Coney Island

Last Sunday afternoon, I went to Coney Island.

It took a long time to get there.

Almost two and a half hours, to be exact. Two and a half hours to go to Brooklyn. And then another two and a half hours back. All total, I spent nearly five hours on a train for a three and a half hour visit to Coney Island.

Was it worth it?

Hmmmm.

I tend to romanticize places. The problem there being that the places never really live up to my expectations.

I will start by saying that my friend Timmy and I have a theory about old tv shows. I’m talking shows from the 70s like The Waltons, Good Times, All in the Family, Little House On the Prairie, etc.

Neither one of us particularly liked any of these shows. To this day, if I see an episode of The Waltons come on cable, I quickly turn the channel in fear, as if it were an airing of The Exorcist.

I never quite analyzed it---but Timmy had an explanation.

“They were poor.”

Sanford & Son?

“They were poor.”

Barney Miller? Alice? Chico and the Man?

“Poor. Poor. Poor.”

Not that either one of us grew up in the lap of luxury. But we just never cared for watching poor people on TV. Frankly, until the characters were moving on up to the East Side to a de-luxe apartment in the sky---we weren’t watching. It all just looked so…dirty.

And poor.

Coney Island has always been a playground for the poor. Not that it set out to be that way. When the first ride was built on Coney Island (a carousel in 1876), it was an attempt to attract the rich. Developers wanted to create a resort. And sure, maybe the turn-of-the-century rich stopped by occasionally. But the ones who regularly visited and spent their hard-earned dollars at Coney Island were the poor. Always have been.

Of course, turn-of-the-century poor look a little different from the poor of today. Back then, the poor wore hats. Poor working stiffs in their suits and straw hats strolled down the boardwalk with their poor wives who wore full-length dresses and even bigger hats. Many of them were immigrants. Working twelve hour-long days six days a week. Sunday was their one day of rest and relaxation. But they still wore suits, hats and full-length dresses, god love ‘em.

I suppose it also didn’t help that I prepared for my impending visit to Coney Island by watching the 1917 silent film “Coney Island” with Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle and Buster Keaton. And then, the next day, spent an inordinate amount of time walking all over Coney Island looking for the game of skill where you can accidentally bop someone on the head with a giant mallet and win a cigar.

It wasn’t there.

Nor were many of the other famous icons of Coney Island. Luna Park lit up at night. The Coney Island Steeplechase with that creepy smiling guy as the cartoon mascot. And where were the Barbershop Quartets? I was there for three and a half hours and didn’t hear “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby” even once.

I did hear a lot of salsa music and screaming children. And I saw a lot of poor fat men with their guts hanging out and poor fat women hanging out of their too-small swimsuits. In the good-old days, the poor were much thinner. Sigh.

I did take a walk along the beach---though I kept my shoes on. A little worried about stepping on a broken beer bottle or a syringe.

I will say, The Boardwalk was pretty.

Certainly could’ve used one less guy selling bottled water out of a cooler and one more Barbershop Quartet. But that’s just me.

A few of the famous rides are still there.

The Wonder Wheel.

The Cyclone.

And Astroland was up and running. Although if you thought the blaring sounds of competing salsa tunes was irritating---just try walking thru Astroland with its constant bells, whistles, rinky-dink jingles and screaming kids.

But there were lots of games of chance and/or skill---none of which seemed to be enticing to even the poor. Apparently, today’s poor are adequately stocked on stuffed animals.

The one game that actually had a few players was more than disheartening---The Goldfish Game.

For two bucks, people were given the golden opportunity to toss ping pong balls into small goldfish bowls in an attempt to win a goldfish.

I hesitated to tell them that they could go to a pet store and purchase a goldfish for around ten cents. Nor did I bother to tell any of these people that, unless they went out and purchased a goldfish tank with a filter and air bubbler that these beautiful fish would most likely die within 24 hours.

Okay, it’s time to settle this once and for all. Goldfish DO NOT and CAN NOT live in a bowl.

I know we’re all used to the image of a goldfish happily swimming around in a bowl. We’ve seen it everywhere from Tom and Jerry cartoons to home improvement magazines---both of which are FICTIONAL.

But if you actually put a goldfish in a bowl---you will be quite surprised to notice that the fish just sort of lies there. It will not swim around. It will just lie there, motionless. Why? It’s trying to conserve air.

It’s like putting a human being on the moon without an oxygen tank.

Goldfish will not survive in a bowl. They need a filter and an air pump and to be in a tank with at least 10 gallons of water PER FISH.

It was depressing watching the uneducated poor tossing ping balls into empty glass bowls in an attempt to win and then slowly kill a beautiful fish by asphyxiation.

And not only fish. You could “upgrade” your winnings/killings to either an aquatic frog or a hermit crab.

Of the three living creatures, the aquatic frog is the hardiest. The aquatic frogs available to win are called African Clawed Frogs. You can buy them at a pet store for about two dollars. In The Goldfish Game, it will cost you approximately 20-50 dollars to win one of these little guys, depending on your tossing skills.

I used to have an African Clawed Frog. His name was Peepers. He lived to be about three years old. He died of a mysterious illness, but he was given very good care during those three years. And, to create a good home for these guys where they will live and prosper---well, I can tell you from experience that it’s going to cost you around $50. A ten gallon tank, a lid with locks (these guys jump!), water conditioner, gravel and food---not to mention the little added niceties of large rocks and silk plants, which will up your cost a bit.

A single goldfish (properly and minimally housed) will cost you approximately $75 to set up for business.

And a hermit crab?

Well, I’ve never had one as a pet---with good reason. These guys are pretty needy. I’m guessing a good hundred for the layout to start.

I am neither a vegetarian, nor a PETA member, but this was pretty upsetting. At least give these folks a “Care Sheet” or something.

I decided to take all this pent-up rage to a place where they really knew how to care for aquatic life---The New York Aquarium.

Just a few steps from The Boardwalk, The New York Aquarium is well-worth the $13 admission fee.

First of all, if you know anything about fish and aquatic life, you will be astounded at how the staff has managed to provide adequate space, conditions and care for the variety of aquatic life on display.

Well, “on display” might be a misnomer.

Like any zoo or other caged-animal facility, the inhabitants have an uncanny ability to hide and/or sleep during visiting hours.

Due to this phenomenon of nature, I was able to get amazing shots like this:


And this:
Oddly enough, bystanders would notice me taking shots of absolutely nothing and would immediately crowd in---believing that I was seeing something they had completely missed. That’s a phenomenon of human nature---no one wants to be left out of the action.

However, if you do have a decent camera, you can get some amazing shots. Everything from sharks coming right at you…
To delicate jellyfish suspended in water----giving them an eerie appearance resembling the most dangerous lava lamp ever.

The creepy, piped-in New Age music certainly helps with the ominous vibe.

But there are all sorts of amazing things to see and photograph. Particularly a great display on seahorses.

One interesting fact about seahorses is that the male seahorses carry the babies in their bellies. These little guys looked miserable.
I was also happy to see my favourite animal. The penguin.
I don’t know why, but I’ve always loved penguins. In the wild, they are dirty, smelly and often mean birds. The emperor penguins of Antarctica are large enough and powerful enough to knock down a grown man with their flippers.

But I’m a sucker for these little guys. Altho my family (knowing of my love of penguins) has a tendency to give me way too much penguin paraphernalia. Stuffed penguins. Plastic penguins. Ceramic penguins. Glass penguins. Penguin cards. Penguin pictures. Penguin t-shirts. Penguin stickers, refrigerator magnets, buttons, earrings…

Really, it has got to stop. Sure, I like penguins. But not THAT much. It’s not like I work with penguins or anything. Not like I’m a penguin expert.

I’ve relegated a few of my favorite penguin knick-knacks to my bathroom. Even then, you would be hard-pressed to call it The Penguin Room. It’s pretty subtle, if you ask me.

Way more subtle than my Aunt Susie’s Elvis Room. After her oldest son moved out for college, she immediately confiscated his bedroom and turned it into The Elvis Room to house all her Elvis paraphernalia. And it IS an Elvis Room. It’s pretty close to being a shrine. In fact, the only thing missing is his tomb and Priscilla standing at the door.
Speaking of freak shows…
The Freak Show Element is still at Coney Island. But even that seems to be on its last legs.

In the Golden Age of Freaks on Reality TV and Freaks on YouTube and Freaks on the Internet… Well, people didn’t seem too interested in paying money to see Freaks in Person.

In fact, outside of the NY Aquarium (which definitely seems to be the way the New Coney Island is headed) the entire place seemed to be reminiscent of the 1950s. Stuck in its last great era. What modern-day Havana probably looks like.

Very few games and concession stands had any business at all. In fact, the most played game of chance seemed to be the game of Careful! Watch the Vomit! at Astroland.
I must’ve watched at least thirty play this game as they gingerly stepped around the pool of kiddie vomit.
Sure, I stopped at the original Nathan’s and had one of their famous hot dogs.
But there was something clearly disappointing about my visit. Frankly, the heart and history of Coney Island was just not there anymore.

For the past several years, local residents, carnies, developers and politicians have been waging war over the direction the new Coney Island will take.

Honestly, after my visit, I think this place definitely needs some development. Weeds and debris have taken up huge chunks of land. And the lack of connection to its history left me feeling empty and sad.

Right before I got back on the train, I took a slight detour to a street charmingly called Mermaid Avenue.
While Mermaid Avenue may be most famous for the annual Coney Island Freak-style parade named after it---my strongest association with Mermaid Avenue is that it was once the street where Woody Guthrie lived.

Just as World War II was breaking out in Europe, Woody found himself in New York City. And Woody (the leftist, radical, folksinger) teamed up with Will Geer (a leftist, radical actor). Woody slept on Geer’s couch in Manhattan and eventually got himself a room at a small motel on 43rd St. While there, he spent most of his free time writing songs and listening to the radio play Kate Smith’s “God Bless America” ad nauseam. He found the song to be not only unrealistic, but far-too complacent. Finally, as an act of rebellion, he sat down in his 43rd St. motel room and wrote a better song about America---“This Land Is Your Land”.

While most people recognize the first two verses, few would be able to sing the third (generally un-sung) verse:
In the squares of the city, In the shadow of a steeple;
By the relief office, I'd seen my people.
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking,
Is this land made for you and me?

As I went walking, I saw a sign there,
And on the sign there, It said "Private Property"
But on the other side, it didn't say nothing!
That side was made for you and me.
For those of you who never got the memo, “This Land Is Your Land” is a protest song. It’s about class equality. Hunger. Pain. And rebellion. But grade school music books tend to leave out the last verse.

A few years later, Woody would meet his future wife, Marjorie Mazia, a dance instructor at the Martha Graham Dance School in New York. After their marriage, they moved to Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island where they began their family. Arlo Guthrie was born here. And his sister, Cathy, died here as a result of one of the many fires that had haunted the Guthrie Family for generations.

But, despite the depression suffered after his daughter’s death, The Mermaid Avenue Years were possibly Woody’s most productive. In fact, several years ago, Billy Bragg and Wilco created a critically acclaimed album based on the unpublished manuscripts Woody had written during these fruitful years.

Finally, in 1967, it was at Coney Island Beach where Woody’s ashes were scattered after his death following a long battle with the still misunderstood and horrible disease of Huntington’s.

As I walked down this quiet little street, I thought of my old friend Rodney who died in a car accident years ago. Rodney was one of my poet friends from college. At least ten years older than me, brilliant and so incredibly gifted.

His mother had been diagnosed with Huntington’s years before. And he knew the odds. He would have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the horrible hereditary disease that would start by eating away at his brain and eventually leave him a vegetable in the last years of his life.

A few months before his death, he mentioned to friends over drinks that he was starting to sense something was wrong. And he knew what it was. It was his own Huntington’s beginning to take root in his brain. He complained of seeing ghosts fly up in front of his windshield when he was driving on the road. Still cogniscent enough to recognize that it was just the Huntington’s---it nonetheless, made driving hazardous.
A few months later, he was driving down the road and plowed right into a semi. He was killed instantly. His car was totaled. Oddly enough, the one thing to survive the crash was a briefcase in the backseat containing his poems.
It was with a great sense of loss that I got on the train and began my long journey back home.

A few days later, I was discussing my disappointment in Coney Island with my friend Timmy.

“Okay---what you were looking for is The Boardwalk at Disneyworld.”

What?

“They have everything! It’s clean and comfortable. And it looks exactly like you thought Coney Island would look. The workers there even dress up in turn-of-the-century bathing costumes with the caps and everything!”

Do they have Barbershop Quartets?

“Yes! They have everything! There’s a soda fountain and all that stuff! They even import their seagulls!”

I don’t think I need to mention at this point that my friend Timmy is gay. And need I add that Disneyworld is his favourite vacation spot.

Not long after, he pulled up the Disneyworld page on the computer and showed me the Coney Island of my dreams.

“Okay, sure, it’s all fake---It’s Disney. But it’s everything you want!”

It’s the usual conundrum of life. What we want turns out to be fake; while reality turns out to be ugly.

I suppose I’m just looking for the Happy Medium. But it’s not at Coney Island. And it’s not at Disneyworld.

In the end, I suppose it’s somewhere inside myself. A reality I created in my own mind. A place where Rodney still sits at a comfortable table, reading his poems over a pitcher of beer. Where goldfish swim happily in ten gallon tanks. Where Woody Guthrie composes children’s songs over the sound of the waves. Where you can take off your shoes and walk carefree in the sand. And where four guys in straw hats sing “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby” as the local seagulls swoop down for a piece of cast-off hot dog.

The challenge seems to be in creating our own reality. Our own sense of comfort, ease and happiness. And, unlike the goldfish destined for the bowl-chamber or the jellyfish artificially housed in Plexiglas aquariums, we have the unique ability to create our own perfect tank. An environment to satisfy our own special wants and needs.

And so, most of us go about our lives filling our tanks with pretty rocks, plastic plants, and tap water. For some in our species, it might be just enough.

But, for a few of us, we need something more.

That indefinable something on which Saint-Exupery writes:

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

A Coney Island of the Mind.