Return to Sender: Phillyist at The House of Booze Blues

• 6PM: After a quick change, we find ourselves in The Foundation Room, the slightly exclusive and very expensive members-only (except for when it isn't) lounge/folk art museum right across the hall from the House of Blues concert venue. I consider stealing the centuries-old statue of Ganesh, think better of it, and decide to stuff myself instead. I'm so full from expensive wine and my first two courses (lobster and shrimp bisque thickened with rice instead of flour, followed by a delicious cheese plate), that I can't even get halfway through my dry-aged New York strip. Pity. It was delicious.
• 9PM: We head back downstairs. The casino floor is really hopping and our group tries to convince Showboat to open a blackjack table exclusively for the bloggers. While we are waiting for this to happen, Ross loses more money at a non-exclusive blackjack table, so we decide to cut our losses and head back upstairs to HOB, where The Wallflowers are playing. I have no doubt that we'll be bored, but by this point, I've been in high heels for nearly twelve hours, we're running out of cash, and hey, I had a crush on Jakob Dylan... twelve years ago. Can't be all that bad, right?
• 10:30PM:Wrong. We didn't even stick around long enough to hear "One Headlight." (At least they played "Sixth Avenue Heartache.") We head downstairs. No time to wait for a table to lose more money; this time, we just watch.
• 11PM: Load up the limos, boys and girls! We're headed across town to the Marina, where Harrah's self-titled hotel and casino is located. Why? For Tila Tequila's sold-out pool party, of course! Yep, you heard me. Tila Tequila, everyone's favorite bisexual MySpace slut, is actually popular enough to sell out a party. We, the bloggers, are not fans—but the party does make for prime people-watching. Plus, the new pool area at Harrah's is gorgeous. Too bad there was a whole lotta ugly blocking our view of it.
• 11:30PM: Can't. Take. Any. More. The limos aren't available yet, so we get on the shuttle to head back to Showboat.
• Midnight: Jesus, whose bright idea was it to get on the shuttle? That took forever. I definitely fell asleep—I know this because my contacts are completely dry and I can't open my eyes all the way. I'm spent, so I decide to head up to our room. Ross isn't quite as tired as I am, so he stays downstairs with the other bloggers to play some poker.
• 12:05AM: Ho-lee crap. I kiss Ross goodnight and head toward the elevator bank. There's a none-too-sober guy leaning into one of the cars, holding it while he talks to his friends. I notice his cowboy hat. A thought enters my mind: "Interesting. House of Blues must be selling hats like Jakob Dylan's in their gift shop." I make my way toward the elevator, seeing as the door is still open, and the be-hatted fellow laughs, turns, and almost collides with me. He reaches for my shoulder, misses. And then I notice the eyes. Jakob Dylan is standing there, drunk, groping the air a few inches from my shoulder, and trying to apologize while simultaneously trying to stop laughing at whatever amused him in the first place. I tell him it's okay. I want to call my best friend from home, Danielle, and tell her that Jakob Dylan almost touched me. He might have been boring onstage that night, but still. Some crushes never die completely.
• 12:06AM:I get on the elevator that Jakob Dylan had been leaning into. Two girls and an older guy are there, trying to remember what room the party is in. Part of me really wants to go. Most of me really wants to go to bed. Guy says to me: "I like your trench coat. Is it [insert brand I've never heard of]?" I say no, not feeling the need to expound upon that by admitting that my broke ass bought the coat for thirty bucks at H&M. The girls tell him to leave me alone. "What?" he asks. "It looks a lot like mine. Only mine has darts... and epaulets." I am trying with everything I have not to crack up, and apparently I'm making a face that reads as "anger." One of the girls tells the guy that I probably hate him. I assure him that I don't. This is the longest eleven floors ever.
• 9:30AM: Okay, so even though our room wasn't quite as posh as the House of Blues suite we'd had lunch in, I just have to say that hotel curtains are glorious. It is pitch-black, and all I want to do is go back to sleep. But my stomach is grumbling. Guess I should've eaten more of my steak.
• 10AM: Does the fact that are were less interested in our brunch at the Mansion Cafe than we were in our mimosas make us alcoholics or picky eaters? Both, probably.
• 11AM: Our limo back to Philadelphia won't be here for another hour. We head downstairs, think about playing a few hands of blackjack, think better of it, and cash in our chips before we change our minds.
• Noon: I'm kind of disappointed that we don't have a stretch limo to take us back to Philly, but surprisingly, the Lincoln Town Car actually affords Ross's size fifteens (you know what they say about a guy with freakishly huge feet...) more room. We settle in as the driver puts on a muzak version of Stevie Wonder's greatest hits and coast home, a little buzzed from our mimosas, a lot tired for the day before... and totally eager to do it again.

In conclusion, Atlantic City, thanks to the fine folks at Harrah's, I've learned how much fun I can have when I go visit you. But even if we hadn't been spoiled by hoteliers who wanted us to say something nice about them, I still would have had a great weekend. And so it's safe to say that I will be coming back. Sure, I'll still make fun of the chain-smoking bluehairs in the slot parlors. Sure, the image of some of the really large women poured into slinky summer sundresses at the pool party may be indelibly etched into my mind. (To the chick in the leopard print dress: your friends clearly hate you if they let you go out like that.) Sure, I'll continue to laugh and nod in agreement anytime anybody calls you dirty. But I'm also glad that you're only an hour away. Maybe next time I'll even play some poker.

Image via Flickr user Kamoteus.