The Last Day Of May

Sunday morning. 
I was mulling over the day before, which wasn't much to mull over from a personal triumph perspective, since we've been on a coronavirus lockdown for months. I was still nursing the loss of Larry Kramer, a man I never met but someone who's life and rage informed mine in ways that changed me, gave me my voice, and made me the man I am today. His no-holds-barred activism during the AIDS Crisis led me to join the Act-UP movement and cause some mayhem and civil disobedience during that pandemic. We, collectively, changed the world back then. And now the entire country has been in the grips of peaceful protest over the tragic death of George Floyd at the knee of a Minneapolis cop and the sinister and unfortunate side effect of such mass protest, the rampant looting and damage that always seems to follow. As I was commenting on Facebook in the early morning about the situation, my good friend Miss Ten'e told me of a protest planned for the early afternoon at the Atlantic City Police Station, she sent me the sparsely detailed flyer to read. I mulled it over briefly and considered attending, I guess the nostalgia of my Act-UP days was still lurking in the back of my mind, but I decided against going. Those days of my youth were better served in my youth. I wasn't sure if I should reignite those dormant passions, I freely admit, I've become complacent and comfortable in my little world.
The morning moved along, I half-heartedly tried writing a blog post but I wasn't really inspired so I changed tack and decided to plan my day, such as it was. When your choices are whether you should watch the news or continue your binge-watching of some silly show for the rest of the day, there's not much to get excited about, considering that's been the majority of your life for the last two months. Lance contacted me wanting to know if I wanted to do our daily walk that day, he had had enough of his shelter-in-place family and needed to get out to clear his head. I wasn't keen on going, it was a beautiful day, it was Sunday, and the protest was going to happen in the city. I didn't want to deal with the weekend shoobies during this pandemic and whatever might happen should the protest turn like it did so many times in so many cities before. Considering my options ahead of me, though, it didn't take long for me to change my mind about taking a walk. I wanted to get out and enjoy the day. And, truth be told, maybe we'd see a little of the protest and I'd enjoy it vicariously from a distance. We decided to go a bit earlier than normal so I got ready and was out the door in short order.
We met at our usual spot on the Boardwalk at the border of Atlantic City and Ventnor and off we went into the city. As expected, it was pretty busy with tourists, bicyclists careening through the crowds, kids playing, all the usual suspects you'd expect on a late in May day. Mostly everyone was masked, although I don't wear mine when I'm not in a group. Lance and I talked through our individual (not really coping) issues and we laughed and made light of each other's problems. It helps. I told him about the protest, said Ten'e was going to be there but we kind of dropped the subject until we got further into the city and closer to where it was being held. As we approached the Tropicana from the Boardwalk side, Lance asked if I wanted to go check out what was going on, since the police station is directly up the street from there. We agreed to take the little side track and see what we could see.
As we walked up Iowa Avenue, I was a little surprised to not see throngs of people heading that way, it all seemed a little quieter than I expected, especially since it was pretty close to the time it was supposed to start. We got to the corner at Atlantic Avenue and looked across the street and saw a small gathering of people in front of the station, and some more gathered on our side of the street. Some of the shop owners were boarding up their businesses as a protective measure, since, as I stated above, these things seem to get out of control when they've been held in other cities. It's easier to put up some plywood than replace a pane of plate glass. It wasn't before long that I spotted Ten'e across the street, saying hello to everyone there and immediately holding court, as she always does wherever she goes. Lance and I held back, thinking that we'd be leaving soon and not wanting to have to do the whole Hello and Goodbye stuff back-to-back. But those plans went right out the window since Ten'e spotted us and called us over. In the few short minutes we had been standing there, more and more people began to arrive, some carrying signs and nearly all wearing masks, and I could see the police lining the front of the station, chatting with the gathering crowd. We met up with her and caught up, and honestly, I think it was at the point that I decided I was staying. The energy of the growing event was palpable and I was getting that familiar rush of do-gooding that I get at these things. Be they a fundraiser like the AIDS Walk or a charity event, I enjoy the camaradie and the brotherhood these things bring and I knew I'd be there for the duration. I purposely stayed on the fringes, I didn't know the organiser or anyone in charge so I just hung back and followed the crowd as events unfolded.
There didn't seem to be much pre-planned, I could tell that right away. There were no bullhorns, no amplifiers, no one guiding the crowd one way or another, we all just seemed to ebb and flow naturally. Not the way I normally run a function, but as I said, this wasn't my gig so I simply followed along. Once the leaders of this little gathering walked into the middle of Atlantic Avenue, and we all followed, the police pulled into the intersections on either side blocking traffic so we could hold the rally without any serious interruption. When I saw that, I was pretty impressed. Instead of letting things get out of hand unnecessarily and having the traffic disrupted by the protesters, the cops were handling the event professionally and set up instant detours around us. It was hard to hear a lot of what was being said, I assumed it was the usual rhetoric. I began a Facebook live feed so people could see how peaceful this protest was. The organiser called for us to lie down on our stomachs and chant 'I can't breathe' and we all did, it was a very powerful and moving statement. We did the usual 'No justice! No peace' call-backs and there was a lot more being said that no one could really hear. I took the time to survey the crowd and was impressed with the turnout, a very nice cross section of society, black, white, gay, straight, tattooed skateboarders, girls with pink hair, professionals, Muslims in thawbs, downbeach teens, Spanish girls, many of them with homemade signs hastily written in black Sharpie on cardboard. It was really cool to see the community coming together over an injustice, everyone moved to be seen and heard and to show solidarity. I did also note the cops on the roof of the station, keeping watch from above. But, as I said, with how these events always seem to end in other cities, I guess you can't be too careful. Evidently, there was a call to march onward down Atlantic Avenue and the crowd melted around the cop cars that had been blocking the traffic. Lance and I took this as an opportunity to melt away ourselves, we ducked back down Iowa Avenue to the Boardwalk and continued our constitutional. The Boardwalk was busy but no where near as busy as it should have been for the end of May and it being such a beautiful Sunday. We walked all the way to the Ocean Casino and decided to turn around and leisurely wandered back, laughing and talking all along the way. When we got closer to Boardwalk Hall, I noticed there were a lot of people in JFK Plaza. It didn't take long to figure out they were the protest group from earlier, evidently this was the destination after leaving the police station. Here the speakers were on stage and it seemed like the crowd was pretty much the same, although the makeup had changed a little. And the rhetoric was a bit darker, as we passed through I could hear the chant 'Fuck the police!' being said. But the cops interspersed through the area seemed to be taking it in stride and we continued on, finally splitting up at the city border and went to our respective homes.
I got in feeling a little rush of accomplishment, it was nice to be a part of such a peaceful event and I was damned proud that nothing had happened. I hopped on social media and saw praise coming in from all quarters about how nice it was, that Atlantic City showed them how protesting was done, the accolades felt good, even though I had played a very small part. But sometimes, just being there is what is needed. I have always said, it's not the level of participation, it's showing up that means the most. Crowds create awareness. And every cause needs people if they are going to get their message out there. I made myself a celebratory Bloody Mary and sat back watching the protests all across the country. 
Suddenly, everything changed.
I started hearing there was some trouble in Atlantic City, people started texting me and messaging me on social media. Reports of kids coming in from the mainland. Reports of some damage going on. Reports of the police trying to stop the vandalism. I saw that my friend Patrick was live streaming so I jumped on his feed and shared it to my Facebook. I was heartsick at what I was witnessing. Mostly young folk were all over the streets, I didn't recognize anyone in the feed from the protest events earlier. Patrick followed them as they marched through Atlantic City, the mischief escalating as they went along. (editor's note: Patrick was not a part of the destruction and mayhem and theft, he was only there recording what was happening). Once they got to Pennsylvania Avenue, someone from the crowd broke a plate glass window at the TD Bank (my bank!) and the crowd moved on as the glass shattered, covering the hedgerows underneath with glass. They rounded up to Arctic Avenue and made their way back into the center of Atlantic City and as they passed the Superior Courthouse someone threw rocks through the windows along the back side, shattering them and spraying glass all over the sidewalks below. Before long, they were at City Hall and there was an intense standoff with riot-gear clad police and the large group of protestors, each in a line facing each other, chants and arguments being made on one side, a wall of silence  and riot shields on the other. I sat at home in horror, screaming at them to stop this, as if they could hear me from my bedroom here in Ventnor. Thankfully, they moved on without any violence but only to venture over to the Walk, the shopping outlets in the middle of Atlantic City. Windows shattered here and there, some looting in the shops that had been closed for months because of the coronavirus, the police forming lines to try and herd the protesters and looters away from the area, you could see that control was lost and things were getting chaotic throughout the Walk (I was praying it wouldn't turn violent, I know way too many cops in the city and I was fearing for their safety). It wasn't before long that Patrick's mobile was losing power and he eventually stopped recording events, thrusting all of us in the dark as to what was happening in the city. I was able to find some more video feed from others on the scene, but it was generally more of the same and I was heartsick as I watched from the safety of my home, what was going on in the city I grew up in. 
I think the image that will remain indelibly on my mind will be the shot of Patrick in a car on Pacific Avenue with a line of Atlantic City police with riot shields in a line stretching from sidewalk to sidewalk herding people along. I grew up on those streets, the very streets they were on, and have never seen anything like that in all the years I have been here.
I eventually lost all the live feeds but it seemed to have calmed down a bit. Just watching things unfold throughout the city was exhausting, and by then I was drained from all the emotions of the day.
From what I learned after, it seems that the later agitators and looters came to take advantage of the rally from earlier that day. And I have heard rumors that some of the organizers of the original protest may have had that intention all along. I don't know, as I stated above, I was very much on the edges of the event. I showed my support and went about my day. But I will say that the tone in front of the police station was markedly different from the tone on the Boardwalk. It was palpable as Lance and I passed through.
I went to bed with a defeated sense of self. I participated in a peaceful event and it morphed into bedlam right here in my city, in my hometown. I felt like now I was part of something ugly and wrong and that wasn't my intention going in. 
I slept fitfully and got no rest until the next day. 
There is more than one way to protest, sometimes the simplest act can make the biggest difference. 
 

  

However, The Day After! Or Memorial Day II

It had been a fitful evening with the sunburn on my knees acting like mini-heat lamps during the night. I woke up several times, overheated under the covers and uncomfortable with the sting. Marmalade was happy, he thought it was playtime whenever he saw me awake and I had a very persistent cat to deal with on top of my discomfort. I had Alexa play some soothing classical music to lull myself back to sleep but I only managed to drift in and out for most of the night, the music making my dreams drift in Disney-accented colors. I gave up trying once I saw the light creeping in behind the window blinds, and decided to start my usual morning routine. 
Having this new laptop has been a blessing, even though it hasn't even been a full week, I feel reborn being able to utilise a proper keyboard once again. It's a welcome new morning companion, along with the morning news shows, and my usual oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. 
My top priority was to get my bicycle fixed, though, and I was waiting for a more amenable time to call my local bike shop to see if they were open for repairs. With the pandemic and all the executive orders from our governor, I wasn't sure how much of their business was available. I caught up online, did some light chores, blogged here, and started planning my day. Of course the shop was open and doing repairs, I was told when I called, so I got ready and walked my wounded bicycle the few blocks over. 
Every time I deal with the good people at AAAA Bike Shop, I'm always taken a little aback by their brusqueness, very no-nonsense and direct. Which is actually refreshing, I never feel like I'm getting pressured into more than I need or want (would you like a sparkle banana seat and handle streamers?). I told the repair guy in the back of the shop what I needed, the front tire, which was noticeably bald and flat, a bike rack to carry small items from the stores, and I wanted my kickstand moved. It's on the back tire and not in the middle, and the bike falls over constantly, it won't balance from the back end and drives me mad. 
Okay, he said to the first request. You gotta go up front and pick out a rack, he said to the second. A firm NO, to the third. Well, fuck me then, I thought, but he explained that I had an expensive bike, and it couldn't be moved with the design. 
Now here's where I paused in thought because, although I really like my bike and think I got a pretty good deal when I bought it, it's performs great, nice and solid, very little maintenance, quiet and fast, I knew for a fact that it was not expensive. I had gotten it at Wal*Mart a few years before and with the little damage that was on it from being in the store (people riding it through the aisles), I was able to talk the cashier into knocking the price down to a hundred and thirty bucks. So his declaration that I had an expensive bike made me laugh a little. I went to the front of the shop and the owner helped me right away, I told him I wanted a no-frills rack and the new tire, he said to come back in an hour, and off I went. 
I puttered around at home for a bit, Helene returned from her weekend job and I caught her up on the neighborhood gossip, and I made plans to walk later with my friend Lance. By now, my sunburn had reduced to a minor discomfort, looking far worse than it actually felt and I was up for another day of exercise. 
I returned to the shop to retrieve my bike, forgetting to bring  the claim check that was still on my kitchen table, but they knew which one was mine and I settled up, hopped on, and rode home. I gave it the once over when I got back, it was well worth the money for the new tire and the rack although they did tell me I had to lose the adjustable seat option, the clamp got in the way of the new rack supports. I never used it anyway so it was a small loss. 
But by now my curiosity was getting the better of me. What did he mean about having an 'expensive bike'? I decided to look up my model, gleaning the information from the decals that cover the frame, It was an older model but I found it with very little effort. Evidently it retailed brand new at five hundred dollars. Although it wasn't what I would classify as expensive, it was far more than I originally paid and far more than I would have paid for any bicycle, especially at the financially-strapped time I bought it. 
I'll say this, I'm glad I NEVER locked it up outside overnight from the moment I bought it! 
The rest of the day went smoothly, I hadn't seen Lance since before the weekend and I was eager to catch up, and we had a nice power walk up and down the boards. 
By nine o'clock at night, though, my exhaustion was getting the better of me. I was able to catch the first hour of the second episode of 'Grant', the new docudrama on the History Channel about the famous general and president before I passed out and slept straight through the night. 

The Memorial Day (More Holiday/Less Patriotism Version)

Because of the pandemic, I have been hibernating on the weekends to avoid the crowds of shoobies flooding down to the area like our own little Biblical plague. Especially this past weekend, since the Memorial Day holiday is usually the unofficial opening of the summer season. The weekend was a bit of a washout, weather-wise, and most people stayed away. The fact that there was parking in my neighborhood all through the weekend was a shocking sight to see! So when it came to Memorial Day Monday, I readily accepted the offer to go bike riding with my friend Charity. The skies were overcast, the winds were negligible, I thought it would be advantageous to get a quick eight miles in and then go home to do... well... nothing. I was supposed to meet her on the Boardwalk about halfway so I got ready and ventured out, quickly making my way to the Atlantic City border to hop on the Boardwalk there, since the Ventnor boardwalk is still prohibiting bicycles until next weekend (editor's note: The Boardwalk in Atlantic City is considered an official thoroughfare so it gets capitalized like a street name). To my surprise, it was far busier than I had anticipated. I had expected most of the tourists to go home by Monday and I was wrong. There were people everywhere, families, groups, bicycles, strollers, skateboarders (more on that later), and those just enjoying the benches watching everyone stroll or ride by. 

I wound my way through the crowds, slowing here and there to let people pass, and then picking up the pace whenever I found a break. I'm a bit of a speed demon on my bike, as I've discussed before in this blog, and being hampered by all the shoobies was annoying me. Especially since I wasn't expecting so many of them to hang on through the holiday. But once I hit Albany Avenue, where the AC Boardwalk doubles in width, I was able to weave through the throngs of people with relative ease. As I was going along, I kept a lookout for Charity's distinctive blue bike color but, as it always happens, you realize how popular her bike color actually is when you're looking for that particular hue and I was staring down everyone that came towards me thinking it might be her. Before I knew it, I was already at the other end of the Island of Love and I hopped off the boards at the Ocean Casino and down the two blocks to her complex, texting her the usual Where are you? messages. I rested outside waiting for her to get ready, doing the usual content uploads to my social media pages, the obligatory photos of me and my bike with hashtags and shares. She eventually arrived and off we went, without any coherent idea where the day would take us.
We decided to go straight up to the end of the island to the Boardwalk above New Hampshire Ave, and hop on from there. This end of the boards is usually less populated, the housing density in that area and the lack of boardwalk-centric businesses are the biggest reasons. It's a great place to fish from, though, with the jetties all along the Inlet and the fact that the water comes right under the Boardwalk in a lot of places along there. We made our way past the sparse crowds and took the bend around, where the Boardwalk meets the first set of casinos and that's where the crowds really picked up. For the most part, we were able to ride side-by-side and keep up conversation, it was really rather lovely out despite the overcast skies and the extra tourists.
Once we got to Stockton's campus, we turned around and started our way back, the narrower part of the boards beyond that point was a little too crowded. Now that did a circuit, I figured I'd go back for one more and the return trip was much like the first and we chatted and rode in leisure all the way back to the Showboat, turning around once again. Of course, we noticed that a few of the 'watering holes' had opened along the world famous boards and, since we are who we are, we decided to take a break at the Steel Pier bar and get an adult canned beverage, since that's all they were selling under the new pandemic guidelines. We found some empty benches along the ocean and sat there enjoying our surprisingly refreshing beverages, safely six feet away from anyone else. We people-watched, since that's what you do, and mulled over where our next stop would be. Hopping on our bikes, we moseyed along and before we knew it, we were all the way down by the Ocean Club condos (Hi, Roland and Cathy!). We saw that the Celebrity Bar was open and, since we are celebrities, we decided to get another libation, claiming one of the nearby benches again as our base of operations. I watched with great curiosity as to how they were preparing cocktails, with the new rules and the laws against open containers (I kept saying 'open carry' and Charity had to constantly remind me that was about guns), mixed drinks had to be served in sealed containers. It absolved the bar of serving an open container, and it solved the issue of making money by selling the very thing they make money from. Win/Win in my book. But I was also gathering intelligence, so to speak, since we're probably going to be opening my bar, the VÜE, sooner rather than later. This end of the boards seem to have an unlimited supply of people to watch and we set up camp and talked massive shit on everyone that came into view! After a few rounds, we decided we were hungry and ordered some overpriced boardwalk food and I noticed that the sun had come out and I knew in the back of my reasonable mind that I would be regretting my decision to stay outside instead of pedaling home to safety from the lethal rays of the sun.
The alcohol helped. We had a brilliant time there and the hours flew by but we were getting restless and decided to see what our friend Michelle Tomko was up to, since she's always out and about doing something in the city. We found out she was on Tennessee Ave. hosting an outdoor car-concert, yet another of the 'new normal' situations that have been invented during these pandemic times. Back on our bikes, we (more) carefully made our way back uptown. Of course, we quickly found that Rhythm & Spirits was open for business (serving sealed cocktails to go) so we ordered two and made our way back to chat with Michelle. Selfies, gossip, pandemic talk ensued and then Charity and I found yet our third spot on the boards to sit and enjoy the late afternoon. We commenced the people watching/judging immediately.
But by now, the full sunshine and the beverages had gotten the better of me and I was itching to go home. We bid our farewells and each pedaled off in opposite directions, although now I was regretting coming this far back uptown, it meant a much longer ride home, and not a full-capacity.
Although I had my misgivings, the ride home was really rather nice, the crowds had thinned out considerable, it was by now dinnertime after all, so I was able to pick up some good speed here and there, as my exercise app kept reminding me, 'Your current speed is 17.4 mph. Your average speed is 9.8 mph. You have reached 14 miles in distance. You have reached your original goal.' I remember this because this is where my excellent day took bit of a bad turn.
The app was telling me this as I was speeding down past the shuttered Atlantic Club building and quickly entering that area of the Boardwalk I previously alluded to above, where it goes down to two 'lanes' so to speak. Directly in front of me, on the wrong side, was a skateboarder who, for some unknown reason (stupidity? brain damage? shoobie?) wasn't veering out of my way and I was going way too fast to stop in enough time. He jumped off his skateboard which proceeded to slam into my front tire and I skidded to a stop. The young man (20's I guess) asked if I was okay, I said 'Yes' and added an 'Asshole' for good measure and then continued on my way home. I got two blocks before I realized he had popped my front tire with his skateboard and I now was forced to walk the remaining ten blocks home to Ventnor, all of my day-long good feelings quickly evaporated during my humble stroll with a wounded bicycle. 
Truth be told, I was planning to replace that tire anyway, constant use had worn away the tread. That's  why I knew I was in for an accident at that moment on the boards, there was no way I could have stopped in time. And that's why I didn't pound the crap out of that kid.
Once home, I cleaned up, got changed and assessed the damage, both to my bike and my skin. It didn't take long to determine I had gotten quite a bit of sunburn and was going to have to get my bike fixed in the morning. After a quick dinner of leftovers, I attended to my burns and turned in early.
Even though it wasn't how I preferred the day to end, was still an rather excellent holiday! 

A Letter From Atlantic City

For two weeks before the crowning night, young women from all over the nation, all fifty states, the District of Colombia, and Puerto Rico, converge on Absecon Island, more specifically Atlantic City, to vie for the title of Miss America. This annual tradition only recently returned to these shores after a brief stint out in the desert in that other casino city for a few years, and it was a welcome return of the prodigal daughters to the businesses and residents of the island. Their presence, along with all the pageant attendants, the support staff, the ABC television crew, the contestant’s families, the state delegations, and many of the past Miss America winners fill the city for and extra week, extending the summer season past what is, for the locals, known as the traditional end of the summer but known to the rest of the world as Labor Day. The hotels are booked, Boardwalk Hall, the pageant’s home since 1940, gets camera ready, parties and events are planned, the entire week is parsed down to the minute for everyone involved, including when you sleep, eat, speak, and are shuttled from one event to the next. It’s a well run machine of organization, a testament to the devotion of all the volunteer committees attached to the Miss America Pageant. They are as tireless as the contestants, keeping them on schedule and delivering them from one party to the next event. For the locals, the perks range from the extra week of work to spotting a Miss America hopeful in a hotel lobby or walking into a restaurant or filming a promo reel for the network. You hear them trading sightings like baseball cards, who was seen where, how nice they were, how pretty they looked, it’s all part of the local tradition. Even the families of the contestants are treated like stars, you’ll hear the locals talk about meeting Miss Delaware’s mother and how nice she was, or Miss Michigan’s little sister who was very pretty, too. But, while sighting a contestant has a certain thrill, many of the locals learn who they are and take great pride in choosing who will win, place, and show on the big night, the real star power belongs to those who have won the crown before. Those women who have already walked the runway to the sound of Bert Parks singing the pageant’s anthem, There She Is Miss America, waving to the throngs of pageant worshippers in the Hall hoping not to lose the wobbling tiara only just bobby-pinned to their teased and coiffed hair. They are the stars of the week, that is, until the newest is crowned on Sunday night. Much has changed over ninety-four years, for both the country and the Miss America Pageant, and many of the former winners who return each year are from many of those different eras of our country, each representing the women of their age, from the 1950’s debutante era, to the 1960’s and 70’s where social mores changed and the pageant resisted, to the glamorous 1980’s and the pageant’s first real scandal, and then the updates and upheavals over the following decades where rules were relaxed, formats changed, revolving hosts, and virulent backlash for it’s antiquated ideas of womanhood and beauty. Yet somehow, the pageant has soldiered on, it’s sorority of winners increasing by one more each September, and it’s still filling the boardwalk for the parade and the Hall for the show. It’s a tradition steeped in another time, that’s still trying to find it’s footing in the here and now, but it is fanatically maintained by a cadre of devotees from around the country, keeping it alive, if not all that relevant. The historic Claridge Hotel, one of the last remaining “skyscrapers by the sea” as it was known in the Boardwalk Empire-era of Atlantic City, played host to many of the former Miss Americas for the week. One of it’s dark panelled meeting rooms served as a home base for the state delegations to throw small receptions, where the state representatives could meet and greet the former winners and sit for the obligatory photo-ops and selfies, with free food and drinks available to all the invited guests. And it is exclusive, the volunteers ensure that no one gets into that room unless their name was on the list, always just enough people to make it a nice gathering, never too many to make it uncomfortable or stuffy. The state delegates are always so enamored of the Miss Americas, and they, to their credit, are gracious and delightful, even though you know they’ve heard the same fawning speeches and accolades year after year, their smiles are genuine and their enthusiasm, if a bit forced, is still pure. For them to come back each year, many of them for decades, shows a certain love for the pageant, a devotion to what the pageant means for all of it’s delegates and fans, a fealty to what made them compete for the crown the year they won. Whatever your opinion of the pageant, to be Miss America is entry to an exclusive club, and they take that title very seriously. And it is serious. There’s a lot of money at stake. It is, after all, a scholarship pageant that doles out millions every year in all the local and state contestants. During the week, the preliminary contests are run at the Hall, with minor, usually local, celebrities and pageant professionals judging the girls over three days. The show you see on crowning night is the same one they do for the preliminaries, with different hosts, and it’s where they narrow down the field of fifty-two to a more prime time slot friendly top fifteen. There is a break during all this hoopla, but it’s not for resting, because that’s when they put on the Show Us Your Shoes Parade, where each contestant is showcased in a fancy convertible car from yesteryear, and local high school bands march by wearing their tall hats with feathers and woollen jackets, drumming and piping and tuba-ing all along the way. The baton twirlers, flag wavers, and synchronized dancers all delight the packed crowds along the boards as they do their thing, to cheers and chants and appreciative applause. Unlike many parades, though, this one is interactive, where you can approach the contestants and get a quick selfie, or boo them if they don’t show their shoes, although now the girls make sure to have tricked out footwear just for the parade, usually highlighting something relevant to their individual states. Kentucky’s might have a Derby theme, Florida might showcase the orange, Nevada usually has cards and dice, all heavy on the sequins, naturally. The floats and bands are all judged but no one really cares, it’s a lovely night out on the boardwalk celebrating Americana in all it’s kitschy splendor. The energy in the Hall is amazing on crowning night, state delegations are packed all over the arena and loudly cheer and wave signs whenever their state contestant’s name is mentioned. You’ll hear chants, call backs, noisemakers, it’s almost as if it’s a sporting event. The top fifteen are quickly whittled down to the top twelve after swimsuit, which are then pared down to the top ten after evening gowns, when we get to see the talent portion. Although two of them have no idea they are not in the top ten until the moment their name isn’t called to perform. The losing contestants all put on a brave face, say the usual platitudes of how lucky they are to be there, lauding the newly formed sisterhood they found simply by being there together, and then the cameras focus shifts and they are quickly forgotten. The dreaded pop-quiz question and answer portion is last, where they each get a question from one of the judges and have to come up with something on the spot. The questions are usually hot button issues or politically tinged, and never something answerable in twenty seconds of time. Many of them are adept at the non-answer, circuitous, non-committal, saying a lot without really saying anything. A future Miss America needs to be everything to everyone and choosing sides, especially in the social media age, is a definite no-no! Finally, a winner is crowned and she makes her way down the runway, clutching a bouquet of roses, wiping away tears, and basking in the gushing adoration of all the pageant aficionados and fans in the audience. The television cameras are off and the show is done. Boardwalk Hall empties it’s patrons into the balmy Atlantic City night as everyone goes their way, to after parties, maybe a nightcap, or most likely home to bed. It is Sunday night and the kids have school in the morning. At the former Miss Americas party, going on until late into the night, all the talk is about their newest member. Knowing glances trade back and forth around the room as each of them knows the year ahead coming to their new sister, and that furtive smile of knowing they all survived it in their own way. The mood is laid back, the gowns have been shed for more comfortable clothing, shoes are tucked under chairs, daughters and granddaughters are running around, pizza is ordered, final photos are taken, and they all promise to keep in touch until they see each other next year. Miss America week has come and gone and the city is experiencing it’s first few days free of tourists (shoobies, as they are called by the locals), pageant queens, and little girls in tiaras. Parking is once again plentiful all up and down the island, the stores and restaurants are no longer bustling with excess patrons so the locals can shop and eat in blessed peace. The balmy air still holds the summer heat but for all intents and purposes, the season is over here. After three months of hustle bustle, everyone is breathing a welcome sigh of relief. Many of the hotels and casinos are now preparing themselves for the long winter ahead, booking small conventions, trade shows, and the other events and functions that will bring some business to the city over the months to come. Life, as the locals know it, has returned to normal.