Sunday, July 08, 2007
Razzy's weekly melanoma risk factor increase: Coney Island
I have been making an effort to go to the beach every single weekend, because there's nothing more fun than lounging around in the sun with friends, covertly drinking many beers, and swimming around with the energy and enthusiasm of a Chinook salmon returning to its spawning grounds. I was planning on going with J-Sexy and a group of people to Cherry Grove, AKA the gay Hamptons, on Fire Island, but then the group bailed and J-Sexy decided to work. Unfortunately, I thus do not have any good stories about cruising the nudey beach for hot lesbos, but hopefully that will happen in the next couple of weekends.
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
The D train goes right to Coney Island, and it's an express train! The Dizzle is also one of the trains I can get at my neighborhood subway station. Score! I bikini-d up, grabbed my books, towels, sunscreen, and cooler, and hit the train. I thought it would be really nice to take the subway, and I thought it would be quick since the D runs express.
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
Normally I'd apologize for the poor picture quality resulting from my subpar skills as a photographer and my piece of shit camera, but in this case, consider the internets fortunate that I didn't get this heifer's cellulite in all its dimpled glory. We spent the afternoon playing "spot the grotesquely fat person" and getting ever more drunk. We even did some swimming, until late in the afternoon Rack spotted a tampon applicator floating in the water. "Where there's an applicator, there's a dirty tampon. I'm not going back in," I declared. Rack agreed that sighting biohazardous medical waste was indeed the cue that our swimming fun had come to an end, and we should head back to Mannahattas for some whiskey-sodas and fried bar food. By the end of the day, we all had separate takes on Coney:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
It looks like one of those dumb angel wing tattoos that stupid bitches like to get. I expect that every unwashed, dreadlock-sporting lesbo folk singer on the Lilith Fair second stage had this type of faux-religious dumb bitch body art inked on their backs, often made exponentially more stupid with some type of Buddhinduyoga (generic goddesses, random Sanskrit) or girlie-girl (butterflies, flowers, metaphorical vagina) imagery.
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Instead, JerseyGirl's boyfriend had some sort of mini-triathlon to compete in at Coney Island, so she suggested I head down there. I was supposed to go to Coney with them a couple weeks ago for the annual mermaid parade, but the night before I drank an estimated twenty beers, and that's not exaggerating. I wound up taking home this Irish postdoc who spent most of the time processing about his duplicitous ex-girlfriend. I tried to get things moving in a naked-and-fucking direction by saying something along the lines of, "Cut the chit-chat, I'm ready to be flat on my bizack, dude." He then informed me that he couldn't fuck me because it's his policy to take women on a date first. I was like, "So let me get this straight: even though your clit-tease ass agreed to come home with me, and I'm currently sitting on your lap topless making out with you, you can't go the distance until you pony up for dinner and a fucking movie?" He responded that then we would go at it like rabbits. I snorted at him contemptuously and told him that his non-putting-out ass better go home and plan this fabulous date. He texted me later and I ignored it. Anyway, because of the heavy drinking occurring in concert with this aborted attempt to get laid, I was a wreck the next day and couldn't stop dry-heaving long enough to haul my sorry self to the D train and thus flaked on the mermaid parade. If that's not the epitome of sexy then I don't know what is.
So to make up for my failure to appear the last time JerseyGirl and Rack and their male companions went to Coney, I agreed to go this time. I was a little suspicious of what the beach would be like, because Brooklyn and Queens beaches are notorious for being stank and dirty. Rack and FalloniusMonk went to Far Rockaway in Queens a few years ago and there were syringes and diapers floating in the water. However, JerseyGirl assured me that Coney Island was fabulous and sparklingly clean. That just goes to show you should never trust beach and water quality assessments from a girl who grew up on the Jersey shore.
I was trying to figure out how to get there, when I remembered something I see every day but never paid much heed to:
Stupidly, I forgot about how miserably huge Brooklyn is. An hour later, when the conductor decided that, for whatever reason, the train I was on wasn't going all the way to Coney after all and I would have to transfer at some station way the hell out in buttfuck Brooklyn. Along with all the rest of the disgruntled passengers, I traipsed off to wait for the next train, which seemed to crawl along at a snail's pace until we finally pulled into the Stillwell Avenue station at Coney. I bought beer and ice for the cooler, then traipsed down the boardwalk looking for JerseyGirl.
I first noticed as I walked across the beach to join them that Coney Island is nothing like the other beaches I've been to on Long Island. The sand is so dirty that I swear it actually hurt my feet to walk over it. It reminded me of a gigantic version of one of those sand-filled ashtrays they used to have in malls and hotels back in the day where you could smoke there. However, after consuming a sixer of Modelo Especial, I was enjoying myself. Kodiak went on a run to Nathan's for hot dogs, and we were having a grand time in spite of the beach's nastiness, laughing at JerseyGirl's attempts to get me to go see a Bon Jovi concert in Newark with her, our shared hatred of people with atrocious spelling and grammar, and my extremely dim prospects of getting laid with any of the fellow beachgoers. Then JerseyGirl informed me that Rack and TheOldGuy were on their way.
"Can you ladies stop calling him 'the old guy' and 'the Brit' for a second? What's his actual name? I've hung out with him like ten times and I realized I don't even know his name," said Kodiak.
"Well, his last name is Bates," I said. "So you can call him 'Master Bates' like I do, and that is his real name. I expect they call people 'Master' instead of 'Mister' in England anyway."
TheOldGuy has a very good sense of humor about all the fun we have at his expense, and to demonstrate that, he showed up with another half-rack of beers to replenish the cooler. We were having a good time, except for the decided lack of hot dudes and/or hot girls available for me to pick up. Most of the people enjoying the sun and surf of Coney looked like this:
JerseyGirl: "Okay, seriously, you guys, this place is so romantic! It's just like the Jersey shore! I totally wish we could break out a Slippery When Wet CD...that would make it perfect!"
Rack: "What do y'all think that fuckin' giant red thing is for? This place is a fuckin' dump, y'all."
Razzy: "One finger is for the stank nastiness of this beach and the other is for making me come all the way out to Brooklyn for it! And if I had a third finger to flip off the camera with, it would be for the fact that the only weiner I've gotten here is two Nathan's famouses! But I'm drunk so I'm having fun anyway."
Ahh, Coney Island.
It wouldn't be a regular trip to the beach for me, though, if I didn't get a stupid, bizarre-looking sunburn. I've been trying to go with the marshmallow-roasting strategy of tanning this year. Much like a marshmallow, you can either slow-cook me to a nice golden brown over low heat, or just stick my ass into the flames and burn my ass to a blackened crisp. I've been applying lots of SPF 45 and trying to take the slow-cooking path. However, as is typical, I missed a couple of spots. So far, my ass and face have both suffered really stupid-looking sunburns, and this time, my back bore the brunt of uneven sunscreen application:
Since I don't have any tattoos, nor do I plan on getting any, I am most unhappy with the placement of this sunburn. I don't want to look like one of these dumb bitches. If anyone asks me where my bongo drums are because of this, that unfortunate individual is getting smacked the fuck up. Every beach I've visited so far has left its mark on me in the form of UV irradiation. At Fire Island's sunken forest, it was my face. At Long Beach, it was my ass. And now thanks to Coney, my back looks like it should belong to some ugly hairy-armpitted hooker with a backless baby-doll dress and an acoustic guitar. Which body part will my next beach visit claim?
Labels: JerseyGirl, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification
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