Coney Island amusement park is a place full of contradictions. A decaying monument to gaudy Americana, it’s a fading reminder of what that culture once was in all its tacky and confused glory. Even in post-Giuliani New York, it still manages to smoulder with an irrepressible charm.
On my first visit, I couldn’t help thinking the place was a shit-hole. Its hot dog stands, game stalls and fun fair rides were run down and shabby. The people who operated them didn’t look much better off: sad, solitary creatures sitting in their little booths of despair. I remember taking my shoes off and walking along the beach in front of the boardwalk, only to put them straight back on after almost stepping on a used condom and broken glass. Read more.
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Reminds me of the year I was 23 years old (1988--just put an expiration date on myself, didn't I--and I expired years ago!)
My father and I were visiting New York, where he's from. We were at the (Orange County? Hell, I don't remember right now!) fair in Middletown, New York with one of his friends. Almost stepped in a big splat of puke on the sidewalk. Gosh, it was a mess--but we still had a great time. Makes me a bit nostalgic. My once healthy and athletic father is currently in the hospital, having had a hemorrhagic stroke that left him partially paralyzed 4 years ago. He seems to have had another small stroke that caused a fall and his condition has declined quite a bit. But I digress. I wanted to tell you that if you're at all inclined to writing fiction, the description you gave of your visit to a once-glorious place where folks escape from every day life really sets the tone for a book of whatever genre, be it general drama, historical drama, mystery or even horror. From that one scene you could weave a great story. It made me want to find out what the story is! Stephen King also has that capacity. To me, it's one of the marks of a great writer.
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