No matter the season, when I visit NYC, I have to go to Coney Island. You could call it an obsession, although it's more like a sordid love affair. An hourly motel. Junk food for dinner. Fetish for the freak. Attraction to the city's underworld. Sticky candy.
Tie the knot, slap the arm, light the match. No matter that it takes over an hour on the subway to get there. That the beach is loud, crowded, smoky. The food isn't really food. That the rides are actually dangerous. That the
Latin Kings look at my tattoos and nod, knowingly. That the subway station is filled to the brim with screaming almost teens.
With every gram of me that remembers childhood outings there, the absolute terror of a wooden rollercoaster lifting off rickety tracks, itchy salty skin and the raw
sewage floating by, being too short, too skinny, too into sugar.
I love the weirdness, the contradictions, the people who consider this their Six Flags, their Disneyland, their own. I love the heavy accents, the mobsters,
the people brave enough to sing karaoke on the boardwalk, the iffy raw clams, the sunburned Russians, the boomboxes, the tight clothes, the sarcastic teenagers, the fronting, the easy way boys flirt with girls and have sex under the boardwalk, the side show and burlesque, the carnies,
the hardened faces, the old people who swim in the winter, the memories of Jewish sweat houses, the names of the streets: Surf Avenue, Shell Road, Neptune Avenue, the blacker than black people,
the Puerto Ricans and the Dominicans ignoring each other, the queers clocking each other covertly, the 100 flavor Italian Ices stands,
the grandparents who sit on the benches surveying, the bulldogs and the tiny rat dogs, the new Strawberry Shortcake stand, the women in burkas, the artists photographing, the alcoholics, the condom wrappers, the smell of incredible pot, the inky smell of the bay, The Mermaid Day Parade, the bald men in tiny cars and fez's, the bumper cars, the loud popular hip hop which creates competitive din for rides that spin you around on a small track, the tired cops, the Coney Island Museum,
the uncomfortable pregnant women, the fear that ripples visibly in the crowd, the ghosts, the fallen rides, the name Luna Park, the elegant haughty Steeplechase, the fact that my grandfather used to come here in his
youth and told me about rides that are no longer in use, the cotton candy and the red dye used to make candy apples,
the steamy heat, Nathan's greasy ridged fries, and the fact that this landmark place is finally starting to garner the renewed interest it deserves!
And then there's Shoot The Freak. Not exactly a ride or a game, STF is something that is it's own intriguing category. Last year I was drawn in by a man's voice colorfully advertising the satisfactions derived from shooting the freak. His city accent was dense with humour of a
darker sort. Sarcasm that made fun of itself. A jaded New Yorker. Tough like a mobster but more like the friendly neighborhood bookie.
Magnetized, I followed the voice to a large bald white man with a headset, a cigarette and an easy, friendly, broad smile. A large crowd gathered, watching The Freak move robotically here and there below in an empty lot covered in paintball splattered objects. Outfitted in mismatched "armor" The Freak barely reacts when he's hit by a new color.
The Freak is not freaky. He's a regular kid with a summer job at Coney Island. Steve, the affable carny, isn't freaky either. What's freaky is the draw. Never having had the desire to play war games in the woods with air guns and head-to-toe camouflage outfits, I was puzzled by Shoot The Freak.
But this year, when I showed up, Steve gave me a free run of paint pellets. He wouldn't take no for an answer. After a brief lesson in how to use the site on a gun, I shot the freak.
I didn't do half bad either.
Now I understand Shoot The Freak. It's deeply satisfying in a way that defies logic or personal politics.
And it's very Coney Island, this freak show. It makes absolutely no sense. It's nonsense. Just weird
fetishistic pleasure. Like loving to get your shoes shined. Or acting like a dog in a dungeon. Or eating pistachio soft serve even though you know what you're eating has never in all its life even known a pistachio.
Coney Island, no longer an actual island, is a surreal spot. It's lawless. An underworld. Atlantis. Full of pirate energy, powered by the hot electric current of sex, sinister smiles, and the desperate need for pleasure by New York's working poor, immigrants and working class.
Go! Go to Coney Island! Be brave! Get dressed in barely anything! Bring cash! Wear a funny hat! Shoot The Freak!
And tell Steve I sent you.
Ok, I have to ask: What is there to recognize from gangland in your tattoos?
Pie Friday.
F
Posted by: Joe Fish | 25 July 2006 at 06:03 PM
I have a number of crown tattoos. The crown is the LK signifier.
Good question Joe Fish.
Posted by: shuna fish lydon | 26 July 2006 at 02:32 AM
A king certainly, but latin - no.
I am going to Coney Island myself soon. I am very much looking forward to it. Soon being relative within the next 2 months.
I will eat salt water taffy and think of you.
I will be back in the bay by October.
I hope to eat lots and lots with you then.
Posted by: | 26 July 2006 at 07:59 PM
Your post today is like a Raymond Carver catalogue poem. Okay if I use it as an example with my high school senior writers? With credit to you, of course. And LOVE the soft serve photo, even though I don't like soft serve. Magic!
Posted by: Debra from Jam Class | 26 July 2006 at 10:21 PM
Awesome post. Great photos too. BTW - after your post on the Shake Shack I cobbled a couple of recipes together and made some Sour Cherry Frozen Custard. It came out great! I will post the recipe on my blog later today or tomorrow.
Posted by: Alice Q. Foodie | 27 July 2006 at 05:27 PM
From your descriptions I really felt like I was there.
It's funny how no matter what the generation, we didn't feel like there were people different from us until we grow up and realize it...
Love your blog, I actually had it bookmarked at work but then quit work and lost all my bookmarks! Blah blah blah...glad to be reading you again.
Posted by: Occidental Girl | 30 July 2006 at 03:15 AM