🔥 Margaritaville Resort Casino - Wikipedia

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Margaritaville Resort Casino is a casino hotel in Bossier City, Louisiana. It is owned by Vici Properties and operated by Penn National Gaming, and uses its name under license from Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville.


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horseshoe bossier city.


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Cross the Long-Allen bridge over the Red River to Bossier City, make a left on Bass Pro Road, and suddenly you're in a casino that doubles as.


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Jimmy Buffett is hoping to get approval for a third casino project, this time in Louisiana: The casino would be built on what used to be the city.


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The award-winning Margaritaville Resort Casino Bossier City provides an The parking is horrible, but the buffet is what you go for, snow crabs, seafood.


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Cross the Long-Allen bridge over the Red River to Bossier City, make a left on Bass Pro Road, and suddenly you're in a casino that doubles as.


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Margaritaville Bossier City Resort Casino. Bossier City, LA. View Location · Rooms & Suites · Drinks & Dining · Spa · Offers · Group Events · Terms Of Use.


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Margaritaville Resort Casino: Jimmy Buffett - See traveler reviews, candid photos, and great deals for Bossier City, LA, at Tripadvisor.


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The sale of the Margaritaville Resort Casino in Bossier City the rights to the Jimmy Buffett-founded brand Wednesday morning in federal court.


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I smile expectantly when she turns my way, but she gets distracted by a man who resembles an aging Alex Rodriguez. On a balcony a few stories above me, a plump blond woman in a teal suit smokes a cigarette. The Casino On the ceiling above the roulette and poker tables green and blue glass balls evoke sea foam. A leggy young cocktail waitress with a red flower in her hair makes her way around the pool. If you close your eyes and ignore the service, this might be the good life. This story is over 5 years old. This is my diary from the expedition:. The spirits always move me when I come home. Bruce Springsteen sells out stadiums every time he announces a show, but does he have his own Atlantic City entertainment establishment? This March, the Muscogee Creek Nation of Tulsa announced plans to turn their tribal casino into the fourth Margaritaville, which is due to open in Across the nation, it seems, Americans are eager to embrace the Jimmy Buffett brand of gambling and entertainment complex, just as they have gobbled up his tropical barfly shtick for decades. He strums an acoustic guitar, mumbles into a microphone, and then, his sound check apparently complete, the man disappears. The Pool Bar The DirecTV logo bounces around the inactive flat-screen, a microcosm of the dysfunction or carelessness that runs through all Margaritaville. For one evening, you can pad around in flip-flops, drink by a pool, shrug your shoulders, and listen to some schlub play acoustic guitar. We also made a pilgrimage to his grave on Blanchard Latex Road, in Mooringsport, just shy of the Texas border. Jimmy Buffett could have written more complex songs, the Margaritaville Resort Casino could have been a better, more interesting vacation spot—but that might have challenged somebody or made somebody slightly uncomfortable. I think about Lead Belly, who grew up outside Shreveport. I sip my beer in the lukewarm hot tub until the can is empty. As my Corona trunks billow with the bubbles, the light in the hot tub changes gradually from purple to green to blue. They love his shit. Things break, people wait way too long for their drinks. Turning towards Shreveport, I watch a speedboat cut a skinny wake through the Red River, while countless swallows fill the dusk sky. I put my things down, change into a pair of gold Corona swim trunks and flip-flops, and head back downstairs. Buffett gives the people what they desire most, which is corny rhymes and theme-park dinners. Nothing here works quite like it should. The hotel tower itself is relatively unremarkable—another monument to gambling and consumption in a town full of them—aside from a three-story panel of palm leaves running between balconies. After Chris and Karen push off, I turn my attention back to the stage. They probably never thought of it. MJ was an otherworldly talent with choreographed sneers, ambiguous sexuality, and technical perfection. They are white, trim, look to be in their late 40s and, I learn, are from Shreveport. The Louisiana flag flies from the rusty roof of the Bass Pro Shop down the street. Poolside The view of Shreveport from here is outstanding. The Greatest Airport in America. The casino is different, more PG. Check-In The staff at the desk seem flustered. A man wearing a denim shirt and a Springsteen-style red bandana takes the stage at the far end of the dining room and sits on a stool. The wicker-trimmed furniture suggests a vaguely tropical theme, as does the wallpaper, but I imagine the architects who designed the place figured no one would spend much time in the rooms. He wears Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts every day. We went on a vacation once to the Maryland shore featuring day after day of Buffett. Last year, some friends of theirs took them to a Buffett show in Columbus, Ohio, and they were shocked at the amount of partying.

Another description jimmy buffett casino bossier city call Buffett money-hungry and creatively bankrupt—a songwriter peddling bland, unobjectionable good-times tunes to over-the-hill office workers who fantasize about being burnouts.

This is understandable, as they have less than two weeks of operations under their belt and the kinks in the learn more here are still getting worked out. From my stool at the tiki-style bar, I watch folks eat papery burgers in booths mounted into the decks of fishing boats.

Three bartenders move busily behind the counter, all clad in lime-green shirts, the two males in straw fedoras. Beyond the obvious answer give Joe Jackson timethere's an instructive comparison to be drawn between the two entertainers. I wait a few minutes and decide to explore the rest of the complex.

Oct 31pm.

Jimmy Buffet? Someone had blessed Lead Belly with a new black marble gravestone etched with an engraving of a guitar that sat behind a wrought iron fence. Two dudes, one in a cowboy hat, descend the stairs to the pool deck, then head back up. To this day, I really fucking hate Jimmy Buffet. Jimmy Buffett had a better business plan than the Eagles and he never changed. Up on the pool deck, a family frolics in the water and I take a fresh towel from the attendant, who seems tired. Lead Belly never had his own casino. What could be better than that? A jackrabbit dashed past us into the woods. Add the Eagles to the list of bands who never built a casino. An elderly lady in front of me turns and asks if this is where we get chips. Above them the ceiling is covered in a map of the Caribbean, with twinkly lights designating ports of call. The other graves were humble. A young couple make out softly on a red lounge chair near the pool. I get the fuck out of there. Behind the desk three exquisitely pruned rose bushes hang suspended in an amber-lit glass box. He avoided conflict and built a marketable myth. Nor did they take that step to become characters, relatable, bankable. I wondered. Positioning my back against a jet, I sip my Corona and look up at the Margaritaville sign, which glows in alternating tropical colors, then ripples in rainbow pattern, then repeats. He will build of these casinos all over America if he can, and they will be here towering over the landscape long after the Beatles or the Clash have faded from memory. Not for the dread pirate Buffett. I order a Margarita, and Finch pours me straight tequila with a lime. I went to this latest incarnation of Buffett, which may very well outlive the man himself, in June, just two weeks after it opened its doors to guests and gamblers. I was on my fifth business trip in six months to Shreveport-Bossier, where there are seven casinos clustered in a metropolitan area of , What promise did it herald? The rich red carpet is covered in a pattern of parrots and plants. Margaritaville Cafe The couple next to me share a pasty quesadilla. The sky is clear, the air is warmer than the water, and I admire this little island refuge. The cemetery sits behind a spare brick church. When my wife joined me in Shreveport last month, we ventured down Texas Street, a big empty avenue running through downtown. As an experience, though, it has its strengths. All he asked of his listeners was that they relax, pay the cover, buy a T-shirt, and pretend there was sand between their toes. What would paradise look like in Bossier City? Oktoberfest in Iraq Was Super Fun. Driving with the Female Street Racers of Palestine. He sends her for matches to light his big cigar. If nothing works, at least the scenery is nice. A scaled-down model of a seaplane hangs above the tables and a volcanic mountainside takes up one wall. But the customers here are mostly satisfied to sit in this crowded, tacky, plastic place. The three bros behind me keep asking about their shrimp while two couples look plaintively at the bartender. People do it all day long on social media. The Rolling Stones are a marketing machine, but do they have their own casino? A large poster of the blues legend hung from a would-be nightclub, showing him leaning against two barrels in his overalls, a bandana around his neck, acoustic guitar on his lap. I was that age when you take music way too seriously, but they were nice people and I managed to bear it while gritting my teeth. It is easy to talk about how shitty America is, how vapid its distractions and icons. Their music lent itself well to middle-aged pleasures, dreams of the West Coast, wind in your hair, taking it easy. There must be at least a chain restaurant in there, right? All around us, the tables and barstools are full.