed really happy that the row of “grown-ups” behind him (that would be us bitches) knew all the words and were belting them out, too.

Awesome, awesome, rad, excellent, goddamn wonderful show! Not surprisingly, since Weird Al is the gold-plated shit, in case you didn’t know. Now you do. You’re welcome. 😉

Then there was some more gambling, at the Hilton and the Tropicana. I discovered my favorite slot machine, BY FAR, is Goldfish (by WMS Gaming). Holy shit, do I love that game. In fact, here is a video of one of its bonuses, with the DELIGHTFUL music:

LOVES IT. Oh my god. That is Kathy’s Happy Place, right there. And I was pretty good at it, too. (But then, I always play slots fully aware that I will be spending all the money I brought to spend. So I’ll take like a $20, and play til it’s gone. And then if I win $13, in my head, it’s like I actually won $13, instead of reality: being down $7. More fun that way. Also, you don’t waste mad money on slots.)

Danny and Dylan and Brian actually did pretty well on poker – apparently Brian even studies it hardcore. Go them.

And we went back down the boardwalk, so I could buy some goodies. I decided that, instead of the most Atlantic City tshirt I could find, I really needed booty shorts. They’re not really booty shorts. They are short, though. I think you’re intended to roll the waistband down until they are scandalous booty shorts, but I do not do that, thank you very much. I also don’t wear them in public, they are for sleeping in or lounging in. But I love them, and they’re comfortable, and make me laugh. I had a hard time deciding between the two designs, and Danny thought I really, really needed the pirate ones, so he bought those for me as a gift. (Also, aside from pirates being awesome, and that weird phrase being funny, he and Greg were in Skurvy together, so…kind of appropriate? For a Skurvy groupie-of-sorts? And by “groupie” I mean “girlfriend at the time, wife now.”) I got the “princess” ones because I kind of hate the idea of women being someone’s “little princess” (my inner women’s studies major is barfing), and yet at the same time, I am so goddamn girly and peacock-y these days. So they’re perfect, and me making fun of myself. (And maybe a little ironic – but I can still laugh at Look at This Fucking Hipster, right? Or am I now a big fat hypocrite?)

(Really: How did “dirty little pirate hooker” become a common enough phrase that it’s readymade to be heat-pressed onto your clothing item of choice? What piece of pop culture have I missed, that that reference came from? Or is it just the brainchild of that particular shop’s owner?)

And then I came across this in another store, and YOU KNOW I had to get it:

It costing less than two dollars total was just icing on the bird-flipping-cake, as it were.

I also got some cutesy rings, but they weren’t glued to the base well, and promptly broke. If I remember, I’ll put pictures of those up once I’ve glued the decorations back onto the ring bases.

And then Danny got Greg a tshirt that had the Sailor Jerry Aloha monkey on it, only instead of “aloha” it said “no problem.” Pretty perfect for Greg. And then Greg and Danny got Dylan a tshirt that said “kiss my bocce balls,” because they play bocce ball. Anyway. I think there were other funny gifts, but I don’t remember them right now.

Then, because it was getting late and we had a drive home the next day, Greg and I headed back to the hotel room to go to sleep – AND I DISCOVERED THIS:

Apparently “someone” (Danny) thought it would be funny to pose my teddy bear like that. And when I texted everyone to find out which bitch fucked with Septimus, Danny was all, “Your bear has a problem, sorry.” Anyway, I had a good snort over it, removed the empty handle of Jim Beam (there was a liquor massacre in that hotel room, just saying), and went to bed.

The next day, we got up, checked out, bid our lovely friends adieu, and Kathleen, Greg, and I drove our asses home. Greg drove, but he was tired, so then I drove for a while. And then I got panicky, but Greg didn’t feel like driving, so Kathleen was a motherfucking CHAMP and drove the vast majority of the trip home. And then it was time to bid her adieu, too, and she went to her home. And then I changed into my jimjams and sucked face with my pillow, while Skeeter and Chalupa actually acted happy to see us.

All the rest of the Atlantic City trip pictures can be seen right here.

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