Jul 04
AndrewHumor, Travel
Two travel weeks in a row, and I am already fried of air travel enough for a lifetime. Twice I had TSA agents stop me because of what was in my bag. The first incident was because of a rogue toothpaste tube that didn’t end up in a proper sealed baggie. The TSA agent pulled my backpack aside and said, “I’d like to look through this.”
I said to her, “Can I at least get my stuff first” as I had already been stripped of my belt and shoes trying to get through the x-ray machine. So she agreeably let me rethread my belt and plunk my shoes on before hauling me to a table off to the side and begin sifting through the contents of my backpack.
Here is what was inside:
Clothes for the weekend
1 book
An iPod mini
A deck of cards
A toothbrush, in a baggie
The offensive toothpaste, exposed in all its raw glory, like an erect penis on a nude beach.
She explained to me my breach of TSA-etiquette, that toothpaste needed to be sheathed in the plastic baggie before going through security. I forget exactly how I responded, but it prompted her to then ask me, “Are you okay, sir? I detect some aggression in your voice.” Which was a polite way of saying, bitch shut up or I’m going to cavity search you. I couldn’t help it, I took one more dig and told her, “I bet you get that a lot.”
To her credit, she didn’t take the bait. Instead, she took my bag back through security, with the toothpaste gagged and bagged. I made it to the gate without further conversation.
Now, let’s be real. The problem with the TSA is that every airport follows different rules and most of those rules seem to be applied arbitrarily. So it’s not really a surprise that travelers a) don’t have a fucking clue what’s expected of them and b) think TSA agents are bunch of douche bags.
But that said, the fact that air travel sucks like LDOF is not completely the fault of the TSA. Airports are like cattle holdings, airplanes are just airborne diseases in a box, and flight attendants, pilots and gate agents are trapped into taking the blame for the decisions of the airline. And the customer service employees are probably just as unhappy with how things are going as anyone else.
Boarding my flight to Las Vegas was reasonably easy because we stayed at the bar and drank beers until the exact moment that we could just walk on to the plane. Coming back from Vegas wasn’t that easy. The flight was delayed 45 minutes before we even arrived at the airport. By the time we arrived at the gate, it was delayed 90 minutes. By the time we took off, it was over 2 hours late, it was after 1 a.m. the bags around my eyes looked like black holes.
The official reason for the delay was weather at the plane’s point of origin. But as the plane landed at McCarran, another plane that had just left the gate swung back around to unload some unruly passengers, taking up the docking space. That delayed our plane getting to the gate another 30 minutes longer than it needed to. And while we were exhausted, dehydrated and pissed off at the terminal, no doubt the people on the plane were just as excited to be stuck on the tarmac for 30 minutes at someone else’s drunken leisure.
It was after midnight and most of us were trying to grab some sleep while waiting to get airborne. But I’m sure the gate agents got flack for the delay from someone. Why did the plane with the disruptive passengers have to come back to our gate in particular? The problem from a traveler’s perspective is that all these kind of delays seem more like poor planning than anything else, and except for the gate agent or a flight attendant in the line of fire, who exactly can you complain to when shit goes wrong as it inevitably seems to?
On my third flight of the week, again leaving Logan Airport, everything seemed to be hunky-dory (I stowed the damn toothpaste in the baggie this time and got no trouble from TSA.) We had stationed ourselves at the gate ahead of boarding, so I got the pleasure of watching the passengers jockey for a better seat, an aisle, a first class upgrade, anything to make them feel special and loved. Lovin’ is hard to come by these days for air travelers. Oh I suppose a select few have enough miles to call themselves special. Plus there’s a new fastlane type registration to get through security for travelers at some airports. It’s called the Clear Lane, but I’ve only seen it myself at San Francisco International. But the rest of us are just given the cold shoulder and, if we’re lucky, we are politely told to go fuck ourselves.
On my last flight of the week, again back to Boston, we watched a lady swear up and down that she paid for a first class ticket and was peeved to be denied early boarding and further peeved to be told her ticket wasn’t even first class. The gate agent was harried enough just trying to board people (again, 30 minutes behind schedule, supposedly because they still had to clean the plane) much less dealing with this woman who not only was in a fury, but was insisting the gate agent fix the problem that clearly had been made by a travel agent. Plus, there was no way for the gate agent to know whether the problem is really a mistake, or whether the woman just heard what she wanted to hear. How many times a day does that happen?
The thing is, when you’re the passenger getting screwed, it’s hard to take a deep breath and try to be rational about it. And for the gate agent, you basically get reamed even though your sole purpose in life is to make sure that each passenger that boards has a boarding pass. That it’s in a nutshell. While it’s important to remember that the passenger has no where else to take complaints (unless you’re industrious enough to write a letter, but from personal experience, I can tell you it doesn’t get you very far,) it is also useful to recognize that the employee is essentially paid to take our shit and swim it like its ice cream. I feel sorry for all of us.
I used to love air travel. I still love being physically in the air. The hum of the plane. The bounce and rhythm of the air currents. It all works through me like yoga. But getting there lately really sucks all the energy from you. It’s not just a physical toll of being shipped in a metal crate for six hours or so to cross the country. It’s the mental energy not to go postal on airline employees, or pick needless fights with TSA agents, or smack that flight attendant across the ass for bumping into you for the bazillionth time. Even for short trips, air travel these days is hellacious.
After my first run-in with the TSA over a tube of toothpaste, I thought I was being a particularly savvy traveler when I stowed it inside the ziplock bag. I got no bother twice through security, at Las Vegas and as I mentioned, the next time through at Logan. But on my very last flight, standing in security line with my shoes in one hand and my bag in the other, the TSA agent says to me, “You need to take that out and run it through the x-ray separately.”
I opened my mouth to say something snotty, but then thought better of it. Instead, I gave her a polite-enough nod, and did exactly as I was told.
May 30
AndrewHumor, Travel
I thought this week we would take an adventure trip down to the rainforests of Brazil to meet some tribal Indians. These natives were recently photographed trying to shoot down the airplane that photographed them with bows and arrows, courtesy of Survival International.
I find this image fascinating for its the implications, the least of which is that civilization has never contacted members of this particular tribe. Buried deep along the Brazil-Peru border, they have never met an errant explorer, don’t know anything about the Clinton-Obama race, haven’t heard that the aftershocks in China or Sharon Stone, and aren’t worrying about applying for a voucher to switch their analog television to digital in February 2009.
The images are startling, that is definite. The tribal members are painted from head to toe in bright red. The shacks are barely more than a roof made of branches propped open like a tent. The scene looks straight out of a Hollywood movie.
But to say they have never been touched by civilization is a bit melodramatic and disingenuous. Upon seeing an airplane fly over head, the Indians raised their bows and arrows and attempted to shoot it down. I find it hard to believe, even ensconced in the rainforest away from iPods and SUVs and Windows Vista, that the Indians don’t on some level understand the implications of a plane flying overhead. One, it seems unlikely they think it’s a bird or a pterodactyl -- a product of nature. Two, it probably scared the shit out of them (and I suppose to what extent would depend on whether they had ever seen one before -- something I have to guess even in the remote region of Brazil they probably have experienced once or twice from a distance.) Three, you mean to tell me that Man vs. Wild hasn’t filmed there yet?
Out of these photographs comes the plea to save the tribal lands which are being eaten away by logging, whose tribe members are being exposed to diseases of the civilized world (no doubt this the polite way of saying they are building a McDonald’s nearby) and otherwise forced to leave their tribal homes and move into a AmeriSuites while their huts are demolished to build timeshares. (Come stay at the Ipixuna Grand Vacation Club just 350 kilómetros to biodiverse Peru! Free shuttle!)
It’s amazing, but according to Survival International, there are “upwards of 100 uncontacted tribes worldwide.” How on earth these tribes managed to survive without a poker room and a buffet is beyond me. The organization works to keep the tribal lands in the hands of the tribes, rather than being razed in the name of industry and profit. It raises an interesting question, though. How does a group work to save these tribal lands without ever interacting with the tribe? It just seems kind of unlikely.
It’s fascinating to read about the different tribes of the world, many of which do have contact with the outside world. It’s really amazing that they can continue to subsist without WIFI and FIFA, and I don’t mean to say that people can’t live without television and sports. But the world community (the effect of so-called globalization) is so invasive, that even surviving this long with your traditions and culture intact seems remarkable. The Akuntsu are down to six people (not even enough diners for mandatory gratuity to be added to their bill) but how long before a developer comes in, puts his arm around the tribal leader and says, “How ’bout you let me build a hotel on your lands and I’ll make you a rich man.” It’s not just industry, but technology, economy and politics are slowly glossing over what makes each of our regions unique and homogenizing the entire human race. Even if we save the Akuntsu, how long before they’re sitting on a couch in their condo on Lake Uruapiára, flipping through cable channels to find something better than Where’s My Mortgage Gone?, eating Cheetos and texting votes for David Archuleta on their Samsung F700?
Melodramatic? Maybe. Disingenuous? I’m not so sure. The photographs may show a native tribe as yet untouched by civilization, but the reality is whether we save them or not, it’s hard to believe their tribe will be intact 50 years from now. Maybe by then, they will just be Brazilians, or even Americans. The true implication of those photographs is that sooner or later, we won’t even remember what it is our world has lost.
Mar 21
AndrewHumor, Society and Culture, Travel
After a two-year estrangement, I finally boarded the plane to take me back to the mother country. Granted, we boarded two hours after our departure time, but the pilot assured us that we would make up the time in the air. Before the wheels touch down again, the rolling hills of lights greet you from every direction. On the right side of the plane, you can see a glimmer of green, a sheen of the Manhattan skyline (albeit, the buildings draped in faded pastels), the crystalline spire of light arching into the sky from the peak of a pyramid of glass. And…hey, what the hell are those three buildings?
Welcome to Las Vegas, a city that is ever-transforming itself at the forefront of American consumerism. From what the masses want to what they don’t know that they want yet. And damnit, it’s blocking my view.
The newest trend in Las Vegas is the dual sisters the condo complex and the timeshare tower. It’s disturbing to see the rise of the high rise along the Strip skyline. In fact, (and I can’t claim to even know who owns the properties) there are three sister towers that now completely obstruct the view of the Strip from the Bellagio to the Mirage from the west-facing direction (which also happens to be the direction you are looking if you sit on the right side of the plane peering out the window.) MGM has a residential tower, so does Trump. On the northern corner of the Strip, there are new construction projects between the Riveria and the Sahara (admittedly, traditionally a stretch of undeveloped space) and a Hilton homes property across the street and another condo complex owned by whomever.
A megaresort, itself a hub of residential activity, is being built where the Stardust and Wayne Newton once reigned. More and more, every square inch of development space along Las Vegas Boulevard is…well, being developed. But it’s no longer just hotel expansions (except for Encore, the new Wynn tower and the seemingly endless expansion of Caesar’s Palace.) And it’s not just on the Strip either. There are towers being built in every corner of town. Out by the Rampart Casino in Summerlin, a 25-story residential complex is ready to open. Reserve a unit with a Strip view.
The net effect of all this development brings up a curious question: who the hell is going to live there? With timeshares, it seems reasonable to think they could sell enough units to find the venture profitable. And if you weren’t planning on living there full-time anyway, it probably makes sense to seek out a property along the Strip where the action is a little closer. Presumably, the Strip towers come with a certain level of amenity, be it dedicated parking lots, laundry service or grocery delivery. The condominiums are a different consideration though. So for most people, are they are a second home? Do you get some resale value from owning the property? (I honestly can’t imagine that’s the case just given how saturated the market is with similar options.) How many people seriously consider using their unit in Sky Las Vegas (next to Circus Circus) as a primary residence? Can you rent them out profitably?
Look, I’m not foolish enough to think that the developers would build as much as they have without a plan for profit. So someone obviously thinks these properties are the winning play. And I can see the appeal of living on the Las Vegas Strip as kind of a status choice. Though according to one sales pitch, condo conversions “are providing a lower cost alternative to single family homes.” Are you kidding? Maybe condos near Nellis Air Force base are the lower cost alternative, but $1 million plus high rise condos on Las Vegas Boulevard? The MGM Mirage City Center Las Vegas condos which are described as “Manhattan-value apartments that…will attract retired baby boomers seeking a low-maintenance lifestyle, celebrities, and the rich”? And even if it was cheaper than buying a single-family home, what slipshod parent would raise their three kids, ages 4, 10 and 12 on the Strip?
The megaresorts (of which there are two in development that I know of) are truly the most audacious of all. The concept is a self-enclosed environment where you never have to leave to shop, eat, gamble, piss, poop or park. MGM Mirage’s City Center complex? 2 boutique hotels, 2500 residential units, and 550,000 square feet of retail space. And that’s just what hasn’t been built yet. The MGM already has the main hotel and the Signature, which is condo hotel tower. Not to mention MGM Mirage owns most of the hotels on the southern-half of the Strip to begin with.
It’s disconcerting to see the landscape of the city change to something I don’t understand. It bothers me that depending on where you stand, your view of that famous skyline is disrupted by a grossly distorted new urban reality. But Las Vegas was always built for dreamers. The developers who take the next logical step in consumer development, the salesmen who convince us that this is exactly the kind of project that was built just for each and everyone one of us, and the dreamers themselves, taken in by the romantic notion that yeah, maybe someday this will be right for me, and buy into the entire fantasy. I haven’t reached the point where I dread flying back, but I think it has finally sunk in that gazing out on to the city as the plane touches down will never be the same again.
Mar 07
AndrewHumor, Travel
For whatever reason, the roads are clogged with distractions this week. Yesterday, I was taking the 1.5 mile drive to work and got stopped at the end of my street for a 45-car funeral procession that left me sitting there for twenty minutes. It just so happened that Brett Favre’s retirement press conference was live on the radio, so I spent the better part of that time listening to him alternately sob and thank his old coaches. It made for riveting theater, even as I was keeping track of the cars passing me on the way to the cemetery on one hand. Every time the fifth car passed, I would make a tic mark in my passenger seat cushion.
Somehow, I had formed the impression that funeral processions were rather uncoordinated events. Everyone got in the car and headed off to the cemetery. Some cars stop at McDonald’s. Some just go home. Most make it in good time. It never occurred to me that it was an event that required a police escort and little funeral flags waving ingloriously off the top of cars until I moved to Boston. Here, at least, the funeral home arranges for both. The idea as it was explained to me is that everyone arrives at the cemetery at the same time. The police will veer into the middle of a busy intersection, halt traffic in all directions and wave the line of cars heading to the cemetery through one after another. It’s excruciating business for everyone involved.
It was a nice day though, our first after a few weeks of alternating rain, snowfall and frigid temperatures. I had the windows down (except the rear driver’s side window which sticks) and got to hear Favre choke out the pronouncement of his retirement. It was driven as much by emotion as ego (though unlike some people, I begrudge Favre none of it). I perfectly understand how closely he’s associated his entire adult life with the Green Bay Packers and suddenly, his status as the superstar team leader and All-American hero has been ripped away and unceremoniously handed over to Brady Quinn…er, well it’s still Aaron Rodgers for now. So of course, Favre needed a press conference. And it could not have been more intimate and mournful if it had been deliberately planned that way. Favre’s tears cemented his legacy as the everyman hero. Favre more closely encapsulates the American dream than most of the superstar athletes of his stature (behind maybe Cal Ripken). While Michael Jordan was virtually unapproachable, Favre seems like the guy who would invite you for dinner and treat you like a member of the family.
45 cars later, I was on my way to work. But the incident validated my suspicion that every where I drive, there are inconvenient blockades. if it’s not potholes the size of Rhode Island, it’s construction vehicles, utility trucks or pedestrians. I have never before experienced such gargantuan potholes that have rutted the road this year. It’s like someone starting digging for swimming pools in the middle of Prospect St. and on South St. and in front of my building at work. When driving over some of these potholes, your front bumper is at a different elevation than your back bumper. One by my street is so deep and startling, someone stuck traffic cones around its perimeter to keep drivers from plunging into the earth’s core unexpectedly.
I’m used to wide, multi-lane roads and highways of Las Vegas, so there is some adjustment to two lane, narrow roads that are more common in suburban Boston. A single UPS truck can block traffic in both directions for a mile. We have delivery drivers (10 a.m. Pepsi delivery), utility trucks checking on power lines, and in the spring, gardeners parking the tool wagon halfway off someone’s driveway. People here double park, pull up on the sidewalk and when all else fails, just stop in the middle of the road and leave it to oncoming traffic to figure out how to get around them. On the street where I work, our power company has been conducting routine training seminars. That means parking an enormous utility vehicle in one lane and having 15 employees stand around in the middle of the street. Most of the time, it looks exactly like they have nothing better to do but hang out. (I’ve never seen any actual training, but I take it on faith that something happens when I’m not around).
But the worst by far are the pedestrians. It wasn’t so long ago that I was one of them, but somehow, I find a random person just standing in a lane of traffic, hanging out, sipping coffee. This isn’t someone walking from point A to point B and mistiming their foray into the street so that I have veer around them to avoid an accident. This is a person who seemingly doesn’t understand the purpose of a road is to facilitate vehicular traffic at speeds in excess of 35 miles per hour. Pedestrians in Massachusetts are the worst because there is some notion that they always have the right of way in this state. To them, that means I have to get out of the way at all costs.
I have no problem yielding to pedestrians who have crossing the road to get somewhere, even if they are not crossing at a crosswalk or a traffic light. I always slow down when I can to let them get safely back to the sidewalk. But somehow this singular courtesy hasn’t gotten so far out of control that people will do absolutely any activity in the middle of traffic and just assume they aren’t going to be mauled by a car. The lack of self-preservation is unbelievable. Pedestrians have lost their protective instincts when it comes to drivers, and I cannot fathom why the panic alarm doesn’t go off in their head when a Hummer is barreling down on them at 50 miles per hour. A public ordinance is not going to protect you from physical harm. (Yes, I suppose the possibility to enrich yourself from a civil suit is enticing, but you will be complicit in your own injury. Does loitering in a lane of traffic constitute contributory negligence?) The truth is, though, that most people don’t even think about it. It stems for almost a complete lack of awareness of anything going on around them, a complacency that is so prevalent that it escapes our notice.
Maybe that’s what scares me the most. Lately, I have noticed just how many distractions there on the road. It makes getting from here to there a lot more treacherous than I can ever remember it being. Maybe the threat has always been there, and I just keyed into it this week. But somehow, I suspect the potential for harm has actually increased because our deference for one another has decreased. One of us has to be willing to get the hell out of the way to make room for the other. Sure, I thought the funeral procession was annoying as hell at first (you’re not special, people die all the time). But on second thought, the next time there is someone parked, or standing, in the middle of the road blocking my way, I’m just going to let them pass. And if takes a little longer to get somewhere, I’ll see what else is on the radio.
Jun 29
AndrewHumor, Travel Kittery, Maine, Ogunquit, Travel
Escape Velocity the minimum speed at which an object must travel to escape a planet’s or moon’s gravitational field in order to orbit around it or move off into space. Encarta
Stepmother: When going to hide, know how to get there.
Cinderella’s Father: And how to get back..
Florinda, Lucinda: And eat first..
Into the Woods
I woke up late, rushed a shower, no time to brew the coffee, quickly smeared sunscreen on my nose and ears, grabbed the rental car keys, the house keys, a bottle of water (lemon-lime!) and raced out the door. Today, I was playing hooky from work to go up to Ogunquit, Maine for a day of sweltering oppressive humidity, seaside views and Sally Struthers.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I knew better than to rush out of the house without eating. Poor sleep and no food and long drive are a bad combination for anybody, but doubly so for someone who has a reputation for being cranky to begin with. So I stuffed a chocolate croissant down my throat without bothering to chew, a leftover from a trip to Panera, and washed it down with a gulp of cold water (lemon-lime!) I cranked up the CD player in the car and drove cross town to pick up my mother from the hotel.
Most of New England was experiencing the first heat wave of the summer, with temperatures middling in the 90s jacked up by 70% humidity (Waltham actually reached its record high temperature for today) though it was only in the low 80s when we left. It seemed liked a good day to escape, figuring likely as not there might be an ocean breeze and long periods of rental car air conditioning to keep us cool. There’s something inherently joyful about leaving behind the radius of your everyday life, work, home, grocery in the perpetual rotary that defines our day-to-day existence. It’s the promise of new experiences, encountering alien cultures (I’m talking to you, Kittery) and endless string of chotchskys stores to distract you with pretty colors.
For some of us, okay, admittedly it was me, breakfast was fast heading for a state of emergency, but we soldiered on, determined to get out of Massachusetts at least. Most of the drive there and back is highway with little in the way of scenic view.
Our first stop was Portsmouth, New Hampshire. After a quick consultation, we decided to drive to downtown Portsmouth for breakfast. Portsmouth sits on the Piscataqua River which runs between New Hampshire and Maine. The downtown is a criss cross of streets with cute cafés and uselessly entertaining shops. Even though it is oceanfront property, the air was thick as soup and there was no breeze. We ate at The Works on Congress Street. The menu had some variety, the coffee had some kick and the bathrooms were clean. The guy who made my sandwich was a dead ringer for Jimmy Fallon’s first cousin. He made a great Dagwood sandwich, and after a few bites and sip of hazelnut coffee, and I was feeling human again. We walked around, checking out some of the crafts stores, and walking down to the pier, and then piled back into the car.
On to Kittery, Maine, by way of route 1. Kittery is a naval town, home of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, but its claim to fame for tourists is the Kittery Outlets. The outlet shops run along the main drag on either side of the street. We only made one stop, at the Kittery Trading Post. It’s an outdoor emporium the size of a mall. Top floor is guns and skis, main floor clothing and Maine-themed souvenirs featuring lobsters, bears and moose, oh my! Never went downstairs to the bottom level, but I was more than satiated with my need for outdoor adventure shopping. They even had a robust selection of items for the RV (or RV-inspired) kitchen.
It was so big, that I cannot even do to justice the scale of the place, easy to get lost and never be seen again. I’m pretty sure they do survival training right in the store by sending you off in Man-vs.Wild style with only the clothes on your back and your camera crew into the selection of 3-D animal targets, to be found later just your skeleton and ragged clothing remains among the tandem kayaks, your jaw bone swung open as if you made one last call for help before expiring.
Finally, we drove the last stretch of 7 miles into the tiny seaside town of Ogunquit, Maine. We barely made it across town lines when we saw a huge marquee for the Ogunquit Playhouse. They had a matinée performance of The Full Monty with special guest Sally Struthers. We hit the brakes immediately, pulled into the parking lot and sent a scout to the Box Office to assess tickets for the 2:30 performance. Success!
Inside the playhouse, the temperature was 100 degrees. The matinée brought out the over 70 crowd. Though the theater itself was well air conditioned, the lobby was like a steam bath, with old ladies fanning themselves, perilously close to losing that last drop of moisture that keeps their skin from cracking like baked sourdough bread left in the oven too long. It was a full twenty minutes before the doors to the auditorium opened, with no relief outside, and less so in the lobby.
But actually, the performance was worth it. The Full Monty is a poorly written musical, but the cast did a good job with it, keeping it light despite some pretty heavy themes. The movie does a better job of telling the story, but maybe that doesn’t matter. The actor’s voices were strong, even with a shitty sound system, and it hit all the right notes of bawdy entertainment and Sally Struthers. Oh yes, her role of the piano-playing, wise-cracking Jeannette was a highlight. They gave her, or wrote in, all the juiciest lines and she delivered each with an enthusiastic punch.
And yet, leaving the theater, it was still 95 degrees, the air as thick as smoke as we drove down to Shore Road, adjacent to the water front. We opted to walk around the little downtown area to read the menus, found the local gay bar where two young strapping bucks sat on the porch and glared at us as we walked in, exalted in the coldest interior in Maine, and then left to triumphal glares of those two swaggering males who knew we didn’t belong there, and knew that we knew. Finally, drenched in sweat and dripping with perspiration, we settled for a nice, air conditioned restaurant called the Five-O that offered lobster and lamb and duck.
It was after eight p.m. before we felt our first breeze of the entire day. The temperature had cool by small degrees making it more tolerable to walk through some more kitsch shops. A lot of Ogunquit is a like a lot of other seaside towns, crafts stores and bakeries and t-shirts and book stores and restaurants. As we made our way home to Waltham, the lightning presaged the downpour which dried up before we made it through New Hampshire.
All in all, it was an exhausting but satisfying adventure. It’s easy to forget that there is a world to explore when you’re stuck in the grind of your daily life. It takes energy to break free from the routine, and even more to bear back down into it. And that’s why, at all times, you need to be well-fed.
Apr 16
AndrewHumor, Travel casino, Gambling, RI, Twin River
Just days before we were heading down to Lincoln, Rhode Island for a night of slot machine fun at Twin River, I saw my first commercial for the newly renovated gambling hall. The ad spot featured a cascade of multi-ethnic middle-aged people dancing to the refrain “Take Me to the River” while blurry images of slot machines and plates of food rushed by in the background.
The commercial’s producers opted to dub the song from an old, deeply-grooved Al Green vinyl that plays that one line from the song in a continuous, tuneless loop. Maybe they didn’t get permission to use the song, or maybe they are just all tone deaf. Whatever the thinking behind the commercial, it comes off painfully amateur. (You can hear the “song” on the property’s website.)
Twin River is the completely renovated gaming property at Lincoln Park. The new owners admitted the need to overhaul the entire property from top to bottom from electrical wiring to the glittering gaming floor to food operations. What it became is a decidedly Rhode Island ghetto version of its Connecticut brethren, Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun. Everything about Twin River is a second generation photocopy of the Connecticut casinos, themselves already copies of Vegas-style mega-resorts.
Driving up to the property, it’s not entirely clear by any signage or even the spectacle of the building that you have arrived. It looks like a warehouse or an airport remote parking lot. Walking through the main entrance is the closest to a Vegas-feel that you get anywhere on the property. You have the canopied valet lanes and then the wide expanse of glass doors leading into the casino and you get a sense of mimicry of what a modern casino tends to be.
The bulk of the casino is what you see immediately on the main floor. Twin River is only slot machines and state scratcher tickets, no table games, no keno balls and no poker tables. It is just rows and rows of modern slot machines that take money in and spit tickets back out. Like most casinos, Twin River doesn’t deal in coin anymore, it’s purely a paper in-paper out system of gambling. For those who aren’t old enough to remember when coin was the currency of slot machines, those were glorious days when your hands turned black and your fingers smelled like metal and you would scoop up all your winnings into a cup and, if you won big, it was a real triumph carrying around eight pounds of quarters. These days you slip the redemption ticket into your jacket pocket and carry it around with you until you’re ready to leave.
It’s easy to be underwhelmed by Twin River. Despite the profusion of slots, they mostly seem the same after a while. Okay maybe that’s true at any casino, but the website specifically touts this distinction: “you’re always one step away from the 3rd largest variety of video slot machines in the nation.” There’s something so weird about being so proud of that. That’s so…Rhode Island. Woohoo! We’re third! Take that Taj Mahal!
Twin River’s distinguishing features included androgynous restrooms, clouds of cigarette smoke, and MILF soccer mom cocktail waitresses. On the casino floor, high above the bank of slots were flat screens displaying sexy hot Paris Hilton videos (oh you read that right, she has more than one -- I’ve seen the proof.) The second floor was restaurant row and another smaller room of slot machines. The restaurant choices were the generic steakhouse, the generic Irish pub, the generic food court, the generic family restaurant and the generic buffet. The food at the generic buffet was actually pretty good. Thumbs up the beef, thumbs down the pasta. Thumbs up the mashed potatoes and pizza, thumbs down, way down, for anything on the dessert tray that wasn’t the ice cream.
We wandered the first floor for a few hours, ate at the buffet and wandered the second floor for a few hours. After a while, it became evident that 200,000 square feet wasn’t as big as it sounds. Maybe I was wrong for comparing it to Mohegan Sun, or even Las Vegas itself. But in the end, Twin River was pretty much just a third-rate gambling experience.
But I’m guessing for the locals, that’s just like first place!
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