From the South Florida Sun-Sentinel
24 hours at the Hard Rock: A Timeline adventure
T.M. Shine pulls a Dontrelle Willis and lives at the Hard Rock … for one day and night, anyway … without a room.
by T.M. Shine
April 12 2006
Rumba or samba?
-- guy in Hard Rock parking garage
10:10 a.m.: Lucky Street is closed.
10:10:23 a.m.: The flashing road sign is telling drivers to detour to Seminole Way. Lucky Street's being shut down must be a bad omen to the thousands of people heading into the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino for the weekend. But I don't really care about the roll of the dice. I'm here to take in the whole experience -- to see if once you are on the grounds of the Hard Rock, you ever need to leave.
10:12 a.m.: The hotel is sold-out for the weekend, with the exception of a $549-a-night room on Saturday, but I figure I can go 24 hours with just a quick nap in a comfortable chair. "I once crashed right on a massage table out by the pool," a woman told me. "I had an audience when I woke up, because my dress had kind of fallen apart. But I slept like a koala and kept going for another 48 hours." That's the spirit. That's what I'm looking for.
10:14 a.m.: I'm early enough to get an ideal parking spot on the third floor of the free parking garage. It overlooks the pool.
10:14:33 a.m.: I remove a bottle of sunscreen from my suitcase and check myself out in the rearview, side and visor mirrors. My fashion coordinator told me to start with shorts and a T-shirt, then switch to jeans later in the day and eveningwear after midnight. "Black pants. Do you have black pants?" she asked.
10:15 a.m.: I have it all. I'm prepared to live at the Hard Rock, just like Florida Marlins pitcher Dontrelle Willis reportedly did for months -- only I'll be living out of my car instead of a tower suite.
10:50 a.m.: Go by the pool bar and ask the bartender, Kevin, if the house has a low tolerance for novices at the poker tables. I'm a little nervous. "The dealers get more annoyed with the drunks who slow down the game," he says. "But if you don't know what you're doing, that can be disturbing, too. They need to keep the game moving. That's their job."
10:51 a.m.: Try to decide whether I want to be seen as a drunk or just a novice at the poker tables.
11:04 a.m.: Get a drink from Kevin and walk by the pool, which is open only to hotel guests. Ask server with red pigtails if it's OK to sit on one of the chaise longues. "Yeah, until they catch you." Can I just say I'm staying at the hotel? I ask. "Yeah, but then they'll ask you for your wristband, so you should act surprised and say, 'Oh, where do I get my wristband?' Then, when they point you to the wristbands, just get up and go. Disappear."
11:05 a.m.: Sit on chaise longue.
11:22 a.m.: Spot some chickee-hut cabanas that come with a 32-inch flat-screen TV, a mini-fridge and a butler. I think I'll sleep in one tonight.
11:44 a.m.: Figure if I'm going to play poker, I should do it early. Play with the nooners, probably less pressure.
12:04 p.m.: Head inside but lose my nerve at the last second and go straight to the slot machines.
12:07 p.m.: The slot machines have lame names such as Cleopatra, Enchanted Forest, Cash Cow and Lady Luck. Nothing is worse than seeing a grown-ass man playing the Baby Penguin slot machine.
12:10 p.m.: Go with the Killer Bees. I like the honey pots.
12:11 p.m.: Plus, the whole row of machines is empty.
12:15 p.m.: Until she shows up. She has what can only be described as casino-bus hair and is wearing a giant panda bear T-shirt that extends below her knees. And she's smoking -- Viceroys. I didn't even think you could get Viceroys anymore.
12:20 p.m.: I've been hitting the button that puts the revolving bees on automatic pilot, but the woman tells me I'm going about it all wrong.
12:21 p.m.: Why do people always assume I don't know what I'm doing? People will come up to me when I'm pumping gas and say, "You look like you could use some help there." Notice to people: I know what I'm doing.
12:22 p.m.: I don't know what I'm doing.
12:24 p.m.: To placate the Viceroy lady, I start pounding the slot machine's buttons like a 4-year-old attacking the keys of a Fisher-Price piano.
12:25 p.m.: "Fool," she says, giggling at me.
12:27 p.m.: I'm down $8 and surrounded by so much smoke it's as if the Enchanted Forest is on fire. I can't believe that with at least 200 other machines open throughout the casino, she has to crowd me. "Don't you just love the honey pots?" she asks.
12:28 p.m.: No, not anymore. I hate the honey pots now.
12:30 p.m.: I get up, but I'm so frazzled I can't even think about going straight to the poker tables. See a pamphlet that reads, "Escape into total tranquility," and I have an epiphany, kind of like the one Pedro had in Napoleon Dynamite when he spotted the class elections sign over the water fountain at Preston High School.
12:42 p.m.: Head for spa.
12:50 p.m.: I tell Magda, the spa greeter, that I just want to soak in something. I don't care what it is: mud, chocolate … . The menu includes something called the Man Package, but after playing the slots, I'm not worthy of that. I just want to soak. "We can put you in a hydrotherapy tub," Magda offers. Perfect. "Do you have any bottoms?" she asks. Huh? "A bathing suit?" Oh yeah, I have everything in the car. I'll go get it.
1:04 p.m.: On way back from the car, I stop at the poker check-in area to ask where I'd sign up. A tiny woman grabs me by the arm and says, "I can take you right now." No, no, I was just inquiring, I say. I'm not ready yet. I have to take a soak first. I'm not lying. Look, I have my bottoms, I say, holding up my bathing suit.
1:05 p.m.: She lets go of my arm.
1:25 p.m.: Check in with a woman named Natasha at spa. "You're just having a soak, yes?" she asks. Yes.
1:48 p.m.: Upstairs, Marian helps me into a tub, and I gaze up at a ceiling of fake stars. Decide to use the downtime to think about things I never have the time to think about.
2:07 p.m.: Like, I don't want people saying "chicken Parm" anymore. There's no reason to shorten that. If you have time for chicken Parmesan, you have time to say "chicken Parmesan."
2:18 p.m.: Stop thinking about chicken Parmesan.
2:22 p.m.: Think about how when I was heading to the Hard Rock this morning, I almost pulled into the South Florida Hindu Temple on Griffin Road because it has a similar theme-park look. I bet you can soak there, too.
2:30 p.m.: Start wondering if I'm the only one worrying about Jason Mewes of Jay and Silent Bob fame. I never see him in anything. The tabloids don't write about his heroin problem anymore. I'd even be willing to green-light Dogma 2 if it would bring him back. I'd just like to know that he's OK.
2:34 p.m.: When my tub time is up, I start to get out, but Marian says, "Wait, wait!" My bath slippers are pointing in the wrong direction. Marion bends down and turns them around.
2:35 p.m.: I will never forget that.
2:40 p.m.: Shit, I'm all pruney. At work, people asked what my poker name was going to be, and now, I'm sure I'm going to get stuck with Pruney. "Wow, Pruney's got a full house."
2:45 p.m.: "Terry, here is a plastic bag for your wet bathing suit," Marian says.
2:47 p.m.: Walk through casino with my wet bottoms in a diaper bag.
3:02 p.m.: Start to understand how everyone uses the casino's memorabilia displays as landmarks. Like the best restrooms -- the ones with the leopard-print mats -- are by Tom Jones' shoes. It's not uncommon to hear someone yell, "Meet me in a half-hour by Richie Sambora's pants!" or "Don't forget: Buddy Holly's sweater, 10:30 sharp!"
3:36 p.m.: Leave wet bottoms near Barry White's slippers while I head to the poker tables.
3:40 p.m.: Yesterday, the boss spent a good amount of time tutoring me in the rules and etiquette of the poker tables -- the dealer chip, the little blind and the big blind. But now, I realize I didn't ask the most important question: What about when you want to leave? I know it's a social deficiency that before I even begin something my main question is, "How do I leave?" But shit! How do you leave?
3:50 p.m.: Make phone call to boss. What do you do when you want to stop playing? "Are you playing right now?" he asks. No, no. But I need to know. "Oh, you just get up and walk away. Don't even have to say goodbye to anybody," he says.
3:51 p.m.: Don't even have to say goodbye?
3:51:14 p.m.: "Don't even have to say goodbye."
4:09 p.m.: The dealer is too old for her hairdo, and she keeps looking at me over her glasses. The woman to my left has fake nails, and fake nails make me sad, especially when one is missing.
4:10 p.m.: Two are missing.
4:12 p.m.: One guy keeps saying "gravy" every time a fresh card is dealt. Please, tell me gravy is not a real poker term.
4:18 p.m.: The game is a blur. I just keep putting chips in. To me, the dealer chip moving around the table is like that giant boulder rolling toward Indiana Jones. This game is going to crush me. It's not that my skills are lacking; it's just that the people are distracting.
4:21 p.m.: I can't stop staring at the guy with the handlebar mustache. No man should wear a mustache that is broader than his shoulders.
4:28 p.m.: I try to take on the John Malkovich persona from Rounders, but doing the accent in my head is throwing me off even more. "Two ni-yens."
4:31 p.m.: I'm already down to two chips out of the 20 I started with. If I have to meet a raise in the next hand, I don't know what I'll do. I'm definitely not buying more chips. There's no reason to prolong this. Fake Fingernails is biting on one of her fake fingernails now. I have two fours -- one spade, one heart and … I just felt a trickle of sweat. I forgot to go back to the car and reapply deodorant after my soak.
4:32 p.m.: I'm sweating Viceroy smoke.
4:34 p.m.: Get up and walk away. Don't even say goodbye.
4:40 p.m.: Look on my checklist of other things people told me to do after gambling loses its allure.
4:41 p.m.: At the top of the list is a note from the boss that when Scarlett's, a nearby strip club, closes at 4 or 5 a.m., all the dancers congregate at the Center Bar in the middle of the casino. I'm not really into naked women, but I don't want to pass up the opportunity to see women who normally work in the nude wearing clothes.
4:42 p.m.: But that's hours away.
4:50 p.m.: Go out to retail area and stare at the motorcycle gas tanks at Hollywood Choppers and think about love and loss and goals and dreams that lead to drinking and self-destruction.
5:10 p.m.: Check that off the list.
5:41 p.m.: Find pigtailed server by the pool and ask her, I know I can't swim in the pool if I'm not a guest, but is it OK to just, like, stick my head in? You know, just for a quick freshening up. "I don't care if you stick your head in the pool," she says.
5:42 p.m.: Stick head in pool.
6:18 p.m.: Eat a Mad Anthony's Grilled Skirt Steak brushed with Michael Anthony of Van Halen's Mad Anthony Steak Sauce.
6:48 p.m.: Pay check. Pocket fork.
6:50 p.m.: The server brings me some wet wipes that are the absolute best. They're called Diamond Wipes. I take an extra one to use in place of a shower later on.
7:06 p.m.: Go by the elevators, which are heavily guarded. Ask elevator guard if she knows what room Dontrelle Willis lived in and if it's going to be, like, the Dontrelle Willis Suite now, because I know the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach has a Sinatra Suite with a little plaque outside the room. "I haven't seen any plaques," she admits.
7:40 p.m.: While at the car reapplying deodorant, I notice a bunch of people are wandering onto their balconies to take in the view. One happy couple waves to me when they notice me illuminated on my parking garage balcony overlooking the pool. I wave back excitedly.
7:51 p.m.: Wish I had a big piece of poster board so I could hold up a sign to them that reads, "HEY, CAN YOU GET ME IN THE ELEVATORS SO I CAN FIND THE DONTRELLE WILLIS SUITE?"
7:57 p.m.: There are too many pictures of Sugar Ray around here.
8:01 p.m.: Go by Legends Theater to see what time the female impersonators show will begin but am told they haven't been doing it since Hurricane Wilma. Did we lose a lot of female impersonators during the hurricane?
8:12 p.m.: Buy a ticket to the Warriors Boxing match at Hard Rock Live. Attendant gives me a tiny towel about the size of a Kevin Federline do-rag to wave and tells me if I get bored, I can come and go as much as I want.
8:38 p.m.: They're between fights, so I get my hand stamped and head across the way to 88's Dueling Piano Bar, where two guys are in the middle of performing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light."
8:40 p.m.: Decide this will be the perfect contrast. I can go back and forth between fighters' spitting blood and piano duelers' singing stuff like Elton John songs.
8:43 p.m.: Matthew Thirlwall pummels his opponent so bad that the referee stops the fight at 1:40 in the sixth round.
8:55 p.m.: Everyone is swaying with hands in the air, singing, "Bye, bye, Miss American Pie." Wave my boxing towel.
9:17 p.m.: Instead of a robe, one of the fighters is wearing a Miami Dolphins jersey. They call him the Ding-a-ling Man.
9:40 p.m.: "Cracklin' Rosie get on board … "
9:53 p.m.: Boxer goes flying under the ropes.
10:06 p.m.: "Bad, bad Leroy Brown/The baddest man in the whole … "
11:04 p.m.: Head to car. Skip jeans phase and go straight to eveningwear.
11:20 p.m.: Watch woman in a beige leotard fall off the bull at Tequila Ranch. Twice.
11:23 p.m.: It's funnier the second time.
11:46 p.m.: Inside Pangaea, a woman is dancing on the bar. The entrance is roped off, and a few stragglers are forming more of a huddle than a line. As I approach, the doorman says, "$20." No, there aren't enough people in your line, I tell him. I move on down the strip but make note to put on my expense report, "$20 for entry to Pangaea."
12:16 a.m.: I prefer the pool bar anyway, which has turned rowdy. The caves and waterfalls behind the bar have taken on a crazed, funhouse atmosphere.
12:20 a.m.: Some sort of weird game of adult tag is going on, and one girl is throwing up. A friend who is comforting her says, "Maybe we should get something to eat. You'll feel better."
12:33 a.m.: A gang of spring breakers is jammed into the cave restroom like middle schoolers hanging out in a boy's bedroom. Trevor is sitting on the sink, and Ryan tells him he just has to calm down.
12:35 a.m.: "Don't fucking preach to me," Trevor says. "This is the question: How can we make this night even better?" No one seems to know. I certainly don't. So far, this has been the greatest day of my life. "Come on!" Trevor yells.
12:37 a.m.: Well, maybe the dueling 88s could have played "Bennie and the Jets."
1:12 a.m.: Go by Passion nightclub. A real line has formed -- guy with a clipboard, the whole bit. Get right in line. Two women are discussing staying overnight at the hotel. "Why not? Let's do it," one says. As far as I know, the hotel is sold-out, I mention. "Are you staying at the hotel?" they ask me. No, no, I say. I'm staying in my car, but I have a great parking spot overlooking the pool on the third floor.
1:31 a.m.: When I reach the front of the line, I jump to get the first word in. List tonight, huh? I observe. "You on the list?" the doorman asks. I don't know; let's check, I say. "What's the name?" Terry Shine. "OK, which list would you be on?"
1:33 a.m.: We both smile, and he looks me up and down. I know what he's thinking: "This guy is going to add something. I don't know what. It may not be fashion or charisma or cash at the bar, but heck, I got a feeling about this guy. He's going to add something."
1:43 a.m.: Add nothing.
1:52 a.m.: See lots of guys with Garnier Fructis hair.
2:12 a.m.: An erotic electronica vibe is running through the whole place. Several women are dancing and rubbing against the refrigerator-size amps and speakers. They're having sound-system sex.
2:34 a.m.: Subtract myself.
2:53 a.m.: Intoxication is at an extreme level at this point, but in a good way -- more swaying than stumbling, more laughing than arguing.
3:01 a.m.: A certain drunken giddiness is in the air that you get only at the best resorts. But one thing keeps puzzling me: How does a person who's totally wasted resist the fun to be had with all the rock memorabilia decorating the walls? It's all in glass cases, but so are fire extinguishers, and we bust them out all the time for spring break fun. Why aren't people running through the caves in Peter Frampton's jumpsuit at 2 in the morning? I've had only a few Heinekens, and it's all I can do to stop myself from pulling a smash-and-grab and streaking through the casino wearing nothing but Slash's top hat.
3:03 a.m.: I guess the answer is that when it comes to rock memorabilia, we are a much more civilized and respectful people than the universe gives us credit for.
4:04 a.m.: Go by Center Bar. No Scarlett's dancers, but a guy is giving piggyback rides.
4:05 a.m.: I pass.
4:07 a.m.: Return to the slots, and a Little Green Men machine jumps out at me. It starts its normal revolutions, but then, the screen goes black and fills with flying saucers I'm supposed to touch. Each of the spaceships blinks with a higher total, and before I know it, I've won $32.20.
4:17 a.m.: Buy a pack of Viceroys with winnings.
4:18 a.m.: Damn elevator guards!
4:20 a.m.: Stop in the lobby to look at the Pontiac Solstice you can win, and a gentleman in a brown sweatsuit runs up to me. "You win it, you sell it for cash quick. Nice car but get the cash," he advises. "Don't even take one drive in it. Don't be tempted. This is South Florida. Somebody with no insurance will run you off the road, and then, you're screwed."
4:21 a.m.: With that advice, I decide to look for a place to crash. The pool area is completely closed-off now, so I head toward the parking garage.
4:24 a.m.: Guy coming across the parking lot staggers toward me and says, "Hey buddy, if you had to choose, rumba or samba?" What? "If your life depended on it."
4:24:24 a.m.: Rumba.
4:28 a.m.: When I get to the car, I take out the fork I stole from the restaurant. I once read about this Chinese emperor who existed on almost zero sleep. What he'd do is sit in a comfortable chair with a fork dangling from his fingertips. When he dozed off, it would slip from his hand and wake him when it hit the ground. He'd sleep only from the second the fork left his hand until it hit the ground, but he claimed that's all a human being really needed to be completely refreshed.
4:29 a.m.: It may seem odd to get into my pajamas for only 10 seconds of Chinese rest, but that's the way I am. Put on my moose-print flannels.
4:30 a.m.: The fork will hit only carpet if I drop it in the car. So I try to get into a comfortable position with my arm dangling out the car door so the fork will hit concrete upon release.
4:32 a.m.: Almost settled in when a dog starts barking. Who the hell brought a dog to the Hard Rock? I get up, put my robe on and walk outside. Two spaces down is a minivan with the windows cracked and a pointy-snouted collie barking his head off. I break off a piece of a trail-mix bar, and that quiets him for a minute. But then, he's right back at it.
4:33 a.m.: This isn't going to work.
4:34 a.m.: Start car and drive to top level of parking garage. Can't get a spot overlooking the pool. They're all booked for the night, but I get one in front and stroll out to see what kind of view I have. I'm right in line with the backside of the big guitar, and cars are still streaming in down Seminole Way. I love this place. I look up at the night sky, say a prayer for the pretender who started out so young and strong only to surrender, get into the car and lie on the back seat.
4:35 a.m.: Open left rear door just wide enough to slip my wrist and the fork through.
4:37 a.m.: Can still hear the dog, but I'm cool with it. It sounds more like a wolf in the distance than a collie in a minivan.
6:10 a.m.: Wake up clutching the fork to my bosom like a teddy bear.
6:12 a.m.: Put my clothes on and head back out. Leave car unlocked in case the maid comes by.
6:13 a.m.: I hope I run into someone I haven't seen in a long time so I can tell him, "Hey, I live at the Hard Rock now."
6:16 a.m.: Every restroom I pass is blocked off with cones. In front of every set of cones are, like, three guys arguing with the bathroom attendant to let them in. "For God's sake, please, my brother."
6:20 a.m.: Eat at The Blue Plate restaurant. Order a grilled cheese, tomato and bacon sandwich with an orange juice and a Coke.
6:24 a.m.: Read the Seminole Tribune. "Jewel Buck, Bird Clan, is the new 2006 Brighton Seminole Princess."
6:33 a.m.: Food arrives. It has been too long since I started a day with a pickle.
7:31 a.m.: Head into casino. Stop to marvel at Barry White's slippers one more time.
9:40 a.m.: I still feel groggy. Some people drink coffee to get themselves going, but no jolt is more powerful than standing outside your car in the parking garage and stepping into yesterday's wet bathing suit.
9:54 a.m.: I'm determined to get to the pool and go down the water slide. I believe that if you walk with a purposeful stride, no one will block your path. You just keep moving. That's always a deterrent. Swift strides. Eyes ahead. Bath slippers pointed in the right direction.
10:02 a.m.: Take the plunge. Every twist and turn down the slide feels as if I've done it before. And you know I have. I was born here. I may not have a hotel suite, but if I'm not a guest of the Hard Rock, I don't know who is. I've staked my claim.
10:04 a.m.: All I have to dry myself off is my 18-inch promotional boxing towel from the night before, but it will do.
10:05 a.m.: I skip the chaise longues and head straight for the $350-a-day chickee cabanas. There is no reason to leave the Hard Rock. It provides an oasis of perfection for everyone, from overnight truckers to 22-year-old court reporters who like to have sound-system sex. The only suggestion for improvement I have to make is to stagger the 6:30 a.m. bathroom cleanings, since that's when most of us who sleep in our cars wake up.
10:10 a.m.: I have plenty of reasons to return here -- two of them being to see the fountain-and-light show over the lagoon and the naked women wearing clothes at the Center Bar.
10:12 a.m.: If I have any regret, it's that I'm bad at the one game in which you don't have to say goodbye.
10:17 a.m.: I spread my tiny towel out on the hardwood chaise longue under the chickee hut. I try to look as if I don't belong here, which for me, is almost as easy as looking as if I don't know what I'm doing. I've determined that, with no valid reason to ever leave the Hard Rock, the only way to exit it is to be run off.
10:21 a.m.: None of the staff pays any attention to me until I start fiddling with the plasma-screen TV. "Sir, is this yours for the day?" someone asks me. No, no. "Are you a guest at the hotel? If you are, you need a wristband." Oh, I forgot. Where do I go to get that?
10:22 a.m.: He points me in one direction.
10:22:04 a.m.: I go the opposite way.
Up next: 24 hours at the South Florida Hindu Temple.
Copyright © 2008, South Florida Sun-Sentinel
