I’m a Jinius

I believe there are two kinds of people in this world: those who are crazy when they are sober and those who are crazy when they are drunk. I belong to the latter category. Or both.

As I have (frequently) mentioned before, bad things happen when I drink on an empty stomach. I pass out at bars. I get escorted out of bars. I pick fights with strangers. I make out with people I probably shouldn’t. You know, things I like to do for fun. But sometimes my idea of fun (craziness) is not everyone’s idea of fun (sitting around and having meaningful conversation).

Friday was no exception. If they had an Olympics for belligerent behavior then I would be your Flo-Jo.

I started the evening at Yuca with Sabbie and her French friends (who I love! You know who you are!) Yuca has this amazing happy hour deal where you can get margaritas and mojitos for $5 until 8 p.m. So I had two margaritas and two mojitos all before 8 p.m. By the way, tequila and rum with sugar is a murderous combination. All the sugar in the mojito just augments your intoxicated state. I can’t wait to have more.

We then jaunted off to Mercury Lounge to see our friend’s band Blip Blip Bleep (or as the Asians say Brip Brip Breep). At this point I was exiting Soberville and entering the neighborhood of Obnoxious which is on the corner of Plastered and Obliterated. I joked to the lead singer that I was going to start booing him off the stage. I really know how to give people a vote of confidence before they perform.

But they were awesome. Sabbie said, “They are awesome!” Of course, the marathon of mojito drinking may have also contributed to this state of euphoria.

After the show ended we went to a Japanese restaurant where I have no recollection of its location or its food. I think I spent the entire time smoking cigarrettes outside and yelling at my friend Prom Date about last week’s wedding. I’m not really sure what I was yelling about. I usually can’t control the volume of my voice after, you know, ten drinks.

Evidently I was being overly obnoxious to Prom Date. I’m not sure why but sometimes my humor gets me into trouble. Like that time I gave a play by play of my bowel movements to Prom Date’s then girlfriend and she pilloried me for talking about bathroom behavior. But this time I was being overly harsh. Love ya like a sista!

The rest of the evening is like a scene out of 28 Days Later and I am the blood thirsty zombie ready to bite your head off and drink more booze. At one point I am convinced that someone has stolen my credit card only to find it in the bottom of my purse.

On Saturday I wake up in the same clothes I wore the night before. I try to recall if I did or said anything embarrassing on Friday. After a couple of seconds I slap my forehead and groan in embarrassment. It is really a wonder that I have friends.

I talk to Sabbie on the phone that day and lament the fact that I can’t control my obnoxious behavior. She says, “I thought you were hilarious!” Um, yeah, that’s because you had just as many mojitos as me.

I spend the whole day on the couch, watching Paula Deen’s Family Vacation special on the Food Network and wishing I were a member of her jovial, sober tribe. Then I watch The Holiday and Amelie and spend my Saturday night crying and convincing myself that I will, in fact, die alone. Then I pass out.

On Sunday I wake up bright and early and go to the gym. Then I meet Prom Date for brunch at Balthazar. I swore that I would never meet him for a meal again because when we eat we are like pigs to a trough. His argument is that it’s not that we eat bad stuff, “we just eat too much of everything.”

For brunch we share a dozen oysters, sour cream and hazelnut waffles, nicoise salad and fries. That’s not soooo bad….riiiiight?

Then we decide to do some shopping but before we set off on our expedition we stop in Broome Street bar for a shot of tequila (me) and whiskey (him). Prom Date alleges that shopping is more fun when you are slightly drunk. I fully endorse this conjecture.

So, all in all, I suppose the weekend wasn’t a total disaster. I still have (most of) my friends and (some of) my health. Maybe I won’t die alone. Afterall, you know what they say: Those who care don’t matter and those who matter don’t care…to a certain extent.

And if you do offend them, you can always assuage them with oysters.

My friend Prom Date (he was my date to the high school prom) needed a date at the last minute for his friend’s wedding in Block Island so I happily obliged. This weekend was pretty much like prom only with more booze. Oh, and I passed out early each night and didn’t put out. I am an awesome date.

He told me that it would be interesting to see how I interact with these people. The groom and bride’s families are from a small, working class town in Massachusetts. I make some notes to self because I have a propensity of saying and doing inappropriate things at weddings. For example, at the wedding in Mexico I was seated next to a lovely couple with an adorable three year old daughter and I mentioned that I would love to babysit in the future. But as the night progressed I became progressively drunker and I ashed my cigarette in their bowl of soy sauce. Needless to say, they did not ask me to babysit.

So these are my mental notes:

Do not make jokes comparing groom’s relatives to characters in the movie The Departed
Do not ask them if their favorite movies are Mystic River or The Perfect Storm
Do not impersonate the mayor from The Simpsons

Thursday
4:10 P.M. We board a ferry from New London, Connecticut. It’s an hour long ride so we decide to pass the time by drinking beer. The only options are Bud and Bud Light. I am probably the only minority on the ferry. Oh, except for a group of black people I spot at the bar. Judging from their drink selection, I conclude that Baileys on ice has replaced Hypnotiq as the drink of choice for the urban community.

7:00 P.M. We arrive in Block Island. The groom and his friends pick us up from the ferry landing. They have been on the island since last Sunday and their skin resembles my leather wallet.

Every wedding has that one guest who is sleazy, meat-headish and constantly hitting on you. This is the groom’s brother. He looks like a cross between the brother from Everybody Loves Raymond and a porn star director. He leeches onto me immediately.

7:30 P.M. We congregate at the house where the bridal party is staying. The family members are all warm, friendly, and intoxicated. I love them. I spot one good looking gentleman but he is there with his wife. A small hurdle. He is from North Carolina and has the cutest Southern accent. After 4 glasses of wine I tell him that sometimes when I am drunk I like to speak with a Southern accent. He looks at me quizzically. I should not be allowed to make conversation.

10:00 P.M. We go to the Shore Inn for martini night. The hotel is gorgeous and overlooks the water. I am definitely the only non-minority at the place. Prom Date is Jewish but he doesn’t count because he is the waspiest Jew I know.

I try to order a martini for me and prom date at the bar but the groom’s brother insists on buying them for me. Usually I am very grateful at such a generous gesture but I knew that this guy would just use this to hold over my head. He would not stop mentioning that those martinis were twelve dollars each.

The boys start talking about going moped riding in the morning. The groom’s brother asks if I want to join. I say no because mopeds belong on that list of things I don’t do…like roller coasters and threesomes. He says that I can ride on the back of his moped. I try not to grimace. He then goes on to tell me that he is a great dancer and asks if I want to dance with him. I politely decline. At this point I’m a little buzzed and promise him a dance at the wedding if the DJ plays Sexyback. This promise later bites me in the ass.

10:15 P.M. I realize that I have not had a drink of water since 2:00 P.M. This is a problem.

10:30 P.M.Prom Date and I head back to our hotel room. I should mention that this room is TINY. Luckily I discover a bathroom in the lobby. I go to bed and Prom Date says that I don’t have to sleep as if I’m about to fall off a cliff.

Friday
9:00 A.M. I wake up. I can’t tell if I’m hungover or extremely dehydrated. Probably both.

10:00 A.M. I go downstairs to take advantage of the complimentary breakfast. It is a buffet of carbs. I make a note to self about a future blog post on people who stay at bed and breakfasts. They are a little frightening. I take a magazine and head down to the lobby to use the bathroom.

10:30 A.M. I return to the room.

11:00 A.M. Prom Date goes moped riding with the boys. I implore him not to die because I don’t want to be left alone with the groom’s brother. I decide to walk around the island.

12:15 P.M. After walking around, I decide that it is now a reasonable time to start drinking …alone. I go to The National for a beer. And a half bottle of prosecco.

1:30 or 2:15ish P.M. Prom Date convinces me that I should go moped riding because it is the best way to see the island. Fresh from my prosecco buzz, I concede.

I am on the back of the moped and hanging on for dear life. We are going so fast that the speedometer does not register our current speed. I ask Prom Date if he has ever ridden a moped before. He tells me that he rode one once in Europe but returned it after 15 minutes because he thought he was going to kill himself. I nearly cry.

3:30 P.M. We return to the hotel in one piece.

4:30 P.M. We are craving lobster rolls and raw oysters so we head to The National. We split one cold lobster roll, a dozen oysters, a dozen peel and eat shrimp and a bowl of clam chowder. We decide that the lobster roll is so awesome that we order ANOTHER ONE. Oh, and we order dessert. It is chocolate lava cake. I begin to resemble the “Fat Monica” character on Friends. I think that’s what happens when you eat enough for ten people.

6:00 P.M. We have some time to kill before a cocktail reception at 7:30. Prom Date wants to buy something long sleeved because it gets really chilly on the island at night. Something tells me he’d be able to buy a fleece sweater here. Along with a Hootie and Blowfish cd.

7:30 P.M. We arrive at The Shore Inn for the cocktail reception. Everyone is drinking wine and talking about their jobs. I notice that conversations at weddings consist of topics that I have absolutely no interest in… like how long it takes you to drive to work. This one nice woman is a preschool teacher for autistic children. See, this topic only augments my boredom because you can’t make jokes about autism in front of a teacher for autistic children.

8:30 P.M. Prom Date and I decide that the only way to endure this party is to get totally bombed. We have a goal of drinking four glasses of champagne in thirty minutes. We announce our plan to people at our table and they start to inch away from us.

9:00 P.M. Mission accomplished. I move on to whiskey on the rocks. Prom Date appears more intoxicated than me. I start to regret our little strategy of obliteration.

10:00 P.M. We go back to our hotel and pass out.

Saturday
10:00 A.M. We wake up for an 11 A.M. wedding. Yes, the wedding is that early. And there is an after party at 7:30 P.M. I somehow have to sustain myself for 12 hours of eating and drinking.

11:00 A.M. The ceremony is outdoors. Red ants crawl up my leg and I try not to make a scene while the bride and groom are exchanging vows.

11:30 A.M. Ceremony ends and I have about thirty bites on my leg. I grab a bloody mary.

1:00 P.M. We are seated for lunch. Our table is like a random patchwork quilt of people. It is me, prom date, a pregnant woman who looks as if she’s about to drop her load at any minute, her husband, a gay hairdresser with tattoos and plastic Prada glasses, and his boyfriend, the nuclear physicist.

The married couple start talking about what it’s like to be expecting a child and then they discuss school districts. I chug my champagne.

2:00 P.M. I order a margarita the size of a Venti cup from Starbucks. Everyone comments on the size of my drink.

2:15 P.M. I order another margarita

2:30 or 3is P.M. The DJ comes on and starts playing music. The groom’s brother asks me if I want to dance. I reply, “I don’t feel like dancing.” That is the first time I have ever uttered those words in my life.

I give prom date a look that pleads, “Please save me” and he responds, “You should go dance with him!” I shoot him a look that says: “You will pay for this!”

I dance with the groom’s brother. I ask him when the DJ will start playing music that was produced after 1960. He says, “You obviously have never been to weddings before.”

Let me interject here and explain why I was so annoyed by this person. Have you ever met someone who thinks that being condescending and arrogant will make you like them? Did I also mention that he CRITICIZED MY DANCING?!?!

I have this one move where I snap my fingers and then twist my head to the right and then to the left. You know, kinda like the Carlton dance from Fresh Prince. And the groom’s brother says, “You have to stop using that as your go-to move.” What do you mean “go-to” move? That is THE move!

10:30 P.M. We are at some bar for the after party. There is a small buffet of appetizers. I have about 20 chicken fingers. The groom’s brother and his friends force me to do three shots. And by “force” I mean they called me over and asked if I wanted a shot.

At this point I am tired, drunk, and stumbling. The groom’s brother tells me that he likes me and says, “I”m pretty sure you like me too.” I nearly puke in my mouth. I’m not exactly sure how to escape the situation without offending the brother of the groom. I have three options:

1. Run away
2. Lie and tell him I have a boyfriend
3. Tell him that I like nerdy, hipsterish boys, not men who look like extras in Talladega Nights.

I choose option 2. I text Prom Date and tell him to play along with my lie. Prom Date texts back: “Shit, I already told him you were available.” I realize at this time that Prom Date either really hates me or he doesn’t know me at all.

11:00 P.M. I am tired of trying to politely deflect the groom’s brother’s come-ons so I tell everyone I’m going back to the hotel. I leave the bar and seconds later I hear the groom’s brother calling after me. He wants to walk me home. Chivalry is overrated.

The groom’s brother asks if I want to stop by a bar and grab a drink. I tell him I am tired and want to go to sleep. I should also mention that throughout the night he asks if I want to see his hotel room. I say no.

The awkwardness is protracted when the brother tries to convince me that I am veiling my attraction for him. This guy is either severely obtuse or incredibly insane. I love when people think they know your thoughts better than you.

We finally arrive at the hotel and I rush inside. I have never been so excited to crawl into bed. Only I am aroused a few hours later because my stomach feels like Mt. Visuvius. It’s amazing what consuming thirty drinks can do to your body.

Sunday
Prom Date and I go to the beach for a farewell picnic. The groom’s brother plants himself right next to my towel. I get up and sit on a beach chair. He moves next to me and makes conversation and I bury myself in my book.

It is time to leave and catch our ferry. The groom’s brother says he’ll walk with us.

We say our goodbyes and the groom’s brother says he will get my email address from Prom Date. I roll my eyes.

Prom Date says, “What’s the big deal?” I tell him that I am tired of being polite. He says, “Well, by being polite you’re not really being polite.”

All in all, it was a relaxing and gluttonous weekend. I ate like a pregnant woman and drank like a frat boy. And I learned some important lessons on appropriate wedding behavior. The most important one being: it is better to be impolite than polite. You’ll have more fun that way.

Vic is back in town from Greece so we met up with Sally for lunch at Morandi--Keith McNally’s new Italian restaurant.

We shared a bottle of rose, seafood salad, artichoke, whole branzino, spaghetti with lemon and parmesan, and dessert was beignets with ricotta and pine nuts and gelato, and limoncello.

As you can tell, I was too busy eating the food to take any pictures of it.

I could totally be one of those women who just meet up with their friends for lunch and go shopping for a living. Work is for the birds!

Okay, back to work.

I’m off to Block Island today to go to a wedding with my friend E. I’ve known him forever and he’s like a brother to me. The kind of brother that hits on all my friends and says inappropriate things at the dinner table. He is awesome.

For those of you who may not be familiar w/Block island it’s located in Rhode island–a state thats famous for its glorious seafood, opulent mansions and ….slavery. Yeah, apparently the founders of Brown University–you know, the Ivy League School--were slave owners. Go figure.

To get to Block Island we have to take a train to New London and then take an hour long ferry. It’s okay. They have booze. i figure this trip will be a good time to bond w/my friend so I’ve compiled a list of questions to really get to know him and really slice into him like a Prince Albert piercing. Let me know what you guys think

1.Tell me about the time you got circumcised.

2. Why do u think there are so many jewish male/asian female couples? You know, like Maury Povich and Connie Chung, Woody Allen and Soon-Yi…Harry Potter and Cho Chang…Okay so Harry Potter is British not Jewish but he could be Harry Potterstein. Besides, I think Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is really an allegory for zionism.

3. Is it true that black men are well endowed? And if so, how can you corroborate this?

4. Do you think I’ve gained weight since high school?

5. What do you think is more important in a woman: strong moral conviction or strong knees?

I really think this little q adn a will bring us closer together.

This past week has been so arduous.

I was supposed to detox this week and save my skin but I learned it’s never a good idea to commence a detox on the same week as a national holiday. I celebrated our country’s independence by lamenting the fact that I still can’t get a green card and drowning said sorrows in copious glasses of maker’s mark–the alien’s drink of choice.

On Tuesday I meet up with my friend Sarah and her friend’s at Sapa for their luscious happy hour (which I do not partake in…still in detox mode). I try not to salivate as my friends sip cool, crisp martinis. I stare at my depressing glass of virgin bloody mary. Oh, and my drink ends up being the most expensive item on the bill. 8 dollars versus their $5 martinis. Note to self: It is never a good idea to detox.

We then head over to La Palapa where I am still in detox mode. My friends order ginger margaritas. I cry in my glass of water.

My friend Ursy calls me around 10 and tells me she is at Xunta, a Spanish tapas restaurant on first avenue. I head over and am so ravenous I’m ready to eat a small, Mexican bus boy. I have some bread instead. Oh, and a glass of red wine. This commences the downward spiral of the evening. I have a plate of dates wrapped in bacon and cheese and do not share with anyone even though the whole philosophy behind tapas is being charitable with your food.

Then we head to this bar near Union Square and meet up with more friends. I have about two glasses of maker’s mark ON ICE. I figure it’s not so bad because the ice will eventually melt…

We end the night at 205 bar where I start dancing in the middle of the dance floor. The DJ starts playing some wackass techno and I go up to a burly bouncer and ask, “Can they play some hip hop?” He replies: “I wish.”

The rest of the week is pretty much in the same vein. I celebrate the 4th with hoegardens and ribs. Friday is spent at Elephant restaurant eating pork chops and duck with egg noodles. Then the rest of the weekend is a getaway at my friend Sabbie’s place in Jersey where we worked on our “Jersey tans” (meaning we wanted to get as dark as the Northeast suburban sun would allow) and eat pounds of pork.

I love the summer.

I think Golden Girls is one of the most underrated tv shows.

I know this because I took a tv writing class a couple of months ago and on the first day the teacher asks the students what our favorite tv shows are and people go around saying typical stuff like “Seinfeld” or “The Office” and when it’s my turn I say, “The Golden Girls.” And my teacher says, “Really? Golden Girls?”

I used to watch Golden Girls religiously with my father. I should point out that my father is a first generation Korean man who only likes to watch Korean dramas or movies with Bruce Willis or Steven Seagal. But for some reason he found humor in a show about 4 white old ladies living together in Miami.

I don’t think it’s that surprising that Golden Girls appeals to two totally different demographics: the older, reticent Asian male and a ten year old girl. Afterall, the main characters are just versions of stock characters that you find on every tv sitcom from Gilligans Island to Sex and the City. In fact, Marc Cherry, a writer and producer for Golden Girls, also created the ABC soap drama Desperate Housewives– which is like Golden Girls only they are twenty years younger and have less sex.

Here’s a character breakdown.

Sophia-the mother of Dorothy. She’s the tough, curmudgeonly spitfire from Sicily. Everytime she tells a story about her life in Sicily she starts with “Picture it. Sicily 1929.” Even though she is a widow and an octogenerian she is always going out and traveling. The funny thing is that Estelle Getty, the actress who played Sophia, was like the youngest woman on that show. Sophia’s funniest lines are often insults directed at Blanche or Rose. My favorite Sophia line is when Rose is telling a long winded story that is not so funny and Sophia responds, “I hate you, Rose.”

Dorothy-Sophia’s daughter. She’s the tall, mannish looking one who likes to wear big shoulder padded blouses and geometric earrings. With her salt and pepper hair and a voice like a drag queen, she is the most serious of the Golden Girls. And what I can recall from my ten year old knowledge of sex, Dorothy also has the least sex among the girls. Her modern counterpart is probably Miranda from Sex and the City. Some of the most touching scenes on the show are probably between Dorothy and her mother Sophia. They have been through alot together from Dorothy’s divorce to her loser husband Stanley to Sophia’s stroke. When Sophia starts calling Dorothy “pussycat”, you know it’s going to be a heartwarming scene.

Rose- the naive but lovable airhead from St. Olaaf. Rose is probably the predecessor to Phoebe’s character on Friends or any other dumb blond archetype today. When I was little I had no idea where the hell St. Olaaf was. I thought it was in Norway and I was really confused as to why the people in St. Olaaf acted so oddly. In my ten year old mind I thought Rose was the prettiest of the Golden Girls. I think it’s because it was the eighties and everyone liked blondes back then. Namely Nicole Eggert from Charles in Charge and Betty White on Golden Girls.

Blanche-the Southern slut. My favorite character on the show. Even though she dons a hairstyle similar to that of North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il, Blanche gets the most action on the show. There would be no Samantha on Sex and the City without Blanche Devereaux. She is simultaneously a Southern lady and a hussy. My favorite Blanche stories are about her days in the South and she talks about her father, “Big Daddy.” Blanche was unapologetic about her sexual dalliances and that’s why I love her.

So you have the bitch, the serious/sexually ambiguous one, the airhead, and the slut. These characters are general enough that they can appeal to any viewer. But the show was also fresh and edgy because here you had older women who were having casual sex and fine with living with her girlfriends instead of trying to land some man in a retirement community. My favorite episode has to be when the girls are at a supermarket and trying to buy condoms (for some reason I want to say they are lambskin condoms) and they are the checkout line but the cashier can’t find the price for them so he announces over the megaphone: Can I get a price check for these condoms? And the ladies are so embarrassed and flushed. I loved it.

But the most important component of the show is the friendship between these four different women. Even the catchy theme song “Thank you for being a friend” underscores the important bonds in this show. Even if it was the middle of the night, the girls would console each other in the kitchen over a hefty slice of cheesecake. This show proves that your golden years will be okay even after your husband cheats on you and leaves you or dies. As long as you have good girlfriends to rely on and joke with, your life will be more than okay.

The show makes you want to throw a party and invite everyone you know.*

*Reference to the theme song.

After scrubbing my blog clean of the potentially “get me into trouble” posts, I unveiled my blog to most of my friends. I apologize in advance to any exes who may be reading this. I’m willing to sell you out for a funny story. Love ya like a sister!

Anyway, as many of my friends are leaving New York to go off to far away places like Greece, Japan, Israel, and…Cleveland…I figure this is a great way to keep in touch.

And I made a mid-year resolution to practice writing. I wanted to shut down the blog yesterday because I was getting so lazy. You may not believe it but it is frigging hard trying to write a blog post everyday. There are only so many different ways you can say “I got sloshed this weekend” and still keep it fresh.

I hope you’ll stick along as I try to become a better writer and in the process…a better person. Ha.

For first time readers I suggest you start with the section “for first time readers”.

love ya like a sister,

jinius

I’ve lived in Manhattan for 10 years and visited Coney Island for the first time a couple of weeks ago.

New Yorkers are surprised when I mention this. “I can’t believe you’ve never been on The Cyclone! Or eaten a Nathan’s hot dog!” These are the kind of people that derive pleasure from vertiginous rides at high altitudes and waiting an hour in line for a suspicious piece of meat.

I am not one of those people.

But this year I decided to venture out to the park known as the “poor man’s paradise” to see my friends participate in The Mermaid Parade– where grown men and women walk down the street in sequins and spandex without apology.

I went down with Vidya, Henri, and his friend Matt. I was excited. I envisioned ferris wheels and merry go rounds, boardwalks full of couples strolling hand in hand, kids holding onto stuffed animals and eating cotton candy.

We exited the station and instead I was greeted by a horde of men in gold spandex, teenaged boys with tribal tattoes and Dragon Ball-z haircuts, and women with saggy breasts wearing tassles. These people looked like they could murder me and then ride The Cyclone for twelve hours.

There were so many people that I could not actually see any of the floats. You would have to at least be 7 feet tall to catch a glimpse of a mermaid. And I’m barely 5′1 so the most I could see were the tops of little kid’s heads.

We decided to walk away from the mayhem and into this little Irish pub where the bartenders were barely 15 and the patrons barely had a mouthful of teeth. There was a small rock concert outside the bar with an aging rocker belting out monster ballads. There was an ambulance truck parked right next to the stage. This was just in case the singer died.

It is astounding how much bad music you can tolerate when you are drinking alcohol. After about 4 coronas we were rocking out to the music. Then we decided to venture to Nathan’s hot dogs.

New Yorkers like to sanctify certain food establishments and insist that so and so restaurant has THE BEST hamburger or pizza. LIke the pizza at Grimaldi’s or the pastrami sandwich at Katz’s deli, the hot dog at Nathan’s is not only considered a classic but a holy offering.

The line is notoriously slow. They take their sweet time getting your food. Oh, and they also look like they could murder you. After waiting in line for an hour we had hot dogs, fries, frog legs (yes, frog legs), fried clams, and beer the size of my forearm.

Afterwards we walked along the boardwalk, trying not to fall through the loose planks and grabbed some more beer and funnel cake. The boardwalk probably has some of the best people watching in the city. I’ve never seen so many mesh shirts in my life. I mean, I know it was the mermaid parade and all but were they planning on catching any fish with those shirts?

The air started to get chilly as the breeze from the Atlantic Ocean tickled our expanding beer and hot dog bellies. My friends thought it would be the perfect time to ride the Cyclone. I don’t do rollercoasters so while everyone went on I stayed behind and carried their bags. Like a mom.

While they were on the Cyclone I decided to hunt around for some soft serve icecream. The people that work at the food booths are either hefty grandfather types or their 12 year old grandsons. Both look like they could murder me.

It is nearly nightfall and the streets look like they are paved with garbage. The hipsters and fresh-faced families who came for the mermaid parade have gone and now it’s just us and the natives. I guess that’s what you call people who look like they are capable of piercing your skull with a plastic spork.

We finally get on the subway and head back into the city, watching the ferris wheel twinkle in a pink and blue sky. There are talks of revamping Coney Island into a Vegas type of destination replete with glimmering casinos and high rises. But the whole point of Coney Island is that it’s the last bastion of freaks and schtick. We don’t want commodified cheesiness we want the historical kind.

Coney Island is for murderers not resort types.