“…There was a moment a year ago, as Sandy was already sending water through their town, when the firefighters on Ventnor’s second platoon realized the depths of their own predicaments.”
Super Bowl Mass Transit Meltdown in Secaucus
“…if there was any doubt that New Jersey would leave a lasting impression on these Super Bowl fans (most of whom spent the bulk of their time in New York), that evaporated in the swelter of Secaucus Junction. New Jersey: Where you’re just one commuting disaster away from turning native.”
“…Every mayor of this vexing town deals with its ghosts at some point and maybe that is why they are drawn to very physically take in the entire place every day.”
“How could such a decision, decades in the making, so carefully considered, come down to this?
A sharp twinge of regret, a photograph not taken, an entire spare bedroom of tiny watch parts, a lifetime at the watchmaker’s bench, sold and trucked off to New Hampshire? And no photo!”
“In the end, the Revel ball did not roll off the tower into the ocean, and no buyer emerged in the middle of the night to save the day.
“Instead, Revel merely unraveled through the night to an anticlimactic pre-dawn closing of its moribund casino floor. Employees of Ivan Kane’s Royal Jelly Burlesque Nightclub held a stubbornly spirited after party…”
“The epic swoon of Atlantic City continued Tuesday as Trump Plaza was put out of its stained-carpet, squeaky-revolving-door, no-room-service-center-of-the-Boardwalk misery as its dedicated hospice workers dealt a final hand of blackjack.”
“It was almost like the idle wish of someone on the way to Traffic Court to face yet another $30-a-month levy on top of existing now-to-eternity payment plans:
What if, just for today, all of the judges got arrested?”
“We all kept our trays,” said Suzanne Karlin, 58, who joined Showboat on Day One in 1987, and also worked for Trump Plaza, as they sorted out their own iced teas, sweetened and not, at Vagabond Taproom on the edge of town.”
“Out in the casino diaspora, the workers from Atlantic City tend to want to keep a low profile. They know how it can turn out, turn sour, end abruptly..”
“… It’s an ungodly hour. Unless, of course, you are Bruno Battaglia and your god is the sun. And your sanctuary is the beach. And your time of worship is all day long. Every day. For most of the last 40 years.”
“…for three decades, itinerant bluesy-guitar classic Lynyrd Skynyrd-y Southern rock musician John Gunther, 54, also known as Billy Jack, carrying a lifetime of small heartaches and near misses in a weathered face and worn leopard guitar strap, has played the same songs for many of the same people.”
“…Finally, with his old friend and fellow lifeguard, Assemblyman Jim Whelan, whistling him out of the rough seas of Atlantic City politics by publicly calling for him to resign, Levy threw in the towel.”
“LAS VEGAS — So sure, listening to Miss South Carolina preach the virtues of abstinence from the stage at the Aladdin Casino & Resort is a bit of a disconnect, especially when an escalator ride away, the girls with the Sunset Strip Band are tying themselves up with ropes as their singer oozes out Prince (“You don’t have to be beautiful to turn me on . . .”).”
“All day, I have to admit, I heard Gov. Christie’s words in my ears. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.”
“…And he played the Chopin Aeolian Harp étude in the parlor of the home, just a few blocks from the inlet, a block from the ocean, bringing to life the pale-pink walls where his mother lived until she was beaten to death in 1998 by thugs in the Inlet neighborhood.”
“The full consequences of Hurricane Sandy will be played out in a thousand personal decisions, and for families like the Wosceks, owners of a tiny yellow bungalow on a lagoon, that meant one thing:
For Sale. As Is. (Wrecked by Sandy.)”
“In the art of Thomas Chimes, not to mention the conversation, there’s always a back story, or two or three.
There’s always another idea, another citation, another memory, another theory, another poet or writer or artist to bring toward the surface, then submerge again, behind layers of paint, or layers of ideas, until just barely visible, a reduction.
You see, even at 85, the mind of Thomas Chimes will come easily to a boil – ”
“…No Charlie Brown depressive, Lidge has seemed a true zen goat (11 blown saves) sandwiched, for now, between two slices of hero – one epic (last season’s perfection), one whose epicness is still, as they say, TBD.”
“Can we stop being bitter now? Do we even have to?
Really, what could be better? A world championship, the monkey off the back, the transformation of the psyche of an entire city from beleaguered to anointed, and before the champagne bottle was even popped, fans had something to boo about. (You hear that, Bud Selig?)
In this town, we call that a win-win situation….”
“…Are we ushering in the era of f—? Has the word become acceptable in polite society? Are we ready to lose the asterisks, the “—-,” the $#@!, the dot-dot-dot?”
“For one family, it was three generations of Shore home that had to come tumbling down after Sandy. For another, it was their first house, the children’s handprints newly pressed into concrete…”
“Who needs HBO?
As the cable giant gets ready to broadcast its series Boardwalk Empire, the epic saga of Atlantic City politicians, vice, and dames, the real-life Atlantic City – as if on cue – had one of its regularly occurring convulsions Wednesday when Gov. Christie delivered a jolt to the sagging resort. ”
“…Two years after the Oct. 29 storm, the answer to one of the biggest questions haunting residents, summer folks, and particularly Gov. Christie – would the storm imperil the Shore’s blue-collar character and its working-class affordability? – is coming into focus.”
“One year after the hurricane wrapped in a cold front devastated the Jersey coast, much of the money donated in Sandy’s name and then funneled to local Long Term Recovery Groups remains unspent.”
“The FEMA mobile disaster-recovery station was nothing more than a trailer, a couple of folding tables, some phones, and a lot of people wandering around the parking lot of the Drum Point Elementary School, where a sign that said “Respect” on fading construction paper faced out a window…”
“Sometime in the first quarter Sunday, deep in the snow, Detroit fumble, Eagles ball, the sidelines a blur of comical yet noble white, an announcer wondered.
“Let’s try to figure out how they’re going to get these signals from the side,” he said.
Shall we? That, sports fans, would bring us straightaway to Ventnor, where Jill Cakert, 56, dental hygienist and volunteer softball coach…”
“To think, being an Eagles fan used to require little more than the ability to spell E-A-G-L-E-S.
Now, you have to grapple with the big stuff. …The fan conundrum has become the city’s own morality play, raising mind-bending questions about redemption, human potential and purpose, forgiveness, and pain.”
“Everywhere, reminders. And nowhere. … It was a day when you woke up and if you happened to put on green, you took it off.”
“As usual, the roar of the crowd came first. Then, the explanation.”
“… I could see him in his chair, fist clenched, saying “Atta boy Eli!” to the television, “Atta baby!”
In our family, my father was fan-philosopher-color-commentator-post-game-call-up-and-commiserate-agony-of-defeat-sufferer-in-chief. Surely, you’ve got yours in yours.
Seeing his Giants go all the way, we rejoiced with the bittersweet: Too bad Murray didn’t live to see this. (This notion tempered by the catastrophic Knicks season that followed: thank goodness Murray was spared).”
“…Whether that honest complication gets worn smooth – or muzzled – as the campaign intensifies remains to be seen. (“I’m not stupid,” she said recently in New York. “If someone asks me a question that is relevant and I want to answer it, I will answer it truthfully, directly and diplomatically.”)”
“…”She was leaving my house on Christmas Eve,” recalled Connie Bookbinder, 71, one morning last week. She sat at the kitchen table of her Haverford apartment, surrounded by pictures of the old days, including a couple of John McCain. “She went out of my driveway and turned left.”
It was Carol McCain’s third Christmas while her husband was a POW; ..”