#survive block island meltdown
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monarchisms · 2 years ago
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[from episode 1 of survive block island: meltdown | timestamp is 4:43]
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greatereremily · 2 years ago
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The last episode of Survive Block Island was absolutely buckwild, I feel so bad for Lexi, especially because I don’t think that Jack is going to get very far. The only way for Lexi to be properly avenged is for Jack to convince Fooya away from being Michaels pawn and get him out which I just don’t think will happen, and even then he could have a totem.
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sleepysera · 2 years ago
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6.7.22 Headlines
WORLD NEWS
Sri Lanka: PM requests patience as UN calls for relief funds (AP)
“Sri Lanka’s prime minister said Tuesday that the United Nations has arranged a worldwide appeal to help the island nation cope with critical shortages of food, fuel and medicines, but the projected funds barely scratch the surface of the $6 billion it needs to stay afloat over the next six months. In a speech to Parliament, Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe said the U.N. seeks to provide $48 million in assistance over a four-month period.”
Germany: Merkel defends approach to Ukraine (AP)
“Angela Merkel defended her approach to Ukraine and Russia during her 16 years as Germany’s leader, saying Tuesday that a much criticized 2015 peace deal for eastern Ukraine bought Kyiv precious time and she won’t apologize for her diplomatic efforts. In her first substantial comments since leaving office six months ago, Merkel said there was “no excuse” for Russia’s “brutal” attack on Ukraine and it was “a big mistake on Russia’s part.””
United Kingdom: Doubts hang over Johnson though bid to oust him fails (AP)
“British Prime Minister Boris Johnson scrambled to patch up his tattered authority on Tuesday after surviving a no-confidence vote that exposed his shrinking support in a fractured Conservative Party and raised serious doubts about how long he can stay in office. The fact that the vote was held at all highlighted concerns that the famously people-pleasing Johnson has become a liability with voters.”
US NEWS
Capitol Riot: Hundreds charged with crimes in Capitol attack (AP)
“More than 800 people across the U.S. have been charged in the Jan. 6 riot at the U.S. Capitol, which left officers bloodied and sent lawmakers into hiding, and federal authorities continue to make new arrests practically every week. The charges against members of the angry pro-Trump mob range from low-level misdemeanors for those who only entered the Capitol to felony seditious conspiracy charges against far-right extremists.”
Philadelphia Shooting: 2nd person in custody in deadly weekend gunfire (AP)
“Police officers patrolling the South Street area in central Philadelphia at about 11:30 p.m. Saturday raced to the scene after hearing multiple shots and found several people with gunshot wounds lying on the sidewalk and in the street. Seeing a man on a corner firing a handgun at people about half a block away, one officer opened fire, and that man dropped his handgun onto the sidewalk and fled, authorities said.”
US Congress: Crypto meltdown is wake-up call for many, including Congress (AP)
“The Terra episode publicly exposed a truth long-known in the always-online crypto community: for every digital currency with staying power, like bitcoin, there have been hundreds of failed or worthless currencies in crypto’s short history. So Terra became just the latest “sh—coin” — the term used by the community to describe coins that faded into obscurity.”
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nyxthecolonialmewtwo · 4 years ago
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Are showers working?
Nyx makes a “wut?” expression, but replies: “On the colony? Yes, those are kinda necessary for the long-term hygiene and comfort. We even have bathtubs in some apartments and two municipal swimming pools, which are stationed on the very equator of the colony, 180 degrees away from eachother to keep the hab-sphere balanced without overstressing mass trim system.” She chuckles. “I remember, how surprised the science team was with my love for swimming. Arceus be my witness, I really love it. When me, Ambs and dad went to visit the Von Braun city on the Moon, which doubled as a breech for the Lunar Mass Driver 1, that’s used to supply colony with resources, I’ve refused to leave the local swimming pool up until the management decided to drain the pool… and then, when I’ve blocked the drains off with telekinesis, they’ve called in the heavy artillery - my dad.” Nyx looks nostalgically. “Strictly speaking, Chief Colony Commander Sebastian Cornwell isn’t my biological dad and even Ambs… Amber isn’t his biological daughter - we are both colonial lab-borns. She even had a different name before she was adopted by Cornwells, but her original dad died on the Earth in an incident and original mom rejected her… She was sure lucky to have Sebastian and Veronica adopt her in their family.” The young-ish Mewtwo sighs, reminiscing something, then continues: “And I was lucky to have her become my big sister. After what’s happened on the New Island and a following incident, to say people were rather… jumpy about possibility of a Mewtwo on the space colony would be to say nothing. Originally, I was planned to get euthanized and incinerated in the fetal stage in order to avoid endangering the colony, but Amber managed to catch my creator right as he was preparing me for euthanasia and following incineration and then, after secretly calling her father via emergency button, managed to stall the process enough for Sebastian to come to the biolab. One session of heavy sobbing and begging later, Chief Colony Commander gave in and ordered doctor to cancel the specimen termination procedure and let it live and actually be born.” Nyx chuckles sadly, going through her memories: “I’ve still had to go through a period of distrust from colonials, but, honestly, I don’t blame them - the events around the New Island were bad enough to scare anyone and having someone with potential to become powerful enough Psychic to literally tear the colony itself apart be present on the colony… well, I think you can see the root of their fears.” She gently strokes the back of her head, feeling the outlines of implants. “For the first few years, I’ve lived in the room, lined with Dark Alloy - a Psy-resistant material, which can only be manufactured in zero-g conditions and which can block off Psychic abilities completely. It was very, very quiet in there… I could still practice my Psychic abilities inside, but they couldn’t reach outside of the room. And for moving around on the colony, I’ve got an isolating implant installed on my skull - so-called ‘Black Hood’, which was originally designed for handling criminal Psychics on the Earth and could be adjusted from either not suppressing Psychic abilities at all to completely blocking them.” The Genetic Pokemon smiles - this time, without a hint of sadness. “Of course, Amber, being Psychic herself, although a human one at that, was very much not happy with this arrangement of things and, along with her adoptive brother Archibald, started an entire campaign to make other colonials accept me as their peer, as a fellow colonial, not as a scary and incredibly dangerous. The best thing? They’ve succeeded! Sooner than expected, I was allowed free tours of the colony…” Her smile falters a bit: “... But I still spent my first years of life in Psychic silence. While I can tolerate the conditions of the colony and lunar cities, where Dark Alloy plating is used extensively for a variety of purposes - mostly related to isolating arcane energy conductors, - the first time I came to Earth, reached the Absentia Natural Preserve, took off my helmet and, making a very big mistake here, turned the Black Hood off…” Nyx grimaces, the memories of this event clearly being highly unpleasant to her: “I couldn’t withstand the sheer insane cacophony of Psychic noise. They all, humans and Pokemon alike, were thinking so damn loudly! It was like staring at the combat laser point-blank. It was like laying below the rocket taking off. I’ve never had a Psychic overload, which spiraled right into the meltdown, that bad, be it before or after this incident. The worst thing? I’ve managed to break the Black Hood controller on accident with my telekinesis going whack, locking it in the ‘off’ state. You can’t even imagine, how horrible my attempt to get back to the Dark Alloy-plated rover was, while I wasn’t sure which of the thoughts and sensory perceptions were mine and which were not.” She sighs. “But, in the end, I did it. As soon as the door was locked, the howling cacophony of the thoughts of others ceased and I was able to reassemble the coherence of my own mind. I didn’t leave the rover up until it was in another Psychic-isolated garage, because otherwise, I wouldn’t have managed to survive another Psychic overload like this.” The Genetic Pokemon looks at the sky. “My current implant, the Dark Hood, is now controlled by direct neural interface and is optimized to help me focus my thoughts turned Psychic into action with accuracy greater than ever before, while selectively filtering out outside influences. I’m now qualifying for becoming a surgeon with specification in non-invasive neurosurgery, done entirely by the means of telekinesis. The life in silence might’ve knee-capped my mentalism at near-zero, but it also helped me to advance the accuracy of my telekinetic abilities to the point my favorite hobby was watchmaking with only a few pre-made specific details imported - everything else I was cutting and shaping from chunks of materials with the power of my mind only. I’ve made enough watches in my life so far to equip the entire colony with them, while keeping each watch unique to at least some extent!” Nyx looks back at the asker. “Sorry for derailing this talk so much. Yes, the showers on the colony work just fine, unless somebody manages to clog them.”
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classpectanon · 6 years ago
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SIX DAYS OF KIDSWAPS: Alpha HEWT.J-Swap
What, did you think I was done with just the Beta kids? There’s a reason its six days, silly!
Since there’s no comparable HOW EASY WAS THAT file for me to use as a mocking title, I’m just using it as shorthand - the players switch last names, living situations, and classes with their opposite-gendered, opposite-moon counterparts. Since their session is dead, don’t expect a TON of variety from their lands but I’ll give it a good shot. Also, this time, since there’s no frogs, everyone switches last words for their Lands.
Jane Strider - Prince of Life, Land of Crypts and Krypton Roxy English - Page of Void, Land of Pyramids and Xenon Dirk Crocker - Maid of Heart, Land of Tombs and Helium Jake Lalonde - Rogue of Hope, Land of Mounds and Neon
FULL ANALYSES BELOW THE READ MORE
Jane Strider is a bit of a SURLY LASS living in the year 2424 in an ABANDONED APARTMENT COMPLEX left seemingly untouched by the arrival of the EMPRESS - all of the floors accessible to her, although she rarely goes underwater. She’s been spending her time cultivating food left behind by her POPPOP, a strangely heroic figure who is only mentioned in the history books performing one act and then disappearing from the record - SLAYING THE EMPRESS. However, his arrival on the Earth was too late to prevent the catastrophic environmental meltdown that she had caused, leading to JANE’S current living conditions. Jane is very concerned about survival, more than anything else, making sure she has her DAILY CALORIC INTAKE set and MACRONUTRIENTS perfected, spending most of her waking moments preparing and TRAINING for the game. When she’s not GETTING RIPPED, she tends to her carnivorous plants like they’re her pride and joy, especially AUBREY II, who she named after a childhood memory of her favorite VHS tape. She is rather effortlessly pragmatic, but sometimes this tendency can hurt her friends in the wake of her careless behavior, or backfire intensely.
Her LAND is the LAND OF CRYPTS AND KRYPTON, a murky swamp flooded with TOXIC KRYPTON GAS that requires special equipment to navigate. The further down in its ENDLESS CAVES she ventures, solving puzzles, the thicker it gets, but the more puzzles she solves, the more the planet slowly comes to life, revealing a massive system of vents and pipes blocked off by her Denizen, PERSEPHONE, years ago in the GREAT EXTINCTION.
Her Strife Specibus is allocated to the GRPLHOOKKIND and she uses the RECIPE MODUS, courtesy of her POPPOP’S WELL-HIDDEN GIFTS, to prepare for the game even further. Her symbol is a venus flytrap. Her CHUMHANDLE is tiamatsTower.
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Roxy English is a COOL and GOOD lass living on an ABANDONED ISLAND RESORT once owned by her COOL PHILOSOPHER MOM, a lady who seemed to be strangely well prepared for the coming storm that incites her daughter into SBURB. Roxy is, as the saying goes, SPOILED ROTTEN - Everything she could ever want is on this abandoned resort, including a transportalizer with plenty of uranium, which may or may not get her in trouble at some point. By the grace of a couple of seedlings sent back by Jane with the intent to teach her how to garden (supposedly), the island has been quickly overrun with hungry, dangerous, and well-disguised carnivorous plants, BREAKING ROXY’S LUXURY LIFESTYLE. When she enters the game, she quickly realizes that she has NOTHING of her own, and quickly strikes out to remedy that situation, which gets her into more of her fair share of trouble. Her interests...? She likes to RELAX ON THE BEACH sometimes, she guesses!
Her LAND is the LAND OF PYRAMIDS AND XENON, a strangely constructed land that appears to have rivers of XENON TUBES “flowing” through squared off BISMUTH-LIKE PYRAMID CAVES, giving the planet an odd, jaggedy feeling, while the actual presence of pyramids are few and far between. The most unusual feature about the land is how the stones SWALLOW THE LIGHT, leaving her flying blind until she realizes how to EMBRACE THE VOID and find her way to her Denizen, EREBUS.
Her Strife Specibus is allocated to FISTKIND because she never remembers to allocate it to anything else, and she uses the WALLET MODUS. Her symbol is a clamshell. Her CHUMHANDLE is gallantTeetotaler.
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Dirk Crocker lives in a lovely little tidy home in Washington, where everything is tended to by his obsessive-compulsive BROTHER, scheduling his entire day down to the minute, leaving Dirk to develop a pinpoint sense of timing and accuracy, along with a minor skill in throwing objects to help him clean up better by throwing shit in the trash. Due to the stifling influence of his brother, an heir to the vast Crockercorp company, Dirk has had little time to develop a personality of his own, instead paraded about as the up-and-coming face of the company in bright red outfits and garish smiles. Dirk DOESN’T EXACTLY LIKE IT but he DOESN’T KNOW ANY OTHER WAY TO LIVE, and his interests are his brother’s interests - steampunk and orchestral music. When he enters the game, he begins to fully discover who he is - PUNK ROCK AS SHIT.
His LAND is the LAND OF TOMBS AND HELIUM, a shattered land broken into thousands if not millions of pieces, floating on the helium breeze and twirling around the core’s IMMENSE GRAVITY. The only issue besides the obvious is MAKING YOUR WAY DOWN, as EROS constantly produces new HELIUM, causing it to accumulate at the thinner, lower layers, making traversal ever-difficult. Only by solving the HOVERTOMB PUZZLES and maybe learning a bit about himself in the process can he send the TOMBS into the CORE as projectiles, to weaken EROS’s grip on the planet’s winds.
His Strife Specibus is allocated to THRWDARTKIND, and he uses the same SCHEDULE MODUS that his brother uses since it lets him keep track of his time slots. His symbol is a SPOON. His CHUMHANDLE is gumballGiant.
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Jake Lalonde lives in the year 2424 on a CARAPACIAN CITY, left to prosper and rot after the DEATH OF THE EMPRESS. He acts as a STORYKEEPER and HISTORIAN, a task he takes to with great gusto, even if the CARAPACIANS cannot understand him - that’s why he’s spent years honing his abilities at CHARADES and PICTIONARY to a degree that renders communication between the two species possible. His artistic skill is considerable, and he is quite well read, although he has difficulty avoiding casual causal spoilers with Dirk and Roxy, considering that his GRANDMA’S LIBRARY contains THE SUM TOTAL OF ALL OF HUMAN HISTORY, mostly in book form, but sometimes in audiotapes and CDs. Unintentionally as it may be, he has developed a small CULT OF PERSONALITY around him, and is considered to be a great friend to the CARAPACIANS, even as the dreaded CARAPACE ROT slowly takes their livelihood, and he provides them comfort and funerary rites in their last days. Oftentimes, he is plagued with thoughts as to whether or not he deserves the right to essentially form a religion for these CARAPACIANS, considering his negative view of it as a whole due to his history books teaching him that, for the most part, nothing good has come of it. It is an issue he struggles with frequently, even when he enters the game, a balance between the harsh truth or a comforting lie.
His Land is the LAND OF MOUNDS AND NEON, containing the REMAINS OF RUINS, rectangular, neon-lined stones arranged artistically in the planet’s death throes to create gigantic, planet-sweeping Weird Puzzle Shit, almost like an ARG or GEOCACHE. Underneath EVERY STONE is a SMALL, MINIATURE GRAVESITE, dedicated to dozens if not hundreds of CONSORTS at a time. His Denizen, ZEUS, sleeps fitifully underneath the ground, the path forward seemingly nonexistent.
His Strife Specibus is allocated to HAMMERKIND as the result of allocating a crucifix, which surprisingly took, and he uses the OUIJA MODUS with surprising skill and accuracy. His symbol is a 5-petaled flower, originally drawn by a Carapacian for him as a gift that he then got more professionally printed onto a shirt. His CHUMHANDLE is taleGenerator.
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biofunmy · 5 years ago
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In a Year of Perpetual Motion, Moments That Stopped Time
The 52 Places Traveler
Looking back on a whirlwind journey around the world, the 52 Places Traveler revisits the experiences that offered lessons for travel — and life.
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Jan. 6, 2020
On my second day back in New York I walked into my neighborhood bodega and the Yemeni man behind the counter did a double take.
“Damn, bro, what happened? I thought you were dead!” he said.
The following night, I went to pick up an order at the Indian restaurant two blocks from my apartment.
“Long time, no see,” said the Bangladeshi manager who, since I’ve been gone, has grown a bushy beard. “Where have you been?”
What happened? Where have I been? After nearly a year in perpetual transit, hopping between the far-flung spots on 2019’s 52 Places to Go list, these are not easy questions to answer. Maybe a more cohesive picture of a once-in-a-lifetime year will crystallize with time. For now, the best I can do is draw out the moments that float on the surface of my memory, the ones I’m most grateful for, as they taught me invaluable lessons not only about the world, but also about myself. And isn’t that why we travel?
1. When I said yes to goat-carcass games and urban lions
By the third hour in a field on the outskirts of Samarkand, Uzbekistan, my hair had taken on the hue of the dust that filled the air in roaming clouds. Every time I smiled, which was often, more dust poured into my mouth. Two hundred men on horseback galloped back and forth across the dry grass, in pursuit of their target: a goat carcass stuffed full of sand. Shouts from the riders, the whinnying of horses and the cheers of thousands of spectators filled the air. At one point, being the only foreigner — and so a guest of honor — I was invited to ride on the truck that drove onto the field to drop the goat and start each round of kopkari, a sport that originated with the nomadic herders who inhabited these steppes 1,000 years ago.
Six months later and 5,000 miles away, in a small suburb of Dakar, Senegal, “false lions” — men channeling the spirit of the animal — growled, leapt and twirled in elaborate costumes. Drums thundered at earsplitting volumes and children shrieked in delight as the lions chased them through the fluorescently lit streets.
There’s a natural tendency to plan our travels down to the minute: We want to make sure we’re getting the most out of a trip that uses up our valuable money and vacation time. Toward the beginning of the year, I spent hours planning each stop — going over notes on the plane ride and sketching out what each day might look like. By my final stop, I barely knew where I was going to stay until the day before I arrived. The sweet spot is probably somewhere in between, with enough planning to know where you’re going but enough flexibility to say yes to the unexpected. New friends and the currents of serendipity brought me to the horses and the lions — and gave me two experiences I’ll never forget.
2. When I became a member of the guild
Hanging from the zipper of my camera bag is a small, bronze key. It grants me access to the backdoor of the Christian IV’s Guild clubhouse in the Danish city of Aalborg. Over the past year, I’ve accumulated soccer jerseys, paintings and a handwritten poem about an Italian horse, but this key, a symbol of my membership in a Danish society with roots in World War II, has to be the oddest gift. How I got it is just one of many examples of how dropping your guard and letting strangers into your life can lead to experiences far outside the realm of conventional tourism.
It started with Kit Sorensen, a friend twice-removed, who I met on my first afternoon in Aalborg. By the evening, she had taken off work for the remainder of the week to show me around. She took me out for pickled fish and aquavit, the straight-to-your-head spirit that Danes insist on drinking with lunch. Together, we explored World War II bunkers and the city-within-a-city of Fjordbyen. Sensing that I craved a home-cooked meal, she invited me to her family’s house, where I made even more friends — and got invited by a stranger to join the Christian IV’s Guild because he felt that “I had what it takes.”
When traveling alone, it’s up to you how alone you really are. Sit at a bar and take a break from your phone and in minutes you’ll be getting a laundry list of things to do from a local — as I did in Munich, in Danang, in Tunis. You might be invited to their homes — as I was in Georgia, Puerto Rico, Bulgaria. In a quiet bar in the small Japanese city of Takamatsu you might find yourself the only customer, going on a deep dive into salsa and New Orleans jazz with a cat-loving bartender who you would have never known if you hadn’t smiled and said “hello.”
There are walls that as a man traveling alone I didn’t have to put up. Being ethnically ambiguous was also, it turns out, my superpower, blending into the streets of so many places around the world, walking home at night and not even getting a second glance from locals. One’s experience of the world so often depends on one’s identity, and I can only speak to mine. At the same time, I believe that, in general, travelers will encounter kindness far more often than hostility. An open mind, a willingness to learn and an acknowledgment of our own ignorance about a new place or culture flings the doors that separate us wide open. Just ask all my new pen pals.
3. When I became my own best friend on a Norwegian fjord
Before a six-hour solo hike in the fjords surrounding Bergen, Norway, I intentionally left my headphones at home. It was sunny — a rarity for one of Europe’s rainiest cities — and I wanted to be present. It worked. I felt the light, cold breeze; I could smell the dewy grass and feel the foamlike tundra giving way under my boots. Six hours is a lot of time to be walking with nothing but your thoughts, but not once did I feel bored.
When I started this trip, the thought of spending so much time alone was one of my biggest worries. I’m an extrovert by nature. By my third month on the move, I was getting used to it. By my ninth, I was having full-on conversations with myself — out loud.
There’s something beautiful about learning to be comfortable with yourself — especially on the road. I could zero in on moments more completely without worrying whether a companion was having a good time. I could create memories that would be mine and mine alone — building blocks for my development as a person.
I was lonely, too, of course. I cried on the side of a Wyoming highway because John Prine’s “Summer’s End” came on the radio (“Come on home, you don’t have to be alone”); during a nearly four-hour meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant on the Dutch island of Texel, I fell into the abyss of staring at my phone; more than once I dreamed about being on my couch at home, with my partner and cat. But over time, I learned to see those moments coming and lean into them. That threw the distinction between heart-wrenching loneliness and blissful solitude into relief; it made the moments of connection with strangers that much more magical. Solo travel is so many things, psychological roller coaster included.
4. When I crossed the risk line on a dark Chilean highway
It was stupid, plain and simple. After getting off a series of canceled, rerouted and delayed flights that took me from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, to Santiago, Chile, over the course of about 40 hours, I stumbled into a rental car just after sunset and hit the road for the town of La Serena. I was heading 300 miles north to get closer to where I’d be viewing the solar eclipse in a few days. It was about 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but I drove with the windows down and wore a T-shirt, hoping the cold would keep me awake. I blared death metal as loud as the car speakers could handle. I drank coffee like water. One tollbooth worker, seeing my disheveled and wired state, asked me if I was okay. I pulled into La Serena well after midnight.
This year was full of risks; they come with the job when traveling at the pace I was, alone and looking for stories to tell. Within just a few days of traveling this year, it was clear that some risks are worth taking. Getting into a car with that nice stranger promising a plate of life-changing pork in Puerto Rico’s interior? I can handle that. Solo hiking through the snowy Tatra Mountains of Slovakia? Armed with a trail map, I’m good. Driving for five and a half hours in an unfamiliar country, at night, after a hellish flight and no sleep? Nope: That was stupid.
In talking to friends, it quickly became clear that my threshold for risk is different from others’ (“Are you nuts?” my partner asked, after I told her about my night in the woods outside Batumi, Georgia, drinking myself blind with a bunch of strangers). But travel is ultimately a game of choose-your-own-adventure and part of that choice is figuring out the risks you’re comfortable taking. It’s a learning process and there will be mistakes — there sure were for me this year.
By Land and Sea
48 boat rides, 45 train trips
5. When my plans went to hell and I survived
There was the late night in a hotel in Salvador, Brazil, booking a trip to Mexico that would start the following morning, after my plans to get to the Falkland Islands, also known as the Islas Malvinas, had imploded. A total meltdown at the airport had led to check-in lines that extended past the terminal’s entrance. Despite arriving four hours before my flight and checking in online, I missed my flight — and as a result the once-weekly flight to the Falklands.
There was that scorching hot morning at the port in Banjul, Gambia, where my brother and I had no choice but to wait the four hours until a ferry finally arrived. I sweated out every drop of moisture in my body; I downed two liters of water and sweated that out, too, until the also-shadeless ferry arrived.
There was the carefully arranged Airbnb in La Serena that my host canceled with no explanation, just days before my arrival to watch the solar eclipse. I spent most of a night in Mexico, on spotty Wi-Fi looking for alternatives in a city that would be tripling in population for the eclipse.
There was the moment, three months in, when we had to make the call to cut Iran from my travel plans. The geopolitical situation had grown tense and even if I were given a journalist visa (unlikely), we had security concerns. It made the regular messages I received from Iranians on Instagram welcoming me to their country and offering to be my hosts all the more heartbreaking.
Things go wrong when traveling. And there’s something about the places of travel — airports, ferry terminals, train stations, hotels — that magnify feelings of panic and sadness. It’s a powerlessness we’re not used to when we think we have every detail of a trip planned out.
I learned that there’s very little you can do when your plans fall apart. I learned to pinpoint the small actions I could take and leave everything else to play out without me. I started on a long, circuitous route to Mexico the next day and pushed my Falklands trip to later in the month. The ferry did arrive — and 24 hours later, my brother and I were on a boat floating feet away from wild chimpanzees. I found another Airbnb at the last minute, and so what if it was a little farther out of the city? I kept in touch with my new online Iranian friends, promising that one day I would make it there — and I will.
Traveling is an incredible privilege and it’s mind-boggling how easy it is these days to cross the planet. Reminding myself of that got me through many a moment this year that previously would have left me a weepy mess on an airport floor.
under the sea
11 total hours underwater
6. When “no one goes there now” became my time to go
Travel itself, regardless of destination, is taking its toll on the environment: The most frequent, and valid, criticism I’ve received this year is for my Sasquatch-size carbon footprint. While no one at the Times is encouraging everyone to go to 52 places in a year — I’d think again if you are planning on trying this yourself — I also don’t believe the answer is not to travel. To see the natural wonder that still abounds; to encounter the places that are on the verge of catastrophic change because of a warming planet; to meet the people who deal with its effects every day and forge real, profound, cross-cultural connections makes for a more informed, empathetic world. That doesn’t mean there aren’t steps we can take to be more responsible travelers. And part of that is realizing that sustainability goes beyond carbon emissions.
The Falklands in the dead of winter, when I had a colony of King penguins to myself; Mexico in the crushing heat of summer, when the beaches were empty; Senegal and Gambia during the most humid month of the year, when locals were actually excited to see visitors who had braved it; Siberia’s Lake Baikal, in neither the glorious summer nor the spectacularly frozen winter, but instead in autumn, when the trees burn bright yellow.
In planning my trip and limiting cross-continental treks as much as possible, it proved difficult to be everywhere at the “right” time to visit. But again and again, I found myself falling for low season, when it was far easier to blend into the fabric of daily life because I wasn’t just part of a horde of tourists changing the face of entire cities for months at a time.
Cities like Venice — or even Zadar, in Croatia, as I saw when I arrived in the summer — are buckling under the weight of overtourism. As travelers, we could make a difference by spreading the wealth, so to speak. That means, for the most adventurous, going to places that are still hard to get to; it took me two tries to get to the Falklands and three to get out, but that made it special. But it also means thinking outside the “Europe in summer” paradigm.
taking to the skies
40 airlines, 88 flights (only 1 missed flight)
7. When I really learned what a “place to go” is
There’s beauty, surprise and genuine wonder to be found everywhere — and I mean everywhere. A Vegas naysayer can have his mind changed through a chance encounter with a crew of rockabilly musicians. A half-Indian student of history can learn about a mighty Indian empire, of which he knew nothing, by coming face-to-face with its ruins. A traveler can come home after 11 grueling months of continuous travel and start dreaming of where he’s going next.
But first, some sleep.
Sahred From Source link Travel
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restmark22-blog · 6 years ago
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The Driver’s Side” – News From The Motorist’s Perspective
Compiled by Otto Mobile
Your transportation related headlines for Friday, October 26th, 2018
CHICAGO, CHICAGOLAND, ILLINOIS HEADLINES
How Bruno And Chicago’s Other Instagram-Famous Pets Are Helping Other Animals In Need – Block Club Chicago
Should Halloween Be Moved To Saturdays – Chicago Tribune
Wacker To Shut Down At Congress All Weekend For Work On Old Chicago Post Office – Chicago Sun-Times
Chicago Avenue Bridge Closing Next Thursday For At Least 2 Months – Block Club Chicago
Chicago Alder-Turds Joke About Tearing Out Roads To Make Room For Obama Center Sledding Hill, Sticking Illinois Taxpayers With The $200M Bill – Block Club Chicago; Friends Of The Park Are Profiles In Cowardice For Going Along With Obama’s Jackson Park Land Grab – Chicago Now
Mayoral Candidate Bill Daley Says Parking Meter Lease Was A Mistake, Along With The Midnight Raid On Meigs Field — Daley Also Skeptical Of O’Hare Express Train Project – Chicago Sun-Times
6 Reasons Why A Vehicle Miles Traveled Tax Is A Crummy Way To Improve Illinois’ Roads And Bridges – Crain’s Chicago Business; Tribune Readers Oppose Vehicle Miles Traveled Tax – Chicago Tribune
Illinois Tollway Leaders Spar Over Spending As Expansion Is Planned – Chicago Daily Herald
Tribune Architecture Critic Blair Kamin — Chicago Skyway Canopies Restored To Original Streamlined Look, With Modern Updates – Chicago Tribune
How Bike-Tards Justify Not Wearing A Helmet, Putting Responsibility For Road Safety On Drivers And Everyone Else – Bicycling
Irving Park Homes On Keeler Avenue Under Boil Order After Water Main Breaks – Block Club Chicago
How Chicago Area Police Are Using ‘Ghost Cars’ To Catch Traffic Violators – Chicago Daily Herald
Is Red Light Camera Vendor Money Drop Kwame Raoul In Danger Of Losing The Illinois AG Race – Chicago Sun-Times
Walter Payton’s ‘Baby’ — His Porsche 930 Turbo — Is For Sale – Chicago Tribune
REALLY?! Tribune Editorial Board Says Amazon Should Come To Chicago, Despite Out Of Control Crime, End-Stage Fiscal Meltdown, Sky High Taxes, And An Aggressively Business-Hostile Climate – Chicago Tribune; Pritzker’s Double-Secret-Probation-Plan For An Illinois Tax Stick-Up, And How He Will Spend The Revenue Like A Drunken Sailor – Chicago Tribune, Crain’s Chicago Business; Chicago Fair Work Ordinance Is Just The Kind Of Anti-Business Nonsense Chicago (And Amazon) Doesn’t Need – Chicago Tribune; This Rauner Project Could Give Chicago The Same Lift It Could Get From Amazon – Crain’s Chicago Business
Bankruptcy Judge To OK Sears’ Plans For Store Closing Sales – Chicago Tribune
What Went Wrong At Treasure Island – Crain’s Chicago Business
Book Business Is Strong, Especially For Indie Stores, But Rising Real Estate Costs Pose Threat – Chicago Tribune
Pilsen Co-Living Development Has 59 Units, 59 Parking Spaces – Curbed Chicago
Crime Wave Hits Fulton Market — Businesses And Residents Want Action – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Homeless People In The Library? Chicago, Suburban Libraries Turn To Social Workers For Help – Chicago Tribune; Proposal Would Tax High End Chicago Home Sales To Fund Homeless Programs – Chicago Sun-Times; Another Proposed Tax On High End Homes Would Fund Lead Pipe Replacement – Block Club Chicago
Police Issue Alert For Robbery Attempts At CTA Fullerton Red Line Station – CWB Chicago
Chicago’s Low-Line Path Under CTA Brown Line: Phase 1 Completed, Phase 2 to Come – Chicago Tonight
Yes, It’s An Ad Campaign, But Here’s The Back Story About Those CTA Pink Line Trains Covered In Dia de Los Muertos Art – Chicago Tribune
New Card Game Tries To Capture Thrills, Spills Of Riding The L – Chicago Tribune
New Metra Train Platform Dedicated Finally In Western Springs – Chicago Tribune
Billion-Dollar Plan For Rail Service From Ohio To Chicago Could Be In Place By 2026 – Chicago Tribune
Explore Chicago’s Role In Bicycle Culture At New Design Exhibit – Curbed Chicago
Meet Shimmy Braun, The Mortgage Lender Behind Those Flashy Drag Queen Billboards In Boystown – Chicago Tribune
Chicago Based Boeing, Other Defense Contractors Report Business Is Booming Thanks To New Spending, Lower Taxes – Chicago Tribune
Proposal To Build Park Ridge Sidewalk Could Create Dangers, School Board Members Say – Chicago Tribune
Schaumburg Hosts Public Hearing On Traffic Impact Fee – Chicago Daily Herald
New Tax District For Evanston’s Central Street Business District Planned – Evanston Now
Mundelein Installing New Welcome Street Signs Priced At About $30,000 Each – Chicago Tribune
Joliet Couple Survive Helicopter Crash After Pilot Passes Out, Then Help Rescue Him – Chicago Tribune
How An Autistic Indiana 6-Year-Old’s Car Wash-Themed Birthday Party Cleansed My Soul – Chicago Tribune
Indiana BMV To Extend Hours For Election Day – ABC 57 South Bend
Indiana Farmer Blazes Trail To Driverless Tractors – Ag Professional
Niles Early Voting Site Reopened After Evacuation Over Suspicious Vehicle – Chicago Sun-Times
‘Swatting’ Call At Pizza Restaurant And FedEx Truck Robbery Were Linked, Mundelein Police Say – Chicago Tribune
Sandwich School Bus Driver Facing Child Pornography Charges – Chicago Tribune
CHIRAQ REPORT — 3 Wounded, 1 Killed Thursday In Chicago Shootings – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago; ‘High Probability’ That Two Mass Shootings In Chicago This Week Are Related – Chicago Tribune
Restaurant Owner Fatally Shot In NW Side Drive-By – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Man Killed In Crash At Indiana Dunes Park Entrance – Chicago Tribune
Car Ablaze On Inbound Stevenson Briefly Snarls Morning Commutes – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Minor Injuries For South Elgin Firefighter Responding To Semitrailer Fire – Chicago Daily Herald
NATIONAL AND WORLD HEADLINES
Germany Editorial: The War On Automobiles Is A War On Freedom – Deutsche Welle
A Vote For Repealing California Gas Tax Would Cut Off Money For San Francisco Transportation Boondoggles, Like The New $2.2B Transit Center That’s Sinking Into The Ground – San Francisco Examiner
Oregon Governor Seeks To Block Offshore Drilling – The Hill
As Federal Offshore Drilling Plan Nears, Florida Voters Weigh In – Governing
The Weirdest Driving Law In Every State – This Insider
This Phoenix-Area City Will Ditch Traffic Cameras That Nab Speeders — But Not Quite Yet – Arizona Republic
Canada: Red-Light Cameras Will Begin Snapping Photos Again Soon In Regina – CJME AM 890 Regina, Saskatchewan
Australia: Audit Questions Speed Camera Effectiveness – The Newspaper
7 Ways To Shut Down A Speed Trap – National Motorists Association Blog
Distracted Driving Could Be Solved For Fleets With A Simple Technology – Freight Waves
StreetLight Data Releases Accurate On-Demand Traffic Counts For Nearly Every US Road – Traffic Technology Today
Auto Insurers Often Charge Identical Neighbors Considerably Higher Premiums Because Of ZIP Code Differences – Consumer Federation Of America
In Groundbreaking Decision, Feds Say Hacking Software To Fix Your Car’s Electronics Is Legal – Vice
AutoComplete: Continental Wants You To See Through Your Car’s A – C-Net
McLaren’s New $2.25 Million Hypercar Sold Out Before It Was Even Announced – Fortune
Tesla Pulled The Full Self-Driving Option — Here’s What Customers Think – Ars Technica
Self-Driving Cars Are A Nonstarter For Many Teens, According To A New Study – CBS News
Self-Driving Cars Are Bringing The Trolley Problem Into The Real World – Science Friday; The Moral Dilemmas Of Self-Driving Cars – Inside Science
The Road To Self-Driving Cars Is Full Of Speed Bumps – Discover Magazine
Driverless? The Uncertain Future Of The American Trucker – ZD Net
GM Asks Trump Administration For Federal Electric Vehicle Requirement – Autoblog
Affordability Must Guide Our Path To Improved Fuel Economy – National Automobile Dealers Association
Spread Of Self-Driving Cars Could Cause More Pollution — Unless The Electric Grid Transforms Radically – The Conversation
Why Functionality Continues To Rule Over Security In The Connected Cars Industry – Tech Radar
EU Could Back Wi-Fi Over 5G For Connected Cars – Tech Radar
The Most Interesting Internet-Connected Vehicle Hacks On Record – ZD Net
Singapore Plans To Open Its Skies To Drone Taxi Test Flights In 2019 – Digital Trends
Elon Musk: Tesla Will Compete With Uber And Lyft – CNBC
UPS Gears Up For Deliveries By Electric Bike In Seattle – Autoblog
Turn Any Garage Door Opener Into A Smart Garage Door Opener – Boy Genius Report
Elon Musk Thinks California’s High-Speed Train Is Ludicrous: Larry Ellison – Fox Business
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mbtizone · 8 years ago
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John Locke (Lost): INFJ
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Dominant Introverted Intuition [Ni]: Faith is very important to Locke. He can easily believe in that which he cannot see. He believes that he has a purpose, a destiny. While other people ridicule him, he is steadfast in his beliefs. The island is special. It isn’t just an island. Why can’t anybody else see that? Even though Locke doesn’t actually know what it is he’s supposed to do, he is certain that he’s meant for something. Locke is always on a quest that he pursues with relentless determination. Open the hatch. Push the button. Keep the people on the freighter from coming to the island. Get everyone to come back to the island. He pursues each and every goal with unwavering dedication. Locke can be very stubborn and when he has a goal, he won’t rest until he achieves it. He can easily speak in metaphor, and sometimes tells others stories that serve as allegories for what they’re actually experiencing.
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Auxiliary Extroverted Feeling [Fe]: Locke is extremely in tune with the feelings of other people. When he wants to, he can harness this to be persuasive and diplomatic. Other times, his emotions get the better of him. Sometimes, when Locke feels that he needs someone to further his own goals, he can play on their emotions and manipulate them. Locke can motivate and inspire others when he wishes. When he addresses others in speeches, he speaks in terms of the larger group. “We” will do this and “we” will do that. Locke cares about other people’s opinions of him. He wants them to think that he knows what he’s doing. When he leads half of the group back to the barracks, he interrogates Sawyer about whether the others are saying about him. Are people regretting their decision to come along? Are they worried about what they should do next? One of his constant struggles is trying to get other people to believe him. His final words to Jack before his death were,“I wish you had believed me.” Locke wants to help people realize their full potential. He encourages Boone to break away from Shannon, as Locke believes that his preoccupation with her is holding him back. He tries to help Charlie with his drug addiction. He wants to teach Walt about how to survive in the jungle. When his Ni vision seemingly leads him nowhere, his Fe reacts strongly. After he fails to open the hatch and he loses Boone, his anger and frustration take over. Locke has a meltdown and begins screaming, crying, and banging on the hatch door. “I’ve done everything you wanted me to! So, why did you do this?! Why!” (Ni-Fe)
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Tertiary Introverted Thinking [Ti]: Even though Locke takes a lot on faith, he can be quite rational. He doesn’t think out loud. When Locke decides to do something, he just does it, and doesn’t really care to explain what it is he’s actually doing. Locke doesn’t care about organizing his external world. He wants to understand it. He needs answers about the island. What is it? To everyone else, it’s just an island. Albeit, a very strange island, but not to Locke. He knows that it’s something much more than that. Locke looks beyond facts, data, and probability. He’s open-minded and has a very personalized system of logic, which can cause conflict with many of the other survivors, particularly Jack. Locke doesn’t just dive right into situations. He allows himself to mull things over until he can come up with the best approach.
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Inferior Extroverted Sensing [Se]: Locke has made a point of being consciously alert in his surroundings. He has a very good grasp on his environment and knows how to engage with it. The outdoors stimulates him. He enjoys hunting, tracking animals, feeling the ground beneath his feet, feeling the rain on his skin, traipsing around the jungle… he loves it. He’s quick on his feet, coordinated, and has incredible aim. Though there are brief moments where Locke allows himself to live in the moment, it definitely isn’t the norm for him. Every action he takes is in service of a long-term goal. His mind is always on the future.
Enneagram: Okay, so I’m going to get out all of my thoughts here, because when it comes to Locke and enneagram, I have quite a few.If you go by the core fears of each type, he can appear like a 4 or a 5. Locke wants to be special and important, which aligns with 4. He also wants to be seen as competent and capable, but he doesn’t put as much emphasis on knowledge and learning as a typical 5. However, after careful consideration, I do not believe that he’s a 4 or a 5. I think he’s an 8w9. He’s decisive, willful, and determined, and while he does possess traits that are representative of other types, I’m trying to focus on which of those traits are most dominant in him. So, 8w9 4w5 5w4 So/Sp.
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Quotes:
Locke: Hey, hey, don’t you walk away from me! You don’t know who you’re dealing with! Don’t ever tell me what I can’t do, ever! This is destiny. This is destiny. This is… This is my destiny. This… I’m supposed to do this, dammit! Don’t tell me what I can’t do! Don’t tell me what I can’t…
Jack: Don’t. It’s not real. Look, you want to push the button, you do it yourself. Locke: If it’s not real, then what are you doing here, Jack? Why did you come back? Why do you find it so hard to believe? Jack: Why do you find it so easy? Locke: It’s never been easy!
Locke: You know, Jack. You know that you’re here for a reason. You know it. And if you leave this place, that knowledge is gonna eat you alive from the inside out… until you decide to come back.
Locke: I’m going to find our friends. I don’t know how yet, but I will. We’re gonna find them, all of them. And then we’re gonna bring them home.
Locke:Jack, I’m not a cold man. I feel for the loss of one of our own, but nothing fundamental’s changed. Wherever he is, wherever he comes from, we’re on Ethan’s turf. He has the advantage. To him we’re nothing more than a bunch of scared idiots with sharp sticks.
Locke: I’ve looked into the eye of this island, and what I saw… was beautiful.
Locke: It was a dream, but… it was the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.
Locke: Everyone gets a new life on this island, Shannon. Maybe it’s time you start yours.
Boone: It’s about fifteen minutes since we’ve seen any sign. What are we following? Locke: My gut.
Locke: We were all brought here for a reason. Jack: Who brought us here, John? John: The Island.
Locke: Ludovico Buonarrati, Michelangelo’s father. He was a wealthy man. He had no understanding of the divinity in his son, so he beat him. No child of his was going to use his hands for a living. So, Michelangelo learned not to use his hands. Years later a visiting prince came into Michelangelo’s studio and found the master staring at a single 18 foot block of marble. Then he knew that the rumors were true — that Michelangelo had come in everyday for the last four months, stared at the marble, and gone home for his supper. So the prince asked the obvious — what are you doing? And Michelangelo turned around and looked at him, and whispered, sto lavorando, I’m working. Three years later that block of marble was the statue of David.
John Locke (Lost): INFJ was originally published on MBTI Zone
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dropbee7-blog · 6 years ago
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The Driver’s Side” – News From The Motorist’s Perspective
Compiled by Otto Mobile
Your transportation related headlines for Friday, October 26th, 2018
CHICAGO, CHICAGOLAND, ILLINOIS HEADLINES
How Bruno And Chicago’s Other Instagram-Famous Pets Are Helping Other Animals In Need – Block Club Chicago
Should Halloween Be Moved To Saturdays – Chicago Tribune
Wacker To Shut Down At Congress All Weekend For Work On Old Chicago Post Office – Chicago Sun-Times
Chicago Avenue Bridge Closing Next Thursday For At Least 2 Months – Block Club Chicago
Chicago Alder-Turds Joke About Tearing Out Roads To Make Room For Obama Center Sledding Hill, Sticking Illinois Taxpayers With The $200M Bill – Block Club Chicago; Friends Of The Park Are Profiles In Cowardice For Going Along With Obama’s Jackson Park Land Grab – Chicago Now
Mayoral Candidate Bill Daley Says Parking Meter Lease Was A Mistake, Along With The Midnight Raid On Meigs Field — Daley Also Skeptical Of O’Hare Express Train Project – Chicago Sun-Times
6 Reasons Why A Vehicle Miles Traveled Tax Is A Crummy Way To Improve Illinois’ Roads And Bridges – Crain’s Chicago Business; Tribune Readers Oppose Vehicle Miles Traveled Tax – Chicago Tribune
Illinois Tollway Leaders Spar Over Spending As Expansion Is Planned – Chicago Daily Herald
Tribune Architecture Critic Blair Kamin — Chicago Skyway Canopies Restored To Original Streamlined Look, With Modern Updates – Chicago Tribune
How Bike-Tards Justify Not Wearing A Helmet, Putting Responsibility For Road Safety On Drivers And Everyone Else – Bicycling
Irving Park Homes On Keeler Avenue Under Boil Order After Water Main Breaks – Block Club Chicago
How Chicago Area Police Are Using ‘Ghost Cars’ To Catch Traffic Violators – Chicago Daily Herald
Is Red Light Camera Vendor Money Drop Kwame Raoul In Danger Of Losing The Illinois AG Race – Chicago Sun-Times
Walter Payton’s ‘Baby’ — His Porsche 930 Turbo — Is For Sale – Chicago Tribune
REALLY?! Tribune Editorial Board Says Amazon Should Come To Chicago, Despite Out Of Control Crime, End-Stage Fiscal Meltdown, Sky High Taxes, And An Aggressively Business-Hostile Climate – Chicago Tribune; Pritzker’s Double-Secret-Probation-Plan For An Illinois Tax Stick-Up, And How He Will Spend The Revenue Like A Drunken Sailor – Chicago Tribune, Crain’s Chicago Business; Chicago Fair Work Ordinance Is Just The Kind Of Anti-Business Nonsense Chicago (And Amazon) Doesn’t Need – Chicago Tribune; This Rauner Project Could Give Chicago The Same Lift It Could Get From Amazon – Crain’s Chicago Business
Bankruptcy Judge To OK Sears’ Plans For Store Closing Sales – Chicago Tribune
What Went Wrong At Treasure Island – Crain’s Chicago Business
Book Business Is Strong, Especially For Indie Stores, But Rising Real Estate Costs Pose Threat – Chicago Tribune
Pilsen Co-Living Development Has 59 Units, 59 Parking Spaces – Curbed Chicago
Crime Wave Hits Fulton Market — Businesses And Residents Want Action – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Homeless People In The Library? Chicago, Suburban Libraries Turn To Social Workers For Help – Chicago Tribune; Proposal Would Tax High End Chicago Home Sales To Fund Homeless Programs – Chicago Sun-Times; Another Proposed Tax On High End Homes Would Fund Lead Pipe Replacement – Block Club Chicago
Police Issue Alert For Robbery Attempts At CTA Fullerton Red Line Station – CWB Chicago
Chicago’s Low-Line Path Under CTA Brown Line: Phase 1 Completed, Phase 2 to Come – Chicago Tonight
Yes, It’s An Ad Campaign, But Here’s The Back Story About Those CTA Pink Line Trains Covered In Dia de Los Muertos Art – Chicago Tribune
New Card Game Tries To Capture Thrills, Spills Of Riding The L – Chicago Tribune
New Metra Train Platform Dedicated Finally In Western Springs – Chicago Tribune
Billion-Dollar Plan For Rail Service From Ohio To Chicago Could Be In Place By 2026 – Chicago Tribune
Explore Chicago’s Role In Bicycle Culture At New Design Exhibit – Curbed Chicago
Meet Shimmy Braun, The Mortgage Lender Behind Those Flashy Drag Queen Billboards In Boystown – Chicago Tribune
Chicago Based Boeing, Other Defense Contractors Report Business Is Booming Thanks To New Spending, Lower Taxes – Chicago Tribune
Proposal To Build Park Ridge Sidewalk Could Create Dangers, School Board Members Say – Chicago Tribune
Schaumburg Hosts Public Hearing On Traffic Impact Fee – Chicago Daily Herald
New Tax District For Evanston’s Central Street Business District Planned – Evanston Now
Mundelein Installing New Welcome Street Signs Priced At About $30,000 Each – Chicago Tribune
Joliet Couple Survive Helicopter Crash After Pilot Passes Out, Then Help Rescue Him – Chicago Tribune
How An Autistic Indiana 6-Year-Old’s Car Wash-Themed Birthday Party Cleansed My Soul – Chicago Tribune
Indiana BMV To Extend Hours For Election Day – ABC 57 South Bend
Indiana Farmer Blazes Trail To Driverless Tractors – Ag Professional
Niles Early Voting Site Reopened After Evacuation Over Suspicious Vehicle – Chicago Sun-Times
‘Swatting’ Call At Pizza Restaurant And FedEx Truck Robbery Were Linked, Mundelein Police Say – Chicago Tribune
Sandwich School Bus Driver Facing Child Pornography Charges – Chicago Tribune
CHIRAQ REPORT — 3 Wounded, 1 Killed Thursday In Chicago Shootings – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago; ‘High Probability’ That Two Mass Shootings In Chicago This Week Are Related – Chicago Tribune
Restaurant Owner Fatally Shot In NW Side Drive-By – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Man Killed In Crash At Indiana Dunes Park Entrance – Chicago Tribune
Car Ablaze On Inbound Stevenson Briefly Snarls Morning Commutes – WBBM AM 780 News Radio Chicago
Minor Injuries For South Elgin Firefighter Responding To Semitrailer Fire – Chicago Daily Herald
NATIONAL AND WORLD HEADLINES
Germany Editorial: The War On Automobiles Is A War On Freedom – Deutsche Welle
A Vote For Repealing California Gas Tax Would Cut Off Money For San Francisco Transportation Boondoggles, Like The New $2.2B Transit Center That’s Sinking Into The Ground – San Francisco Examiner
Oregon Governor Seeks To Block Offshore Drilling – The Hill
As Federal Offshore Drilling Plan Nears, Florida Voters Weigh In – Governing
The Weirdest Driving Law In Every State – This Insider
This Phoenix-Area City Will Ditch Traffic Cameras That Nab Speeders — But Not Quite Yet – Arizona Republic
Canada: Red-Light Cameras Will Begin Snapping Photos Again Soon In Regina – CJME AM 890 Regina, Saskatchewan
Australia: Audit Questions Speed Camera Effectiveness – The Newspaper
7 Ways To Shut Down A Speed Trap – National Motorists Association Blog
Distracted Driving Could Be Solved For Fleets With A Simple Technology – Freight Waves
StreetLight Data Releases Accurate On-Demand Traffic Counts For Nearly Every US Road – Traffic Technology Today
Auto Insurers Often Charge Identical Neighbors Considerably Higher Premiums Because Of ZIP Code Differences – Consumer Federation Of America
In Groundbreaking Decision, Feds Say Hacking Software To Fix Your Car’s Electronics Is Legal – Vice
AutoComplete: Continental Wants You To See Through Your Car’s A – C-Net
McLaren’s New $2.25 Million Hypercar Sold Out Before It Was Even Announced – Fortune
Tesla Pulled The Full Self-Driving Option — Here’s What Customers Think – Ars Technica
Self-Driving Cars Are A Nonstarter For Many Teens, According To A New Study – CBS News
Self-Driving Cars Are Bringing The Trolley Problem Into The Real World – Science Friday; The Moral Dilemmas Of Self-Driving Cars – Inside Science
The Road To Self-Driving Cars Is Full Of Speed Bumps – Discover Magazine
Driverless? The Uncertain Future Of The American Trucker – ZD Net
GM Asks Trump Administration For Federal Electric Vehicle Requirement – Autoblog
Affordability Must Guide Our Path To Improved Fuel Economy – National Automobile Dealers Association
Spread Of Self-Driving Cars Could Cause More Pollution — Unless The Electric Grid Transforms Radically – The Conversation
Why Functionality Continues To Rule Over Security In The Connected Cars Industry – Tech Radar
EU Could Back Wi-Fi Over 5G For Connected Cars – Tech Radar
The Most Interesting Internet-Connected Vehicle Hacks On Record – ZD Net
Singapore Plans To Open Its Skies To Drone Taxi Test Flights In 2019 – Digital Trends
Elon Musk: Tesla Will Compete With Uber And Lyft – CNBC
UPS Gears Up For Deliveries By Electric Bike In Seattle – Autoblog
Turn Any Garage Door Opener Into A Smart Garage Door Opener – Boy Genius Report
Elon Musk Thinks California’s High-Speed Train Is Ludicrous: Larry Ellison – Fox Business
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Source: http://theexpiredmeter.com/2018/10/the-drivers-side-news-from-the-motorists-perspective-810/
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junker-town · 7 years ago
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NFL Dad, Week 7: You can’t fight the Pumpkin Industrial Complex
Every week, our NFL Dad tries to watch the full slate of RedZone Channel action while parenting two toddlers. This week: costume parties, pumpkins, and a distinct lack of drama.
I don’t care for the annual pumpkin craze, but I refuse to harsh anyone��s pumpkin high. I won’t rail against pumpkin spice lattes, I won’t scoff at pumpkin beers, and I won’t even make an official statement against pumpkin yogurt pretzels or pumpkin smoothies. I believe that apples are the better seasonal food, but taste is subjective (even if you don’t recognize that “pumpkin” flavor is just clove and cinnamon). Regardless, your pumpkin habit doesn’t affect my enjoyment of autumn.
This mindset is probably why I went along with my wife’s desire to go to a pumpkin patch on Saturday. Yes, my daughter already went apple-picking, but my son (almost 18 months) had never been to a pumpkin patch, so we needed to give him that experience. Could we buy a slightly overpriced pumpkin at the nearby farmer’s market? Sure, but that would be easy.
Instead, because we live in a dumb city unfit for parents and car owners, we rent a Zipcar for the morning, drive 90 minutes to a Long Island pumpkin patch that serves 4 million New Yorkers eager to avoid driving to a REAL farm in the Hudson Valley, fail to take a picture of the two kids in the pumpkins together, and survive an epic in-car meltdown from my daughter before hitting standstill traffic on the way back to the city. Oh, and my son slept for 20 minutes in the car, ruining his afternoon nap.
BUT AT LEAST WE GOT PUMPKINS! PRECIOUS MEMORIES AND TWO PUMPKINS FOR THE LOW LOW PRICE OF FIVE HOURS OF UNHAPPY CHILDREN. FIVE F**KING STARS, WOULD WASTE MY TIME AGAIN.
Pumpkins are dumb flavorless squashes and I hate them.
EARLY GAMES, FIRST HALF
— The Saints-Packers matchup, which SHOULD be a Drew Brees-Aaron Rodgers shootout, will instead be a referendum on Brett Hundley in his first pro start. In the rain. WOOF.
Early in the game, Hundley draws the Saints offsides for a free play, but underthrows Davante Adams deep. It illuminates the problem with anyone who backs up Aaron Rodgers: even if they’ve learned his tricks of the trade, they don’t have the sheer talent to produce the same magic that he does. (The drive ends with an Aaron Jones sprint up the gut of the defense. 7-0, Green Bay.)
— The Rams, playing the Cardinals in London, are wearing their white-and-gold uniforms with the white horns on the helmets. Such an awful look. Anything reminiscent of the St. Louis era should be burned in a Dumpster YES EVEN KURT WARNER.
But for real, just wear the blue and yellow every week. It looks way better.
— Green Bay intercepts Brees in the end zone, but when I wake up from my nap the Saints have fought back to tie the game at seven. Briefly, anyway: Hundley runs it in to reclaim the lead and get his first Lambeau Leap.
— The Jaguars are stomping the Colts 17-0. There’s not much to say here, except Leonard Fournette isn’t playing and T.J. Yeldon looks capable in his stead. There’s nothing about the Jacoby Brissett offense that suggests it’s built to overcome a three-score lead against a very good defense. I’m happy to write this one off — and judging by the TV coverage, so is RedZone.
— Jameis Winston is playing with a sprained AC joint, and he looks off-target. Well, more off-target than usual. He underthrows one receiver, then throws off-target on a screen before getting strip-sacked. That tomahawk chop couldn’t have felt good on his injured shoulder.
— With the Bears up two scores, Mitchell Trubisky runs to the left on third and goal and dives for pylon. It’s ruled a touchdown initially, but overturned on review. Facing 4th and goal less than a yard out, John Fox opts to kick a field goal like the big ol’ coward he is.
Now, I’m getting ahead of myself in the diary, but I don’t want to talk about the Bears again, so let’s just get this dumb team out of the way. The Bears will go on to win thanks to Eddie Jackson’s two defensive touchdowns, which might make Chicago fans ignore the inherent John Fox-ness of their team’s play. I won’t hear any results-based defense of this trash team. Look at this!
The Bears are the first team to win a game while completing less than 5 passes since the 2011 Broncos. Tim Tebow was the QB of that team. http://pic.twitter.com/0RuRQYQDo3
— FOX Sports: NFL (@NFLonFOX) October 22, 2017
This is the drive chart of a team that won today. http://pic.twitter.com/UrjQyCEZUN
— Football Perspective (@fbgchase) October 22, 2017
The Bears earned zero first downs in the second half and became the first NFL team to win with fewer than five completed passes since ... the last time John Fox coached in the NFL. I’d rather have a block of cement coach my team.
— My daughter is up from her nap. She asks what’s happening on the TV. “The Browns are the brown team with orange helmets,” I say. “The Titans are the white team with blue pants. I like the Titans’ uniforms better. What do you think?”
She pauses for a moment. “I like the orange!” Such a shame that I have to disown her now.
— Todd Gurley freezes the Cardinals’ D with a jump-stop at line of scrimmage, then scampers around the left edge for a touchdown.
.@TG3II gets around the edge and is IN for SIX. #LARams http://pic.twitter.com/PMgvFG23T7
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
That possession came as a result of a Carson Palmer interception thrown while he got hit. Palmer seems unlikely to return (UPDATE: broken arm, he’s out 8 weeks), so we can go ahead and cross “Cardinals comeback” off the list. I’ve seen the Drew Stanton Show before.
— DeShone Kizer throws a pick that gets caught on the Titans’ 11-yard line. I have never in my life seen a quarterback commit red zone turnovers like this. He’s like the anti-Mariota.
That realization gives this useless field goal battle some semblance of meaning: Kizer and Mariota are diametrically opposed forces drawn together, as if they’re in a superhero movie like Unbreakable or Hancock. (Speaking of Unbreakable, shouts out to Sam Bradford, the undisputed Mr. Glass of the NFL.)
— With the Dolphins backed up to their own goal line, Jay Cutler throws an interception off a deflected pass. The Jets punch it in for a 21-14 lead. This game has been wildly entertaining throughout the first half, but I’m not wired to accept these teams playing an entertaining game.
— The Rams score another touchdown, this time on a Jared Goff read-option keeper. They’re up 20-0 near the end of the half, and Drew Stanton will have 40 seconds to throw an interception and give the Rams another chance to score.
Stanton’s first throw on the next drive: a pick directly to a Rams defender. I swear this is not some ex post facto insight I’ve edited in; I’ve just watched Drew Stanton before. So has the First Down France account:
Quelle honte Stanton. Scandaleux
— NFL France (@FirstDownFR) October 22, 2017
Scandaleux indeed! Greg Zuerlein kicks a 53-yarder, and the Rams go into halftime up 23-0.
EARLY GAMES, SECOND HALF
— I’m not usually in the business of highlighting irrelevant three-yard catches, but Christian McCaffrey warrants an exception:
.@run__cmc only needs ONE hand. WOW. #KeepPounding http://pic.twitter.com/lg8V13659I
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
Lots of masturbation jokes to be made in that tweet there. Not that I would think about them, because I am VERY MATURE. Father of young children over here.
(*audibly farts and tells the kids it’s a “barking spider”*)
— My wife is taking our kids to a Halloween-ish birthday party, which means costumes are welcome but not mandatory. My son will be a shark, my daughter will be a ghost, and my wife will be harried and stressed out.
I help my daughter into the stroller and put her shoes on, then assist my wife as she loads my son into our carrier (we like the flexibility and simplicity of the Beco carrier, in case you’ve made the mistake of having children and need a recommendation).
And then, at 2:51 p.m. Eastern time: They’re gone. My apartment is completely quiet except for the TV. I am tempted to sleep, to eat and drink everything in the house, to get on my bike and ride in the sunshine ... but I just keep watching RedZone. The whole premise of me missing the party is that I have to work.
So, I stay and watch Joe Thomas tear his triceps, leading to the first missed snap of his career. After 10,363 consecutive snaps, the NFL’s ironman exits the game. And on such a promising Browns team!
Jay Cutler’s consecutive sourpuss streak is safe.
— In Miami, Jay Cutler has also left the game with an injury, though his consecutive sourpuss streak is safe.
— I take my dog for a walk. Stella is a Rottweiler mix that I adopted three or four years before I met my wife, and the dog loves me despite the way I’ve filled her living space with small humans that don’t give adequate belly rubs and suck up the attention that used to go to her.
While outside, we run into a family that dog-sat Stella once, and she nuzzles them all and wags her nub fervently. I leave her outside while I duck into a grocery to buy a tallboy (prep for the Seahawks game), and when I come back she lies down on the pavement and rolls onto her side. No walking until she gets her belly rub.
I say a lot how fulfilling parenthood is (and it is!), but for the record: My life was also pretty kickass when it was just me and Stella.
— I return from the walk and look at my computer while catching up. Something about my TV seems blurry, like the players are in regular definition. Then I notice that I’m getting more Jets-Dolphins than I’ve seen all day. Is RedZone EVER going to show this O.J. Howard touchdown I’m reading about on Twitter?
And then I realize: I’m watching the local CBS feed of the Jets game. I must have pressed “2” with an inadvertent nudge of the remote. I feel like I should get some kind of detox or vaccination.
DOCTOR: And how long were you exposed to Jets-Dolphins?
ME: I dunno, maybe 10 minutes?
DOCTOR: OK, this should be fairly routine — [reads chart]. REGULAR DEFINITION?!?!
ME: Is that bad?
[alarm sounds] [lights flash]
DOCTOR: [on the phone] Yes sir, we’re locking down the wing to contain the infection.
— In order to justify my beautiful peace and quiet, I start folding laundry, which is by far and away the WORST chore. I thought laundry couldn’t get worse, then I had kids. “Oh, you hate folding laundry? What if you had to do it more often and everything was five times smaller?” If we could afford simple luxuries, the very first thing I’d throw money at would be a laundry service.
— With less than a minute left in regulation, the Browns are attempting a 54-yard field goal to tie a 9-6 game. What a sorry-ass state of affairs. Welp, it’s good. The Browns are celebrating, but why? What is there to celebrate when the result is additional Browns football?
[clapping in Roger Goodell’s face after every word] BAN REGULAR SEASON OVERTIME AND SEND TEAMS HOME WITH TIES.
— Cooper Kupp scores a touchdown on a screen to make it 33-0 in London. I know Kupp played college ball at Eastern Washington, but that’s a Big XII name if I’ve ever seen one. Whenever I see his name I just start making white person word salad with it until I come back to his name. Like this:
Coop Cooper
Scooper Coop
Copper Kopp
Pooker Puck
Pucker Pork
Rucker Corp
Kurper Carp
Cooper Kupp
Ahhhhh, that feels so nice in my brain. The only NFL name that’s better for that game is Blake Bortles.
— There are three tied games as the early slate winds down: Jets-Dolphins, Bucs-Bills, and the trash fire in Cleveland. In reverse order:
1. The Browns and Titans feebly do nothing for most of overtime before Mariota finally gets his team into field goal range. Ryan Succop hits a 47-yarder to end this miserable affair 12-9.
2. After a LeSean McCoy touchdown tied the game at 27, it looked like the Bucs would have a chance to win the game — except Adam Humphries coughs up the ball and the Bills recover in field goal range. Steven Hauschka hits a 30-yarder with 14 seconds left to win the game, but not before the Bucs pull off the longest, most competent failed lateralpalooza in NFL history.
The final play today in Buffalo... #TBvsBUF http://pic.twitter.com/2Raz5eyFNu
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
3. Josh McCown attempts to lead the Jets on a game-winning drive. Pretend you didn’t see this game or any highlights: Given that setup, how do you think this ends?
If you said, “McCown interception” without thinking, congratulations: You have seen NFL games before. The announcer scoffs, “15 years [in the league], you shouldn’t make that mistake.” Yeah, no shit. But that’s the result you deserve when “political activism” is a disqualifying factor in your quarterback search.
Cody Parkey kicks the game-winner for the Dolphins. Cardy Poker. Coder Party. Parker Podey. Porky Corder. Corky Pordy. Cody Parker. Ahhhh.
LATE GAMES, FIRST HALF
— In Santa Clara, the Niners fumble a punt return, giving Dallas a short field. Zeke Elliott punches it in, and folks, I don’t think the home team’s gonna be able to overcome this 7-0 deficit. It’s just too big a hole with too little time.
— The Seahawks are at the Giants this week, which means I have the relatively rare luxury of watching the local broadcast, which in turn means that this column is gonna kind of suck from here on out. I promise to flip to RedZone during commercials!
(Last week, the Seahawks were on bye, and I didn’t mention that stupid team’s name ONCE in the entire column. I never enjoy the NFL as much as when Seattle doesn’t play.)
— The late games I’ll be mostly ignoring: Cowboys-49ers, Bengals-Steelers, and Broncos-Chargers. I click over during commercial, and there’s Antonio Brown scoring on a slant. Like clockwork. It’s 7-0 Steelers.
— Last season, a lot of people made fun of Ben McAdoo for wearing a giant, oversized windbreaker. Seeing him this season, it’s now clear that he chose the XXL with the intent to fill it out. I’m not trying to fat-shame anyone; I love a coach with a longterm vision.
I won’t make fun of anyone’s perceived weight gain, but I definitely WILL make fun of McAdoo’s sunglasses and hair and game-planning and everything else about him, because he’s a total herb who can’t coach.
— It’s so quiet in this apartment. So calm. My favorite team is on television, and I am drinking a beer and watching them without any children vying for my attention. This is nice. I like it? Yes, I like it.
But I also kinda miss the chaos. Not the chaos itself, but my ability to lessen it. If my son falls and cries, I can pick him up and soothe him. But if the Seahawks have ten plays inside the 11-yard line and come away with zero points because they throw a goddamn FADE on fourth down and JIMMY GRAHAM DROPS IT, there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. At least parenting offers a tiny piece of self-determination.
-- I wonder what my kids are doing, but, like, only during commercials. If my wife ever leaves me, she should do it during a Seahawks game. Automatic three-hour head start.
— Jason Witten makes a SPECTACULAR one-handed TD grab.
.@JasonWitten ONE HAND TOUCHDOWN CATCH! Beautiful. #DallasCowboys http://pic.twitter.com/nMWkMOIr6W
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
What a great catch by a tight end! Isn’t that right, JIMMY GRAHAM??!?
— Juju Smith-Schuster gets wide open for a touchdown, then celebrates with hide-and-seek.
Come for the @TeamJuJu TD catch. But stay for Hide & Seek. #HereWeGo http://pic.twitter.com/YDaoE7SMeJ
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
This is a perfectly fine celebration, but I also think a lot of fans are being too laudatory of anything that flies in the face of the old, crappy rules against celebrations. Like, hide-and-seek is a children’s game. The other week, Kyle Rudolph celebrated with a game of Duck, Duck, Goose/Grey Duck. Are we really going to think it’s cool or funny if players dance in a circle and sing “Ring Around the Rosie”? Trust me: As a man who has sung “Ring Around the Rosie” and fallen down two dozen times in the last three days, it’s not that great.
Ditch the kids’ games and come at me with something that rivals Colombia’s team salsa dance. I am not a crank.
— Thomas Rawls fumbles directly into Landon Collins’ arms. Collins returns the ball some 30-odd yards to set up a red zone possession for the Giants, whose offense suddenly comes to life to score in two plays. Evan Engram scores the touchdown on a play in which Eli Manning play-faked to no one. Cool. Cool cool cool.
I change into sweatpants. There is a knot in the jaw muscle near my temple.
— I get a text from wife. They’re leaving in about 15 minutes. Is she sure? Does she want to stay out a little later? Go ahead, let them play with their friends a little longer. They can stay up late and have some more cake. Bring ‘em back around 8:00. No?
— Doug Baldwin is briefly taken over by the collective spirit of Seahawks Twitter and shoves Tom Cable, the offensive line coach largely blamed as the root of the team’s horrid line play.
The full story comes out later: Baldwin was trying to make sure that Russell Wilson was being heard by the players; the wideout wanted the emphasis to be on the players’ failure to execute, not the coaches’ calls. He even apologized to Cable and said he loves him.
Which, as a Seahawks fan, I guess is fine. But I also would have been OK with Wilson and Baldwin saying, “It’s him or us.”
— Good night, Dre Kirkpatrick:
The Bengals are 100% losing this game. You don’t recover from that.
— Zeke Elliott scores his third touchdown of the day, a 72-yard catch and run that puts the 49ers to bed.
LATE GAMES, SECOND HALF
— I run a bath and heat up the kids’ dinner. It’s a little after 6:00 p.m., and we’re going to have to hustle to keep the kids on schedule for their 7:00 bedtime.
My sister had kids years before I did, and I was the typical ignorant drunk uncle when it came to her devotion to the kids’ naps and schedule. “What’s with the schedule? Why can’t the kids just power through this one time?” Because the schedule is GOD, man! The schedule is all-powerful. It is the weather; it is the earth beneath your feet. Reject it and your life will be untethered from reality, a nonstop maelstrom of tears and tantrums.
We had dinner with friends on Saturday night, and ended up putting the kids to bed at 8:30 instead of 7:00. And my son was WRECKED the next morning, an absolute disaster until we put him down for a nap almost two hours earlier than usual.
— Uh, the Chargers are up 14-0 over the Broncos? The AFC West is a spooky-ass house of mirrors.
— With 14:03 in the 3rd quarter, the Giants get their first third down conversion in the game. Manning now has 29 yards passing. The next time I complain about watching the Seahawks offense, please remind me that the Giants exist.
— Around 6:20 p.m., just as my family returns, the Seahawks offense finally gets its touchdown:
The touch on this @DangeRussWilson TD pass... #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/raQqkTDpVi
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
The touch on that pass is what stands out on first watch, but do yourself a favor and watch the ankle-breaking move that gets Baldwin a free release from the slot.
— I’m as anti-Steelers as a fan can get, but I respect the hell out of any coach who attempts rude shit to stomp on a division rival. TO WIT: With the Steelers up two scores, Mike Tomlin dials up a fake punt on 4th and 7 to ice the game.
FAKE PUNT ALERT! #HereWeGo http://pic.twitter.com/wFxTkTqxjo
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
What an absolutely shitty thing to do. I love it!
— Speaking of disrespect, the Seahawks even the turnover battle with a strip-sack of Manning, and the first play they run on offense is this:
.@prichiejr goes ALL the way up to make the grab. Wow. Touchdown, @Seahawks! #Seahawks http://pic.twitter.com/7jvzLhruFx
— NFL (@NFL) October 22, 2017
It’s slightly underthrown by Wilson, which gives Landon Collins JUST enough time to make a play on the ball, but the simultaneous possession gives the Seahawks a touchdown. If I learned anything from the Fail Mary, it’s that a tie goes to the runner.
— We put the kids down at 7:25, and bedtime goes as smoothly and drama-free as each of the four late games.
Aside from the Seahawks result, I can’t say that I liked today better than the usual pandemonium of being NFL Dad. Given the choice, I’ll take the chaos and love of fatherhood over the quiet stress of being totally focused on my team. Both would be nice, of course, but that would mean more Seattle games in primetime. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
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pinkarcadecandy · 7 years ago
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The Death and Life of Atlantic City
SEPTEMBER 5, 2017 ISSUE
Zeno’s paradox down the shore.
By Nick Paumgarten
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If not for zany schemes, Atlantic City would be a sand dune. Revel was supposed to be the most opulent casino the place had ever seen.
Mike Hauke opened a pizza and sub shop in Atlantic City in 2009, but only after he had failed in nine tries to rent the space to somebody else. He had bought the building three years earlier on the advice of his father, an accountant who considered distressed real estate a smart long-term bet. This piece of real estate seemed to test the proposition. It was a bedraggled three-story clapboard house that years of neighborhood demolition and neglect had stranded at the edge of several mostly vacant blocks, which together formed an urban badlands reaching all the way to the dunes. This was the South Inlet, a once thriving part of town and now more or less a desolate slum at the northeastern end of Absecon Island, the landmass that is home to Atlantic City and three other municipalities. People from “offshore,” as locals like to call the mainland, tend to think of the island’s Inlet end as north, because it’s upcoast, but locals call it east. Atlantic City has a Bermuda Triangle effect; it can confound a compass.
Three blocks west of Hauke’s place, an immense slab of steel and glass was rising over the badlands: a hotel and casino to be called Revel, destined to be bigger and more opulent than anything Atlantic City had ever seen—two towers, reaching almost fifty stories, nearly four thousand rooms, and parking for more than seven thousand cars. Morgan Stanley, the investment bank, had bought the land in 2006, for seventy million dollars, and sunk about $1.2 billion into the project. (Revel, as some have noted, is “lever” spelled backward.) By the end, the cost of building Revel reached more than $2.4 billion, making it the most expensive private construction project in the history of New Jersey.
Hauke went after the crumbs. Unable to find a commercial tenant for his house’s ground floor (the apartments upstairs were designated Section 8, for low-income tenants), he started selling rudimentary takeout to Revel’s construction crews. Their rush-hour bulk orders overwhelmed his staff, but off hours the place was dead: a trickle of casino workers and, in Hauke’s words, “shitbags, crackheads, hustlers, and pimps.”
Hauke, a recent graduate of the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, had spent a couple of years in Hoboken and Manhattan working in marketing, but he had no restaurant experience. One of his first customers was a neighborhood junkie known as V8 Man (“All the white kids are junkies,” Hauke said. “The Inlet does it to everybody”), who, on opening night, picked a fight at the counter with a male prostitute and another customer; Hauke smashed a pizza paddle on the counter and used the sharp end to scare him off. More than once, a guy came in trying to unload stolen merchandise as the victimized storekeeper came running up the street in pursuit. One morning, a neighborhood kid rode by on a bicycle and threw a crude pipe bomb through the window; Hauke chased him in his car and, after cornering him briefly in an abandoned house, hounded him on foot across a vacant tract called Pauline’s Prairie, named after Pauline Hill, a city planner in the sixties who’d had this stretch of the neighborhood bulldozed for urban renewal, which never came. The kid, looking over his shoulder, ran into the side of a parked box truck. The police appeared and put him in cuffs. His grievance was that cops had been patronizing Hauke’s shop and that sheriffs had evicted his cousins, Hauke’s Section 8 tenants, from one of the apartments upstairs. The tenants, according to Hauke, had been running a welfare scam. They’d also been throwing dirty diapers on his customers and fishing for pigeons from the roof.
Hauke hoped that, in spite of such annoyances, Revel would either provide him with an income stream or else buy him out. A few neighborhood property owners said that it would never happen. They’d been holding on for years themselves, in the hope of selling to a big casino, and in the interim they’d been gutted by rising property taxes and ongoing decay. The problem was that the area was zoned for big casino-hotels. You couldn’t build a house, and the few houses left in the neighborhood—most had been demolished or had burned down, accidentally or not—were old and badly battered by the salt air. One of them, down near the beach, across the street from a run-down low-income housing complex called the Waterside, belonged to a teacher Hauke had got to know named Tony Zarych, who’d moved to Atlantic City as a teen-ager forty years earlier, when his family was buying up property around town. He’d worked as a baccarat dealer at the Sands, until it closed (it was demolished in 2007), and now taught English as a second language at an elementary school. He liked to hunt wild turkey offshore and sometimes had carcasses hanging outside. His property taxes had risen sharply, as the city contended with a steep drop in tax revenues from the casinos. “Get out while you can,” Zarych told Hauke.
Sure enough, in 2009, amid the financial meltdown, Revel, only half built, ran out of money. In April, 2010, Morgan Stanley quit the project, booking a loss of almost a billion dollars. Construction stopped. Hauke’s business withered. “There were no more tourists or construction workers,” he recalled. “Mostly just cops. And crackheads wanting free shit.” But something about the city, and about the Inlet’s seaside squalor, made him want to stay on. Maybe it was the fact that his great-grandmother had attended shul in the Inlet. Or that he’d simply got sand in his shoes, as the locals say about those who take to the place.
After grinding along for another year, Hauke shut down the shop, spiffed it up, and rechristened it Tony Boloney’s. He bought a food truck, which he named the Mustache Mobile, and developed a line of pizzas and novelty subs that he marketed as “indigenous Atlantic City grub,” as though he’d revived an obscure provincial cuisine. Soon, Tony Boloney’s began winning foodie awards and luring in not just gamblers, night-clubbers, food-truck connoisseurs, politicians, and cops but also a procession of casino magnates and real-estate speculators who were visiting the neighborhood, often on the sly, to size up the distressed property next door.
At the beginning of 2011, Governor Chris Christie pledged tax incentives to Revel worth more than a quarter of a billion dollars. (The incentives were tied to certain revenue targets, which, in the end, Revel failed to meet.) Christie had evidently decided that Revel’s success was essential to the survival of Atlantic City, and therefore his gubernatorial track record. His pledge helped Revel secure new financing from an array of hedge funds, including Chatham Asset Management and Canyon Capital, which manage hundreds of millions of dollars in New Jersey state pension funds.
Construction resumed, and Christie came to town. After a photo op at a famous sub shop called the White House and a visit to the Revel site, he dropped in at Tony Boloney’s and urged Hauke to keep the place going. “Listen, you gotta stick around,” Christie told him. The Revel executives were emphatic as well: “It’ll look bad if you close. Please don’t go anywhere.” The head of Chatham Asset Management hired Hauke to cater his annual Halloween party, up in Essex County.
“I understand you’ve spent the summer on someone’s ass. Can you tell us what that was like?”
Revel opened in the spring of 2012, with Beyoncé performing a series of concerts in its auditorium. (She also took over the Presidential Suite, relegating Michelle Obama and her daughters to another suite.) The plan had been scaled back—just fourteen hundred rooms, and one tower instead of two. The tower’s midsection had a half-dozen stories not yet built out; you could see clear through it. Still, it was an impressive building, with sleek, airy marbled atriums and lobbies that had little in common with the smoky, windowless, carpeted caverns of the older mega-casinos down the boardwalk. Unlike all the rest, it directed one’s attention to the ocean and had ample outdoor space, a two-acre terrace with firepits and cabanas. Even from the outside, Revel had an ethereal appeal. The reflective glass took on the sky’s hue and became almost invisible at dusk, a stealth casino guarding the edge of town.
If only. During construction, a tower crane collapsed. Lightning struck a worker’s cement bucket and killed him. Three top Revel executives died in a plane crash. A guest plunged from one of several escalators that climbed vertiginously through the heart of the lobby. A couple were found dead of an apparent drug overdose in a suite. The N.F.L. player Ray Rice punched out his fiancée in an elevator, and the surveillance video went viral.
The casino wasn’t making nearly as much money as the developers had anticipated. Some observers blamed the layout—the hotel-room elevators didn’t access the casino floor, and a long, tortuous trip from the entrance to the check-in desk didn’t take you through it, either—or the fact that Revel prohibited smoking, or that its slot machines didn’t seem to pay out, or that it was stingy with the comps. Even though occupancy was decent and the night clubs and restaurants were busy, the tables and slots weren’t taking in enough to offset the cost of operating the place—the burden of debt service, high property taxes, bad leases with the tenants, and an expensive arrangement for power and light. Within a year of opening, Revel filed for bankruptcy. It restructured and emerged from Chapter 11 a few months later, but the economics still didn’t make sense, and so, in the spring of 2014, it went bankrupt once again. Finally, last September, unable to find a buyer, it closed.
From the time Morgan Stanley began searching in vain for equity partners, Revel had been in play, and all along Tony Boloney’s had served as an informal commissary for would-be investors and buyers. Among those whom Hauke and his staff said they’d seen were Steve Wynn, who had sold the Golden Nugget in 1987 and vowed never to come back; various hedge-funders from New York; and a group of Chinese men—the Export-Import Bank of China was at one point in talks to buy a piece—who took over Hauke’s tables and held meetings for hours, without ordering anything.
A mysterious character in tattered clothing and a handlebar mustache had been showing up a few times a year, engaging the staff in conversation about space travel and Elon Musk. He claimed to represent someone who was going to buy Revel. Hauke and his team were skeptical, but one day last summer, just before the casino closed, the man rolled up in a baby-blue Bentley convertible. Maybe he was for real. “My guy’s going to offer ninety million,” he said. His guy, he went on, was from Florida and intended to erect a “Tower of Geniuses” on the Revel site, a high-rise think tank, which would draw on nasa and the federal government’s aviation-research facility at Atlantic City Airport, just offshore.
If not for zany schemes, Atlantic City would still be a sand dune. Within weeks, news broke that a little-known Florida developer named Glenn Straub, the owner of Palm Beach Polo Golf and Country Club, had offered ninety million dollars to buy Revel. Straub wanted to put up the aborted second tower and fill it with academics and scientists charged with solving the world’s problems: your Tower of Geniuses. Few in town took this seriously, but, as far as the bankruptcy was concerned, he’d established a baseline. Everything has a clearing price. The bad news was that Straub’s offer was less than four cents on the dollar—a chilling signal of how far Atlantic City had fallen and may yet fall. The good news was that the building—and you might even say the town—was worth anything at all.
Most cities exist as a consequence of commercial or strategic utility. Atlantic City is more of a proposition and a ploy. The town fathers of Cape May, the first American seaside resort, weren’t interested in a railway, or perhaps the class of people who’d ride in on one—the well-to-do arrived from Philadelphia by boat—so a group of investors built, in 1854, what became known as a “railroad to nowhere,” to a spot a little way up the coast that was more or less the shortest possible distance from Philadelphia to the sea. Over the decades, and with the industrial-era advent of leisure time and disposable income, this forsaken wedge of salt marsh and sand became “the world’s playground”—a crucible of conspicuous consumption and a stage for the aspirations and masquerades of visitors and entrepreneurs. In some respects, Atlantic City was where America learned how to turn idle entertainment into big business. For a while, it was home to some of the world’s grandest hotels (the Marlborough-Blenheim was the largest reinforced-concrete building in the world, and was later imploded in the music video for Bruce Springsteen’s “Atlantic City”), as well as some of its more ardent iniquities and diversions. The night clubs were as often as not fronts for backroom gambling halls, intermittently tolerated by the authorities.
The city, like so many, has its racial demons. At the turn of the twentieth century, Atlantic City had one of the highest African-American populations of any city north of the Mason-Dixon Line, owing to the abundance of jobs in the hotels. The archetypal amusement was that of white working-class visitors kicking back in the boardwalk’s famous wicker rolling chairs while black people did the pushing—a “public performance of racial dominance,” notes the historian Bryant Simon, in “Boardwalk of Dreams.” Though the Northside, traditionally a black neighborhood, had been a thriving district, the decline in tourism to the city, after the Second World War, hit it hard. With the rise of affordable air travel, people started going to Florida and the Caribbean instead. The city desegregated. Disneyland opened.
Legalized gambling was supposed to rescue the city from its obsolescence as a resort and convention town, a condition that came to national attention during the 1964 Democratic Convention there and grew more conspicuous as the decade wore on. A dozen years later, the state passed the Casino Control Act, which was, at least ostensibly, an attempt to reverse the decline. But, perhaps predictably, a lot of the money that flowed in flowed right back out—to the casino operators and their financing schemes (“I made a lot of money in Atlantic City,” Donald Trump said at the recent Republican debate. “And I’m very proud of it”) and to their subsequent efforts to lobby for the approval of casino gambling in other states. New Jersey, which taxes the casinos to fund a seniors’ prescription-drug program, among other things, always got its piece.
Neglect of the city has been attributed to a bloated municipal payroll—a budget nearly double what it was ten years ago—and the years of corruption and mismanagement in city government. Some blame the suffocating effect of the casinos, which are boxed off from the city and are designed to keep patrons inside losing money rather than outside spending it. Others point to the thorny old problem of race or the dreary question of the structure of municipal government statewide.
“He’s very self-loathing, but not enough.”
The dividing line between south and north, and between white and black, used to be Atlantic Avenue, the main commercial street, which runs parallel to the sea. It was where South Jersey shopped for wedding dresses and jewelry; now it’s a gantlet of shabby storefronts and fast-food joints, running toward and away from the New Jersey Transit bus terminal. In the streets that run from the boardwalk, dilapidation and squalor are not hard to find. Wood’s Loan Office, a pawnshop established in 1927, is owned and operated by Martin Wood, a seventy-nine-year-old Atlantic City native. Wood, who is white (his grandfather, a metallurgist, came to town from Lithuania at the end of the nineteenth century and used to scavenge for junk on the beach with a horse-drawn wagon), has noticed an uptick in the number of shopping bags from the outlet mall, a few blocks away. In his opinion, the sixties were worse. “It’s not that bad here. Yet.” Twenty years ago, the Casino Reinvestment Development Authority moved the pawnshop a few blocks, in an effort to remedy the city’s oft-lamented lack of a supermarket. “But they opened a discount liquor store next door to the new supermarket,” Wood said. “That was not a good move. They wound up with winos hanging around. People were scared to go to the supermarket. So it closed up.”
“Atlantic City turned its back on the boardwalk,” Paul Steelman, a prominent casino architect who grew up nearby, said. “It’s the most prominent pedestrian walkway in the world. It’s got everything going for it except the buildings that are on it.” His solution: “Cut holes in the casinos and let out all those people, all that capital.”
In order to prevent monopolies, the Casino Control Act stipulated that no one could own more than three casinos. In the eighties, Donald Trump became the first to hit that limit. Eventually, the provision was scrapped, and by 2014 Caesars owned four. Carl Icahn now effectively controls a quarter of the market with just two casinos, the Tropicana and the Taj Mahal.
Does Atlantic City need more gambling, or less? There are proponents on both sides. Some favor alternative entertainments (concerts, water parks, polo, legalized marijuana) or the panacean potential of higher education (Stockton University, a state college headquartered offshore, has long wanted an Atlantic City campus). A few push for smaller boutique casinos, and others swear by the existing big-box regimen, just done better. In Las Vegas the ratio of revenue is two-thirds non-gaming to one-third gaming. In Atlantic City the situation is reversed. Since 2006, gaming revenue has dropped by half, from a peak of $5.2 billion to $2.7 billion. As that stream dries up, logic suggests tapping others. And yet the casinos remain lucrative. Divided among eight casinos—that’s how many are left—$2.7 billion isn’t bad. This may be the locals’ most commonly stated reassurance. The city has a higher concentration of casinos than anywhere outside Nevada. It gets twenty-five million visitors a year.
I asked Steve Perskie, who wrote the Casino Control Act as a state legislator representing Atlantic City, if casinos, in the final accounting, had been good for the town. “Compared to what?” he replied. “Imagine Atlantic City without them.”
When word gets out that a city is on the skids, people seem eager to imagine post-apocalyptic desolation, a rusting ruin at Ozymandian remove from the glory days. But American cities don’t seem to die that way. They keep sopping up tax dollars and risk capital, thwarting big ideas and emergency relief, chewing up opportunists and champions.
Two weeks after the shuttering of Revel, Trump Plaza closed—the fourth casino to do so in 2014. The first was the Atlantic Club, né the Golden Nugget, built in 1980 by Steve Wynn, with financing by Michael Milken and one of the earliest iterations of the junk bond, and then owned (and rechristened), in succession, by Bally’s, Hilton, and Resorts International. Two competitors, Tropicana (owned by Icahn) and Caesars (controlled by the private-equity firms Apollo Management and TPG Capital), bought out the bankrupt Atlantic Club, closed it, and divvied up the scraps. Next came the Showboat. It was profitable, but its owner, Caesars, hobbled by debt, needed to consolidate. (The amputation failed: in January, Caesars declared bankruptcy; another of its holdings, the Bally’s casino, has been rumored to be the next to go.) Meanwhile, Trump Entertainment Resorts declared bankruptcy (its fourth), and Icahn, who’d bought up Trump’s debt, played a game of chicken with the casino workers’ union and the state. (Donald Trump himself no longer runs the company or the casinos, and he has sued to have his name removed.) In December, the Trump Taj Mahal was about to close; Icahn, having squeezed the state and the union for concessions on taxes and benefits, found twenty million dollars to keep it open, and since then it has limped along, a zombie casbah.
It’s not all the big shots’ fault. There’s just been less money to go around. Atlantic City has lost its monopoly on legalized gambling on the East Coast. First came the casinos on Indian reservations in Connecticut, in the nineties, and then, in recent years, the advance of gaming across state lines, in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and upstate New York. (Some industry experts will tell you that Manhattan is destined to have tables, too.) Now there’s talk of casinos in North Jersey, which, along with video-slot parlors at the racetracks (“racinos”), would cannibalize the action in Atlantic City.
Neighboring states approved legalized gambling in the hope that it would do for their economies and state treasuries what it once did for New Jersey’s. Perhaps they should hope instead that it does not. The casino closures in Atlantic City have contributed to the loss of nearly ten thousand jobs, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, and who knows how many associated income streams, reputable or not. The city has fewer than forty thousand permanent residents; the majority of Atlantic City’s workers live offshore, in the townships of Atlantic County, which, in the first quarter of this year, led the nation in foreclosures. Property taxes in the city have doubled since 2008 and were up twenty-nine per cent in 2014, to make up for the drop in tax revenue from the casinos and in the taxable value of the property. The city is around four hundred million dollars in debt. Earlier this year, its credit rating was downgraded to junk-bond status.
After convening a few summits on the predicament in Atlantic City, which resulted in a dire report, Governor Christie, in January, appointed two emergency managers, Kevin Lavin and Kevyn Orr, to oversee the city’s finances, wresting control from the mayor and the city council. The fact that Orr had previously served as Detroit’s emergency manager, steering Detroit into and out of bankruptcy, led observers to predict that he’d been hired to do the same for Atlantic City. Perhaps mercifully, the mayor, Don Guardian, was relieved of some of the hardest decisions, about who and how many to fire and what services to deprive the citizens of. “A good manager welcomes a good auditor,” he told me. The mess was now Christie’s. Presiding over the first bankruptcy for a New Jersey municipality since the Great Depression would not help his Presidential ambitions, and, perhaps more important, it would raise the already high costs of borrowing across a state whose finances are very grim. Christie staked a lot on his rescue of Atlantic City, and so far the bet’s not looking so good.
In May, the city submitted a plan to lay off two hundred city workers, about a fifth of the municipal workforce. Orr returned to private practice, having been paid seventy thousand dollars for three months of part-time work. (He’d billed the state nine hundred and fifty dollars an hour.)
Abandonment, and the spectre of bankruptcy, intensified the bleakness of the winter in Atlantic City. At one end of the boardwalk, Revel loomed dark. At night, the blare of piped-in pop warped in the wind, and floodlight spilled out over the dunes, which, post-Sandy, were just a layer of sand atop an armature of giant sandbags. The obituarists who came to gawk didn’t have to bother going so far. On the façade of the first casino that one saw after pulling off the expressway there was the ghost lettering of the immense sign that once spelled out “Trump Plaza” and, beneath it, a billboard that read “The Center of It All.” (The small print read “Gambling Problem? Call 1-800-gambler”—advice, maybe, for the city itself.) Visitors regularly stopped to photograph this, to add to their portfolio of what some locals, resenting the attention, considered ruin porn.
The greatest ruin was to the lives of the thousands who’d lost their jobs. One morning, I met Dawn Inglin, who had gone to work as a cocktail waitress at the Plaza when it first opened, in 1984. She’d come to town three years before, when a friend got her a role in a dinner-theatre company down shore, in Ocean City, and then she found herself auditioning at Harrah’s, which, in those days, used cocktail waitresses as dancers in its TV commercials. “The choreography was difficult,” she recalled.
When she applied for a job at the Plaza, she auditioned for Donald Trump at Trump Tower, in Manhattan. She remembers a weigh-in, and an interview in a bathing suit, and she and the others were required to wear two-and-a-half-inch heels. (When I met her, she had her hair up and was wearing a smart lavender suit.) “I very much enjoyed working for Donald Trump,” Inglin said. “When he was there, it was tip-top. You’d’ve thought he was the Messiah.”
Inglin’s generation of casino workers, whose professional primes track the birth and decline of the industry in Atlantic City, speak wistfully of the abundance and camaraderie of the halcyon days. “Back in the eighties and nineties, the money flowed. It was glamorous,” Inglin said. “Then the attention and the business was diverted from the Plaza to the Taj. Things started closing. Restaurants, room service. For four or five years, there were constant rumors that this or that person was going to buy us. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of people who were going to save us. The last few years were so stressful. You watched people lose their jobs. They were taking away severance, the machines disappearing, equipment rolling past you.”
After thirty years, she was fourth in seniority among cocktail waitresses at the Plaza and was making $8.99 an hour, plus benefits. It ended last September. “When we found out we were closing, we were standing at the bar—the last bar in the casino. We saw it on the six-o’clock news. We were frantic.”
Despite coming up empty in a search for another job, Inglin felt that she was going to be all right. Since the Plaza closed, she has been attending classes at the community college in pursuit of a degree in human services—a growth field in these parts. “We have an addiction problem here,” she said.
I met a bus driver named Kip Brown, who worked the Port Authority route, up and back each morning, for Academy Bus Lines. He had been at Academy for fifteen years and was No. 3 in seniority, out of seventy drivers in the region. As ridership has fallen, Academy has been cutting back on its schedule. The number of visitors arriving by bus is an eighth of what it was a quarter century ago. In the spring, Brown, just forty-seven, retired.
Now he was looking for work as a livery driver. Brown also used to work in the casinos, at the Showboat, bussing tables, and at Trump’s Castle, stripping and waxing floors. “When Donald and Ivana came to the casino, the bosses would order all the black people off the floor,” he said. “It was the eighties, I was a teen-ager, but I remember it: they put us all in the back.”
He lives in the Northside, on Martin Luther King, Jr., Boulevard, in a house that, like many in town, was inundated during Hurricane Sandy. “Sandy: that was the beginning of the fall of Atlantic City,” he said. Because of the rise in property taxes, the value of the house is well below the value of the mortgage, so he is stuck with it. “If I could get out of my house, I would. I don’t want to live in Atlantic City, to be honest with you.” Recently, one of the employees at his cousin’s corner store had been killed in an armed robbery.
Atlantic City has had three great bosses, political or otherwise. In the decades prior to the First World War, Louis Kuehnle, a transplanted New Yorker and powerful Republican known to all as the Commodore, turned the resort into a bustling metropolis and the state party into a patron and beneficiary of the evolving local aptitude for vice. Enoch (Nucky) Johnson, his successor and the basis for the Steve Buscemi character in “Boardwalk Empire,” continued this work and presided over Atlantic City’s glory years, during Prohibition, which, largely thanks to his efforts, never really pertained. The third was Hap Farley, a Republican legislator and master puller of wires, whose political swan song was his support, behind the scenes, for the second (and successful) attempt, in 1976, to pass the state bill to legalize gambling in Atlantic City.
Since then, there have been party bosses, governors, and mayors with varying degrees of power and venality, but no kingfish of the stature of the Commodore, Nucky, or Hap. “I’ll give you Atlantic City,” the mayor of Camden said, to F.B.I. agents disguised as Arabs during the Abscam sting. “Without me, you do nothing.” But by then such an offer was beyond the reach of any one man. In city politics, the Democrats held sway. (The electorate is now thirty per cent Hispanic and forty per cent black; Democrats outnumber Republicans nine to one.) The only Republican elected to* City Hall in the casino era was James Usry, the city’s first black mayor, who got caught up in a corruption investigation that cost him the 1990 election—until 2013, when, to the great surprise of the city’s political establishment, Don Guardian, a gay white Republican, beat Lorenzo (Rennie) Langford, an African-American, by fewer than four hundred votes.
Langford, out of the public eye since then, has been writing a memoir and working as a substitute teacher. He lives in the same modest split-level that he’s been in for twenty-eight years (“In two years it’ll be paid for”), on a street in the Northside that has been renamed L. T. Langford Lane. We talked in his “man lair,” a furnished subfloor with jazz paraphernalia and a wall of fame: his wife, Nynell, with him and Jay Z and Beyoncé; Stevie Wonder; Janet Jackson; Michael Vick; and Lionel Richie. He had on a Champion sweatshirt, jeans, and Nikes. His grandfather had come to town in the twenties, bought some trucks, and won trash-removal contracts at the big hotels. Langford’s father dropped out of high school and worked in a factory. Langford went to college, then dealer school at the Casino Career Institute, on the Black Horse Pike, one of the old Atlantic City arteries, and started at Caesars when it opened, in 1979. He spent fourteen years in the industry—as a floor supervisor at the Playboy and a pit boss at the Atlantis and the Taj Mahal. In 1992, he ran for city council.
People dish a lot of dirt about Rennie—how he’d put his extended family on the payroll; how he had sued the city and, after becoming mayor, got a settlement of more than four hundred thousand dollars (a judge later ordered him to repay it); how his wife’s goddaughter, the pop singer Ashanti, got paid twenty thousand dollars for spending a day at the Atlantic City high school—but it’s hard, when you’re in his home, hearing his side, not to admire his cheek, in the hurly-burly of Chris Christie’s New Jersey, or not to credit his assessment that in the end what has befallen Atlantic City could not have been prevented by any mere satrap.
“You can’t take a solo after every serve.”
“For the last four years, everything was my fault,” he said. “No matter how many times I talked about neighboring jurisdictions or the national economy, it was ‘Langford, it’s your fault.’ ” As for the Revel project, he says that from the start he’d considered it “extremely risky” in a saturated market, and that it got such extravagant support from Christie and the state because it was a way to steer the support of the construction unions to the Governor and his party. Langford said, “What Christie thought would be his shining achievement will be the albatross around his neck.”
His successor, Guardian, is sixty-two and from North Jersey. He is a former Boy Scouts of America executive. (“I couldn’t have gotten out at a better time,” he told me; he left just before the Scouts’ policy regarding homosexuality became a national controversy.) Guardian made his name, locally, as the head of the city’s Special Improvement District. He was a keen advocate and errand man for the tourist precincts, the guy out on the boardwalk on his bicycle at dawn, picking up the plastic cups. He was not a part of any machine, but he worked tirelessly to round up votes, and Langford, having survived a bruising, expensive primary and confident of the black vote, apparently got complacent. Guardian also picked up the support of the state’s Republican establishment and of the unions, in light of his promises to put “cranes in the sky.”
Guardian has been frank about the city’s predicament yet optimistic about its prospects. He has a jolly goofball air and a tireless enthusiasm for particulars. He wears bow ties and has trouble pronouncing his “r”s and “l”s. His partner of twenty-one years, Louis Fatato, whom he married last summer, runs a spa at the Borgata. Guardian is routinely unpunctual and speaks off the cuff with enough dash that Chris Filiciello, his chief of staff, usually sticks close to keep watch. At City Hall, a dreary D.M.V.-like cube of concrete and glass, they share an office on the seventh floor, with sweeping views toward Revel and the South Inlet. When I visited, Filiciello looked on coolly from his desk, dipping into a tub of animal crackers, while Guardian enumerated some of the intractable financial problems the city faces. “If I can take eighty million out of the budget, that’s sustainable, but that’s not feasible right now, not if we want to provide public safety and public works. I can get forty out.”
In public, he projects a no-bullshit boosterism reminiscent of Ed Koch. He was the keynote speaker at this year’s annual luncheon of the Metropolitan Business and Citizens Association, a kind of super-charged chamber of commerce. The luncheon was at Caesars Palace, on the day, as it happens, that Caesars, the parent company, declared bankruptcy. The Palladium Ballroom was filled with glad-handers, as the casino’s employees—employed for now—poker-facedly delivered pats of butter molded into the profile of Augustus.
“You think you had a bad day?” Guardian began. “I woke up this morning, Caesars filed bankruptcy, all three elevators are broken in City Hall, and there’s a major water leak at public works.” He went on, “Hey, at least we’re not Detroit!”
“Last year, I promised you a root canal,” Guardian told the crowd. “I just forgot the Novocain.” But the good news was that “the root canal is over and the healing is about to begin.” Or, as he said at the end, “2015’s got to be better than 2014. 2014 sucked!”
The hosts of the luncheon, and the founders of the M.B.C.A., were the local philanthropists Gary Hill and John Schultz. Schultz, an Atlantic City native and three-term city councilman, and Hill, from Reading, Pennsylvania, made their money operating night clubs (Studio Six, Club Tru) in a forlorn stretch of town where the Sands used to be. Eventually, the casinos figured out the night-club business, so Schultz and Hill got out, and started giving their money away. Twenty years ago, they bought an old building near the clubs, next door to a porn shop, and converted the top three floors into a triplex they called Casa Del Cielo, where they live together and preside as ambassadors, of a kind, over various gaudy but charitable entertainments. In a way, they are avatars of the town’s long-dormant gay scene, which has reawakened in recent years.
The night of the luncheon, they had me up for a drink. Past a suite of paintings by Ringo Starr and a library shelved with scrapbooks chronicling Hill and Schultz’s twenty-seven years together, a loggia led to a heated pool, which they once filled with wine corks. Here and there were garish furnishings salvaged from the casinos: headboards from Trump Plaza, smokestacks and banquettes from the Showboat, chandeliers from the Sands. Last summer, they hosted Mayor Guardian’s wedding; Schultz officiated. The event was catered by Hauke and Tony Boloney’s.
It was hard to find a building or enterprise in the city limits that was not in some way touched by crisis and folly. But none was more conspicuous, and of greater likely consequence to the city in the long run, than Revel. Last September, with Glenn Straub’s ninety-million-dollar offer as the stalking horse, the bankruptcy court held an auction to sell it. The winner, at a hundred and ten million dollars, was Brookfield Property Partners, based in Toronto. Brookfield owned the Atlantis in Nassau and the Hard Rock in Las Vegas, and so saw some synergy here, but it couldn’t make a deal with the owners of Revel’s adjacent power plant, which had been built solely for Revel and was charging Revel three million dollars a month for utilities. (The power plant was a separate, independently owned entity, called ACR Energy Partners—an arrangement that has proved poisonous.) In November, Brookfield decided to forfeit its deposit, of eleven million dollars, and walk away. The only bid left, apparently, was the one predicated on a Tower of Geniuses.
Straub began unfurling his plans. He said he’d spend three hundred million dollars building the second tower and another half billion to buy up derelict property around town. He’d refurbish Bader Field, the defunct downtown airport, and establish an equestrian center for two thousand horses, polo fields, high-speed ferries to Manhattan, a life-extension university, and the world’s biggest indoor water park.
Whenever I called Straub, he answered his own phone and seemed not to have assistants or gatekeepers, or any kind of filter at all. The first time he picked up, at his club, he told me, through bites of an apple, that he had just finished playing a polo match, that he lived and worked on a yacht, that he was debt-free, and that he had two brilliant adult daughters with whom he had failed to spend enough time. Once, he answered his phone as he was getting fingerprinted by the Casino Control Commission, for his gambling-license application. Another time, he announced that he was at a urinal. With bankruptcy-court procedures in mind, I asked, “So what comes next?” and he replied, “I wash my hands.”
Straub invited me to meet him at Revel one day in February, on one of his trips to town. He tended to fly up on Spirit Airways, to save money. When I arrived, he was still busy trying to buy Bader Field. (The city, the Mayor had told me, wanted far more for it than Straub was willing to pay.) Straub also talked of buying the racetrack, Trump Plaza, the Showboat, and several large tracts of undeveloped land in various parts of the city. At times, he talked as though he’d bought some of these things already.
“Have ye seen a whale that matches this swatch?”
In the all but abandoned Revel corporate offices, overlooking a slatey winter sea, two of the remaining Revel employees were waiting for Straub to arrive. They didn’t work for him yet, but, given that he was the putative buyer, they allowed him to use the space and they were inclined to be deferential.
“It’s kind of hard to believe Glenn Straub might be our white knight, but here we are,” one said.
“Just a tip,” the other said. “He likes to be called Mr. Straub.”
Straub arrived alone, wearing a zip-up hoodie under a blazer. He had a Florida tan and hair that was brushed back and reddish-brown. He’s trim, at sixty-eight, and he had the bent gait of an aging country-club athlete. In a kitchenette, he made a sandwich for himself and sat down in a conference room with a view down the boardwalk: in the foreground, the empty lot that would one day, he hoped, be home to his water park, and then, stretching south, the casino cordillera—Showboat, Taj, Resorts, Bally’s, Caesars, Trump, Trop.
“It’ll be done the right way,” Straub said. “I’ll actually wash the windows here. It’ll cost a couple of dollars. There must be ten million windows in this frigging place. That’s the first thing we’ll do. Get the laser light shows and wash the windows and hire four thousand employees. That way, I’ll get the politicians. ‘Oh, Straub, I know him. I want to do business with one of his marinas,’ or whatever. . . . Get their attention. ‘Guys, I got a high-speed ferry. . . . Midtown Manhattan, what do you got there for a pier?’ Politicians can get you into that place that you can’t get into.”
Straub’s way of talking in a stream-of-consciousness rush, in the manner of an Appalachian Don King, often made his big plans seem scattershot and his tactical explanations disjointed, at least to someone not adept in vulture finance. “He has a learning disability,” his daughter Kim, a branding consultant in New York, told me. “When he was a kid, when it was time to read aloud in class, he’d count the people who were supposed to read before him and then, just before his turn, go to the rest room. He’s a bit of a savant.”
Straub comes from Wheeling, West Virginia, where his father had a business providing transportation to the Texas Eastern pipeline and later owned auto-leasing franchises and taxi fleets. “So you worked, and if you didn’t work Dad got the belt out and beat your butt,” Straub said. “Anyway, he died, just when I got my driver’s license.” After high school, Straub and a brother helped run the businesses. In time, they owned a network of sand and gravel quarries and concrete and asphalt plants; highway- and airport-construction contracts made them rich. (In recent years, those long-moribund quarries, in the upper Ohio River Valley, have been found to sit atop vast reserves of oil and gas, extractable by horizontal drill, making Straub even richer.)
Straub retired at forty, moving his family (his wife, from whom he divorced in 2007, and two daughters) to Florida. “I lasted six months,” he said. He started investing in distressed and bankrupt properties. It was a good time to have cash on hand. In the wake of the savings-and-loan crisis, at a Resolution Trust Corporation auction, he bought a twenty-two-hundred-acre golf and polo club in Wellington, for $27.1 million. It was called Palm Beach Polo. “All of a sudden, people were giving me a half a million dollars for an acre,” he said. “I sold two or three hundred million dollars’ worth, and we still have another thousand acres down there.” A big driver was the equestrian center: “Never once thought it would turn out to be a gold mine, but it did turn out to be a gold mine, because then the Bloombergs of the world and their daughters, and all the movie stars’ daughters, they would go down there, and they would have the big Olympic stars do the show jumping, and there was this thing called polo. I didn’t know what a polo game looked like. They put you on a horse. And I thought, This isn’t that hard. I was good in sports, amateur sports. I can hit things. I can pick a fly out of the air.”
Straub has been called “the dictator of Palm Beach polo.” His reign has been contentious. In numerous lawsuits, he has been accused of neglecting his residents, as well as the grounds, and charging undue fees. In 2010, he was tried, and ultimately acquitted, on criminal charges of polluting protected wetlands. He was once convicted of contempt, after interfering with a federal marshal who’d come to seize a yacht at a marina Straub owned. He tried to appeal the verdict all the way to the Supreme Court, without success. Through the years, he has been proudly litigious. “If you check me out, I’m pretty good at protecting our rights in the court system,” Straub told me.
In the conference room, he told me about his idea for an ocean liner. “An old ocean liner, like the QE2. I’m gonna buy it,” he said. He squeezed mayonnaise from a packet. “Bring this ocean liner in, and I don’t know if you’ve been around Ripley’s down in Orlando, the whole building shaking and everything else. I’m gonna teach my kids, or my kids’ kids, what World War II was all about, and the Holocaust, and Zeros coming in from Japan, and so when you go inside this thing, this ship, it’s gonna make you feel like you’re being bombed, like Pearl Harbor when the damned Zeros came in, took out our whole fleet in the Pacific. The ship’s suites where the crew used to be will be for my construction workers, because if we’re gonna spend this kind of money up here I need to get cheap housing for them, so instead of shipping them back to Philadelphia and bringing them here every day I’ll let them store themselves in the bottom of the ship. It’ll be like the back lots at M-G-M.”
Throughout the winter, Straub made regular trips to Atlantic City and to the federal bankruptcy court in Camden, where he pressed his attempt to have his bid approved. Amid innumerable motions, hearings, and rulings, attorneys representing bank lenders, unsecured creditors, jilted tenants, other prospective buyers, the power company, and the gutted estate argued for and against his offer, sometimes changing sides as the circumstances evolved. Other bidders waded in and wandered off. The power company remained a sticking point. The lawyers racked up their fees and did their pressers on the courthouse steps.
One cold morning in February, Straub arrived at the courthouse in a gray suit, with a trenchcoat slung over his shoulders. He said he’d left his cell phone in a bathroom at the airport, and someone had retrieved it and was sending it back. He looked at the pairs of lawyers filing in through the door. “A few more guys and we’ll get a soccer game going here,” he said. “I wish I was getting paid a thousand bucks an hour.” Straub’s lawyer, Stuart Moskovitz, of Freehold, not normally a bankruptcy attorney, called them the “bankruptcy cabal.” It was essentially the deadline on Straub’s bid, now at ninety-five million dollars, but he had failed to close, owing to some unresolved questions about his obligation to old leaseholders and to the power plant.
“We need to know what we’re buying,” Moskovitz said.
Revel’s lawyer told the judge, “We’re ready to move on to another buyer.”
“Can I get back to you when there’s someone to overhear me?”
Problem was there didn’t seem to be one. With this in mind, Straub and Moskovitz had been threatening to put in a much lower bid if their offer fell through. At one point, Straub stood and handed his lawyer a piece of paper. Moskovitz read aloud, “Sometimes the judge has to protect the debtor from himself.”
In the back of the courtroom, a lanky man in a yellow sweater, his graying hair perfectly in place and his eyes darting around, fidgeted with his fingers as though he were handling invisible chopsticks. His name was Vincent Crandon. He was a low-profile Jersey dealmaker from Mahwah, and he had been circling various properties in Atlantic City for years, to no avail. He’d failed in attempts to buy Trump Plaza and the Atlantic Club. Early on, he’d been after a bricks-and-mortar property to go with an Internet-gaming company. But his quest had morphed into something else, and so now he just lurked, waiting for the court, or perhaps the entropy of Atlantic City, to scuttle Straub’s bid. Quietly casting himself as the new white knight, he’d submitted an offer, but so far it had gone unacknowledged.
“Straub is done,” Crandon told me later. “We’ve put in a better offer. We’re sitting back, taking our time.” He added, “Straub thinks he’s the only guy in town.”
The town, and the sellers, seemed to think so, too. After the ninety-five-million-dollar offer fell apart, Straub put in a lower bid, for eighty-two million, and lawyers for Revel and the lenders, increasingly desperate, supported it in court. At the beginning of April, the presiding judge, Gloria Burns, who said she would not let the case delay her impending retirement, abruptly ruled in favor of Straub. The questions of the tenants and power plant remained unresolved. For a few days, anyway, the town experienced something like hope.
Atlantic City, formerly a breeding ground for big ideas, was now a tar pit—trapping financial mastodons and big-eyed dreamers, whether or not their intentions were pure, as the capricious gods of commerce looked on. Revel kept luring in new ones. In April, the day after Straub took ownership of Revel, he called Crandon and—according to Crandon, anyway; Straub denies it—offered to flip the property to him for a hundred million dollars. A couple of days later, Crandon drove down to Atlantic City. With Revel blacked out (owing to the inevitable dispute between Straub and ACR, the power company), the only people allowed inside were security officers from the Casino Control Commission. They stood in darkness guarding acres of idled slot machines, which Straub wasn’t technically authorized to own, since he had no gaming license. So, according to Crandon, the two men who would decide Revel’s fate met in one of its parking garages. Crandon had along one of his partners, Don Marrandino, an Atlantic City native known as Rockin’ Don, for his music-industry connections. He had been the president of Hard Rock in Las Vegas and of Caesars East Coast operations. Straub was accompanied by Tara Lordi, his adviser and “toxic-asset manager,” a horsewoman and former banker. Crandon says Straub told them he wanted much more than a hundred million for Revel, but at least he now had a possible out, and Crandon had an in. (Straub says the meeting never happened.)
Crandon had been eying Revel for a year. Crandon, who is fifty-three, grew up in Delaware, but his parents were from New Jersey, and as a kid he worked at a service station his grandfather owned on the Black Horse Pike. His surname used to be Ceccola; Crandon is an adaptation of Cranendonk. His father-in-law is Theodor Cranendonk, a wealthy Dutch oil trader who was once imprisoned in Italy on charges of delivering thirty bazookas to the Mafia. (“It was all made up,” Crandon says. According to Crandon, Dutch commandoes sprung Cranendonk from a prison hospital and brought him back to the Netherlands.) One of Crandon’s investment vehicles is called MidOil, but Cranendonk was not involved in the Revel bid. “He doesn’t do gambling,” Crandon said.
Crandon said his group—“We’re Jersey guys”—planned to spend hundreds of millions reconfiguring the space. The new name would be Rebel. Crandon said they were planning a forty-night Bon Jovi residency. Rockin’ Don had the pull.
The money wasn’t from Jersey guys. Crandon says he spent a marathon weekend in town and in New York wooing representatives from a Chinese real-estate firm that had been buying up properties around the United States. Crandon’s group and the Chinese were betting that Macau, the Asian gambling mecca, was tapped out, amid a Chinese government crackdown on corruption and gambling, and that travellers from mainland China would soon be including South Jersey on their U.S. itineraries. The Atlantic City airport would be the hub for jumbo-jet charters from Asia. The margins are better if you can lure a plane from Hong Kong than a bus from Port Authority. Atlantic City, born in proximity to the population and early industrial wealth of Philadelphia, would now reach halfway around the world for money and the guests from whom to separate it.
Crandon believed that Straub was planning to demolish Revel. A consultant had told him you could net a hundred million dollars if you sold it off as spare parts. There was a precedent: In 2004, Straub bought Miami Arena for twenty-eight million dollars, half what the city had paid to build it. He promised to turn it into a venue for horse shows, conventions, and minor-league sports, to help revive downtown Miami. “Tearing it down serves nobody’s purpose,” Straub said at the time. Four years later, he tore it down.
Events on the ground in Atlantic City seemed to be pushing Straub in that direction. As soon as he bought Revel, he found himself, not unexpectedly, in a war with ACR, the power plant, and thus, in short order, with the city. The maneuverings often seemed frivolous and petty, except that a city was at stake. Straub refused to pay ACR the three million a month for power, and ACR refused to provide it for free. And so Revel remained dark: no light, heat, air, or water, no sprinklers or alarms. The city’s fire marshal deemed the building unsafe, and the city rescinded Straub’s certificate of occupancy and began fining him five thousand dollars a day. Observers wondered about catastrophic fire and debilitating mold.
Straub dug in. He told reporters, as he unsuccessfully challenged the plant’s owners in court, “We’ll erase them off the map.” He brought in a fleet of diesel generators and parked them outside the casino. But he had no permits, and ACR owned much of the connecting infrastructure. Back to court they went. Straub, the loser again, sent the generators away. He told me, referring to city and state officials, “If they won’t work with me, I’ll just go back to Miami.” Publicly, he made the threat explicit: “I’ll tear the building down.”
To circumvent ACR, Straub had set about trying to buy the empty casino next door, the Showboat, and tap into its power plant instead. The Showboat’s owner, at the moment, was Stockton University, the state college, which, a few months earlier, had bought it to establish a long-desired Atlantic City campus. The university had paid just ten dollars a square foot. “You can’t even buy tile at Home Depot for ten dollars a square foot!” Herman Saatkamp, Stockton’s president, told me.
“Seltzer . . . seltzer!”
But the campus plan had suddenly fallen apart, when Trump Entertainment, owners of the Taj Mahal, next door, unexpectedly opted to enforce an old covenant mandating that the Showboat be a casino-hotel, and nothing else. Icahn, who controls Trump, didn’t want a college campus next door. “Who is this guy?” Bob McDevitt, the president of Local 54, the casino workers’ union, said of Icahn, with whom he has been feuding for a year. “How does he get to decide everything? He’s disembowelling the city.”
Icahn blames the unions. “I saved the Tropicana, which was bankrupt, and made it into one of the only vibrant and surviving casinos in Atlantic City,” he told me. “I have also saved the Taj Mahal and have saved six thousand jobs. Bob McDevitt has caused three casinos to close and the loss of thousands of jobs. Ask yourself: Who is the villain of this story?” Capital or labor? Germany or Greece? Depends on whom you talk to. In July, Taj workers, having lost many of their benefits, voted to authorize a strike.
At any rate, now Stockton was stuck with a vacated casino on its balance sheet and monthly maintenance costs of four hundred thousand dollars. That’ll buy you a lot of tile. And so Saatkamp, the university’s president, who is also a leading scholar of George Santayana (“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”), rushed into a provisional agreement to flip the Showboat to Straub. At the end of April, Saatkamp, out of his depth in these sharky waters, resigned as Stockton’s president, his tenure scuttled by the Showboat and Revel mess. Santayana: “Skepticism is the chastity of the intellect, and it is shameful to surrender it too soon.”
Throughout the spring, Crandon pressed for a deal while Straub held out for more. Straub told me, “Everyone says, ‘Oh, you’re so fucking smart, Mr. Straub.’ And I’m saying, ‘I’m not smart. I can just outlast everybody.’ ” Tara Lordi e-mailed Crandon one afternoon in early April:
Can you kindly by the place so I can get back to the warm weather I’m freezing my ass off here.
In early May, according to Crandon, the two men met aboard Straub’s yacht, the Triumphant Lady, which he’d brought north to Atlantic City and docked at the Golden Nugget. Crandon says they actually shook on a deal, for a hundred and thirty-two million dollars. (Straub denies this meeting took place and in general was dismissive when I asked him about Crandon, referring to him as “Kramden.”)
But they continued to haggle over terms and timing as Crandon worked out his arrangement with the Chinese. There were stories of Straub stiffing a local law firm, and of his filling a truck with Revel fixtures and tools, bound for Florida. (He denies wrongdoing in both cases.) His deal to buy the Showboat foundered, and a court gave Stockton the go-ahead to seek another buyer. As weeks passed, Crandon made promises that he’d soon hold the keys to Revel, and then the deal would recede again: Zeno’s paradox down the shore.
At the end of June, Crandon texted me to say that his deal with Straub was off. “Greed and evil have destroyed A.C.” He explained, “What happened is we got circumvented.” Straub, apparently, had cut him out of the loop and gone directly to the Chinese. He had come to see the potential of junkets from overseas. Crandon sent photos of Tara Lordi in Shanghai with a Chinese man, whom he still, vestigially, called “my partner”: “2 days after that photo, Chinese canceled our deal.” Crandon vowed revenge: “We will keep it in litigation for years. No one will get Revel.”
If Straub was really planning to sell to the Chinese, he wasn’t saying. Lordi says she went to Shanghai to play polo. Straub said he was looking for groups to help manage the hotel and the casino. All the while, Revel remained closed. Still no light shows or clean windows, to say nothing of the four thousand new jobs the city so desperately needed. Revel’s remaining employees were let go. There was no one left, really, except for the security guards overlooking the slots, in the sweltering heat of an un-air-conditioned glass box in high summer.
“No word on Revel, Showboat, or any of these things,” Mike Hauke said, down at Tony Boloney’s. “It’s frustrating.” Weekends were busy, weekdays were soft. It was hard to make decisions or plans. “Sometimes, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, you drive around town and see four or five cars.” The talk at the shop was mostly about water parks, or the recent news about the mysterious disappearance of three million dollars, which the Langford administration had given to a Bronx businessman in 2013, for a community-loan program that seems to have never made a loan. ♦
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