Charlie Denson told me about an Ask Mr. Coney Island story about Larry and Vinny on the Coney Island History Project website. There are some great pictures, including one of Bat. Thanks Charlie!
See the story and pictures at the Coney Island History Project ---> HERE
Monday, August 9, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Coney Island By Jerry Della Femina
Long Island has some of the finest beaches in the world.
What can compare for beauty with Main Beach in East Hampton? Malibu? Cannes? Miami? Those beaches are all thin, puny strips of sand. Incredibly overrated. They could all fit on any Long Island beach at the same time and there would be plenty of shoreline to spare.
I never get tired of looking at our beautiful beach in East Hampton. And when I stare and look at it long enough, I always think back to what used to be. When you grew up in, as they say, "limited circumstances," a trip to the beach was the best celebration of the line "The best things in life are free."
I grew up on West 7th Street in Brooklyn, one subway stop (five minutes) from Coney Island. The Sea Beach train (now called the N) ran behind our tiny house when I was a kid. Every time the train rolled into the station my entire house would shake. At night I would lie in my bed and listen to the train come in. It was a friendly, familiar sound to a little kid: It meant people were coming home.
In the summer my Mom would take me and my little brother to Coney Island just about every day. For me, it was like traveling to Oz.
When you walked off the subway, some incredible smells fought with each other to get into your nose. The first was the smell of raw clams being squirted with lemon. And then there was the smell of ice-cold beer foaming up and out of the glass in the clam bar that was in the promenade of the subway terminal.
As you walked across the street, you smelled the sweetness of cotton candy and two seconds later you smelled the garlic and spices of those sizzling Nathan's hot dogs that made your mouth water. By the time you got to the boardwalk, you were starving and reaching in your bag of homemade sandwiches to sneak a bite.
You could get to the beach by walking onto the boardwalk or under it. (A few years later the Drifters would tell the world about the wonders that could be found "Under the Boardwalk.") Walking under was the faster way to get onto the beach and that's the way you always went. You braved the cold clammy sand that hadn't felt the sunlight in years. You gingerly stepped over (while still managing to sneak a peek at) the teenage couples who were passionately "making out" on the blankets in the dim semi-privacy that could only be found under the boardwalk. They pretended they were invisible. I was very young but I knew enough to go along with the pretense.
The walk on the beach was a joke. There seemed to be millions of people on the beach; consequently, there was no beach. We stepped on one beach blanket after another. Finally, my mom staked out a claim and we parked our blanket, touching four other blankets, and rushed to the water.
To be honest, the water in Coney Island was just slightly cleaner than the Ganges in India. The recent BP oil spill disaster triggered a sense memory that I hadn't thought about in so many years. For years after World War II, the water in Coney Island was filled with oil chunks that blackened our feet. I remember my father telling me that it probably came from one of the ships that had been blown up nearby during the war. I remember wondering if it was one of ours or one of theirs.
But now the smell in the air was suntan oil, and as a kid I remember staying in the water for hours to fight the waves. Invariably, my mother would call me in because "your lips are turning blue." She never came into the water. She just joined all the other mothers who were standing on the shore on "blue lip patrol." When the time came to go home, I always begged for another half-hour. They always gave it to me.
On the one-stop ride home, I would rush to the front of the first car and stand on my toes at the open window. The cool air hitting my sunburned face would feel wonderful.
My favorite line in any movie is from Atlantic City. A very old Burt Lancaster is trying to impress a very young Susan Sarandon. They're looking at the Atlantic Ocean. She says, "It's very beautiful." He says, "Yes." Then he looks at her and says, "But this is nothing. You should have seen it in the old days."
My children have the same ocean I had in the old days. But they don't have the noise of subway trains every night. They've never been to Coney Island. The beach they walk on in East Hampton is spotlessly clean and well maintained. There's always plenty of room. Thanks to the diligence of the village fathers, they will never smell food on the way to Main Beach.
My children seem to have everything, but in some ways I feel sorry for them. With all they have, they will never have the richness of these memories.
If you wish to comment on "Jerry's Ink" please send your message to jerry@dfjp.com or visit indyeastend.com and scroll to the bottom of the column.
What can compare for beauty with Main Beach in East Hampton? Malibu? Cannes? Miami? Those beaches are all thin, puny strips of sand. Incredibly overrated. They could all fit on any Long Island beach at the same time and there would be plenty of shoreline to spare.
I never get tired of looking at our beautiful beach in East Hampton. And when I stare and look at it long enough, I always think back to what used to be. When you grew up in, as they say, "limited circumstances," a trip to the beach was the best celebration of the line "The best things in life are free."
I grew up on West 7th Street in Brooklyn, one subway stop (five minutes) from Coney Island. The Sea Beach train (now called the N) ran behind our tiny house when I was a kid. Every time the train rolled into the station my entire house would shake. At night I would lie in my bed and listen to the train come in. It was a friendly, familiar sound to a little kid: It meant people were coming home.
In the summer my Mom would take me and my little brother to Coney Island just about every day. For me, it was like traveling to Oz.
When you walked off the subway, some incredible smells fought with each other to get into your nose. The first was the smell of raw clams being squirted with lemon. And then there was the smell of ice-cold beer foaming up and out of the glass in the clam bar that was in the promenade of the subway terminal.
As you walked across the street, you smelled the sweetness of cotton candy and two seconds later you smelled the garlic and spices of those sizzling Nathan's hot dogs that made your mouth water. By the time you got to the boardwalk, you were starving and reaching in your bag of homemade sandwiches to sneak a bite.
You could get to the beach by walking onto the boardwalk or under it. (A few years later the Drifters would tell the world about the wonders that could be found "Under the Boardwalk.") Walking under was the faster way to get onto the beach and that's the way you always went. You braved the cold clammy sand that hadn't felt the sunlight in years. You gingerly stepped over (while still managing to sneak a peek at) the teenage couples who were passionately "making out" on the blankets in the dim semi-privacy that could only be found under the boardwalk. They pretended they were invisible. I was very young but I knew enough to go along with the pretense.
The walk on the beach was a joke. There seemed to be millions of people on the beach; consequently, there was no beach. We stepped on one beach blanket after another. Finally, my mom staked out a claim and we parked our blanket, touching four other blankets, and rushed to the water.
To be honest, the water in Coney Island was just slightly cleaner than the Ganges in India. The recent BP oil spill disaster triggered a sense memory that I hadn't thought about in so many years. For years after World War II, the water in Coney Island was filled with oil chunks that blackened our feet. I remember my father telling me that it probably came from one of the ships that had been blown up nearby during the war. I remember wondering if it was one of ours or one of theirs.
But now the smell in the air was suntan oil, and as a kid I remember staying in the water for hours to fight the waves. Invariably, my mother would call me in because "your lips are turning blue." She never came into the water. She just joined all the other mothers who were standing on the shore on "blue lip patrol." When the time came to go home, I always begged for another half-hour. They always gave it to me.
On the one-stop ride home, I would rush to the front of the first car and stand on my toes at the open window. The cool air hitting my sunburned face would feel wonderful.
My favorite line in any movie is from Atlantic City. A very old Burt Lancaster is trying to impress a very young Susan Sarandon. They're looking at the Atlantic Ocean. She says, "It's very beautiful." He says, "Yes." Then he looks at her and says, "But this is nothing. You should have seen it in the old days."
My children have the same ocean I had in the old days. But they don't have the noise of subway trains every night. They've never been to Coney Island. The beach they walk on in East Hampton is spotlessly clean and well maintained. There's always plenty of room. Thanks to the diligence of the village fathers, they will never smell food on the way to Main Beach.
My children seem to have everything, but in some ways I feel sorry for them. With all they have, they will never have the richness of these memories.
If you wish to comment on "Jerry's Ink" please send your message to jerry@dfjp.com or visit indyeastend.com and scroll to the bottom of the column.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
2010 Mermaid Parade
Here are some wonderful pictures by our own Butch Moran. Thanks Butch.
Below: Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson.
Below: Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
It Wasn't Always Idyllic
The recent email I sent about the murder in our old neighborhood really resonated with a lot of people who shared some of their experiences that showed we were still a rough inner-city neighborhood. Here are a couple that come to mind for me.
Remember how we were always invaded from the surrounding neighborhoods during Halloween? I went trick or treating with my sister Toni and she was a little ahead of me in the staircase. When I got to where she was, a kid from outside the projects was trying to steal her candy. I pushed him down the stairs and he went down to the next landing. It's amazing how adrenalin just kicks in because I was just protecting my sister and this kid was at least my age or maybe older and he was a "tough side-street' kid. This was probably a common occurrence.
Remember how we were always invaded from the surrounding neighborhoods during Halloween? I went trick or treating with my sister Toni and she was a little ahead of me in the staircase. When I got to where she was, a kid from outside the projects was trying to steal her candy. I pushed him down the stairs and he went down to the next landing. It's amazing how adrenalin just kicks in because I was just protecting my sister and this kid was at least my age or maybe older and he was a "tough side-street' kid. This was probably a common occurrence.
The other incident occurred when I worked at the A&P. I used to walk up 29th St and I was always accosted by some guys north of Mermaid Ave. Got pushed and smacked around but it was more frustrating than being really scared. I used to run non-stop both ways when going to and from work. Once, when I had a little extra time, I walked up 28th St. I should of been doing that all along or at least alternating with 30th St but in reality, it probably didn't matter. Those were rough streets. I was walking up 28th St and saw one of the guys who was always picking on me. He acted like he didn't know who I was but I walked up to him and said something to the effect that he wasn't such a big man without his friends. He just kept walking away. I felt flush with being in control again.
Thereafter, I told my father that if he wanted me to work (a real big thing for him) he had to pick me up when I got off at 9PM. That worked out well except for one time. A little back story.... when I worked at the A&P there was a guy working there named Alonzo Brooks who was the toughest kid at Mark Twain. Some of you who went there undoubtedly know who he was. Now, Mark Twain was junior high but he looked like a man. This was a serious person who I was deathly scared of. As it would happen, he liked me. I used to get his dry cleaning for him when he asked (like I would say no!). This was 1967 and at a time of racial tension in the city and he used to tell me... "DePinto, when we take over, I'll make sure nothing happens to you." I found this both funny and comforting at the same time.
Anyway, I used to wait by the locked front door at 9PM until my father pulled up and then the night manager would unlock the door and let me out. One night, he said that he was busy in the basement and he was just going to let me out then and I could just wait outside for my dad. Shit! Of course, as soon I was standing outside for a few minutes, a couple of guys came up to me to rob me. Alonzo came walking out the door and soon as the two guys saw him, they turned and ran. Like I said, he was a serious individual. My father pulled up and as I was getting in the car, I nodded at Alonzo and he nodded at me. True story.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Coney Island Reunion Cruise - UPDATE
The date for a deposit to secure your spot has been extended to June 21, 2010.
See the previous post for more information.
See the previous post for more information.
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