Coney Island, Baby

The best way to sum up Coney Island (the amusement park aspect), is a line from the second Godfather movie in reference to the always-imminent death of the villainous Hyman Roth:

“He’s been dying of the same heart attack for the last 20 years.”

Coney Island is always just about to close. This summer, and next summer, and the summer of ’85, and the Summer of Sam, and decades of New York summers were/are always going to be the “last” summer of operation there. And as a result, thousands of mourners have made the June, July, or August pilgrimage to this lock-box of yesteryear America on the far eastern tip of Brooklyn, USA.

One last ride on the teacups before they become Trump-built luxury condos. Grab an authentico chip of paint off the Cyclone before it becomes termite food. So frommy own need to see this American icon before it bit the dust, we revisit Coney Island, in black and white, in the late summer of 2008.

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The park, boardwalk, and overall neighborhood had a surprisingly local feel, however. It was evident that the remoteness of Coney had let is continue to exist as a neighborhood, which as folks that live in bigger cities know, if you live in a neighborhood, it’s much more likely to feel like home.P1030923

There are as many remnants of rides as there are functioning rides, and it certainly does feel like the entire amusement park will surrender itself to development one day. But on August 18, 2008, everyone that was *this* tall could still  shake, rattle and roller-coaster around on the Cyclone or pay too much for a flat soda in Astroland.

I was saddened to read that Shoot The Freak was demolished in 2010. After the devastation of Hurricane Sandy, an effort was made to revive many of the boardwalk attractions. This included a far more politically-correct game called “Shoot The Clown” bringing back the spirit of ‘Freak’.

I think generally-speaking folks are probably more comfortable shooting a ‘freak’ than an innocent clown, but on the other hand maybe we just shouldn’t shoot anyone for sport.P1030924

There is a touch of almost every 20th Century decade at Coney Island. The 1920s boardwalk, where women dared to show leg above the ankle. The original Coney Island hot dog stand looks much the same as it did in the 1930s, when a hot dog was all Depression-era New Yorkers could afford to eat. ‘Newer’ rides speak to World War II and glorious fifties-era America. And the American Century rounds out nicely in East New York with the ravages of our sad experiment with urban renewal (read still-undeveloped lots) and a smattering of public housing and hastily-built condo towers.

P1030919 Coney Island remains an essential visit, be you a local or a tourist tired of the maddening crowds of Manhattan. Make sure to visit soon, as this might be the last summer of Coney Island!

Or… maybe not.

To view the “Coney Island, Baby” gallery in its entirety, please visit the CultofAmericana photo galleries or click on any of the photos above.

The Green Mill Didn’t Ask You What Time It Is

The Green Mill

The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is. “Oh geez,” you say, as you emerge from it’s ancient timbers and shield your eyes from the sun. Is it 2015 already?

The bass player mouths his parts and savors his solo. He sings a song that only exists right now in front of us. By the way; who am I to quantify jazz anyways? Let’s let it happen.

The bass player mouths his moment and sings a song that’s never been written. The chorus almost feels like a cop-out, but there has to be a gravitational center to even this universe. The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is, and 5 AM comes quickly when you lose gravity.

Take the sign out front and the one behind the stage. Did you know they don’t teach cursive to kids anymore? Sidebar; it’s called ‘script’ in the Western-World-proper now. But at The-Green-Mill-proper it is flow. It’s the writing of love letters never delivered. Locked up inside your mind and summoned now by the saxophone. It’s the discourse of the dead, and you’re surprised it’s passed. But in green neon cursive has lived until 5 AM every morning since… since cursive was the language of love letters never delivered. And who asked you anyways? The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is.

If it has a reed, he can play it. Versatility is no luxury at the Mill. It’s what you have to do. There aren’t really words that can describe the suffrage locked up in jazz. And who am I to define jazz anyways?

Chicago is 77 official planets/countries/cities/neighborhoods, and one is ever really from where they are at this moment. The Mill is the new American melting pot as far as you or I are concerned. It is bread basket and mother and secret lover of all creativity. It is music written right in front of us and never played again. It’s a love letter never delivered. And it’s time immemorial. The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is.

Click to view on Instagram and follow us. Yu-yu Ren photo.

Click to view on Instagram and follow us. Yu-yu Ren photo.