Well, this was a first. Swimming in a warm October ocean, no wet suits, no rash guards even, no extra measures at all, no chill. Warm water, warm air temperatures, house guests in from Boston for the weekend, sun block, sand castles, chicken on the barby, jeez louise, enough already! It's like Groundhog Day down here, we're stuck on Labor Day, the summer that won't quit. The non air-conditioned house at the shore is wilting like it's August. Was a rare enough kick to cool off in the ocean on Saturday, but the whole thing is getting just a little weird and, well, monotonous. September was nice enough. Bring on the chill.

In Atlantic City, it's said that lifeguards perform so many rescues because they tend to give the swimmers a little bit more leash, then go out and haul them back in. Whereas in some other towns, they keep the swimmers corralled more, and so the rescues are limited. Proactive, they like to say.
In any case, it was a heroic rescue attempted last week in Atlantic City by one (former) mayor for another (soon to be former) mayor, one lifeguard for another, one rowing buddy for another. Assemblyman James Whelan saw his old friend Bob Levy going down in stormy waters and whistled him in. Whelan, one of the few mayors in recent Atlantic City who has governed without embarassment, had given his friend a long leash over the years: appointed him head of the storied AC beach patrol and then given him an additional post as head of the city's emergency managment. This paved the way for Levy's run for mayor, where it turns out he could barely stay afloat.
Ten days ago, Levy vanished, leaving his Mayor Bob Levy space vacant outside City Hall. We all had our yucks, Geraldo and the gang, with the where's Mayor Levy thing. The other day, looking for parking at the Walk, Atlantic city's thriving outlet downtown (bulletin: stores still open despite Levy's absense), it occurred to me that I could go park in Levy's space. Ha ha.
But of course, anyone who had ever dealt with Chief Levy _ that title still fits better than Mayor Levy _ up close while he was head of emergency management and the beach patrol knew that something tragic, not comic, was going on. Perhaps more than anyone in this town other than Donald Trump, Levy was the guy you could count on to call you back for a story. Levy was usually no further than upstairs at the beach patrol headquarters at South Carolina Avenue, a spot where he could see for miles. He was the opposite of Missing in Action. There was no reason not to think he'd be ok as mayor. But it all unraveled, possibly propelled by the force of one lie, that he was a green beret in Vietnam when he wasn't, though he was a decorated soldier. It was a lie that has the federal government investigating, a lie that seems to be at the heart of Levy's disappearance and at the heart of his stay in a psychiatric hospital, where it turns out, he spent the last ten days. His resignation or court-ordered abdication seems inevitable.
Now the world sees him as a punchline, a mayoral Britney Spears, in a city that keeps supplying them, but really, he's just a guy who was way in over his head, a guy who never should have left the beach. Fortunately for him, though not everyone sees it that way, he had a friend who knew when it was time to get him out.
Last week, Whelan surprised many by publically calling for his friend to emerge from hiding and resign. Some people called it a betrayal by a man running for political office (state Senate); others saw it more along the lines of tough love, a friend jumping into treacherous waters himself to save another. Whatever it is, and feel free to give your own thoughts, it appears Levy may be headed back to shore.

Well, hey now. Excuse me while I wipe the dust off my sleeves. That was one creepy dark implosion on the Boardwalk tonight. See ya later Sands, imploded after an oddly quiet, yet strangely disquieting fireworks display emanating from inside the rooms and out the broken out windows, followed by a series of heart thumping booms that led to the finale every fireworks display yearns for: the building itself brought to its knees, obliterated. So why were people, like, walking away kind of disturbed? This was not so much thrilling, like a roller coaster, but scary like a horror flick. Maybe because it was nighttime, the white Sands building lit up like a ghost. Then the fireworks came out from inside, like there were little troublemakers setting off sparklers inside, like it was possessed or something. It was cool and pretty at times, but putting life in a lifeless building through fireworks only to then destroy the thing like it had been taken over by demons, by the undead, by the _ I'm not kidding, this is what it felt like watching it. Some teens nearby worried that somehow, someone could be inside. Or some other kinda thing. Maybe it's that after 9-11, there's nothing particularly fun about watching a tower collapse in a heap of inevitability. Or maybe it felt too much like an poor-taste imitation of a middling apartment building being taken down during wartime. Whatever, "It was creepy," was a reaction I heard more than once from spectators leaving (and the beach and Boardwalk were packed like the Fourth of July). Ah well, it definitely gave meaning to the phrase bit the dust. I've watched the 1978 implosion of the Traymore Hotel on the Boardwalk at the beginning of Louis Malle's Atlantic City a bunch of times, and it always looked grand and gallant and breathtaking, but regrettable. This building, no one will miss. But the implosion felt, well, haunted. A goth time was had by all. All witnesses invited to describe their reaction to the implosion in the comments section.
Meanwhile, here's a before picture:

And an after picture: That's dust there.