Most people see the annual Coney Island Mermaid Parade as an opportunity for frivolity in the sand, a chance to bare it all in the sun, the one time they can feel free to be themselves. I, on the other hand, see it as a chance to eat a hell of a lot of hot dogs and judge other girls’ spare tires.
And so I present to you . . .
are Always the First to Take Off Their Clothes
I took these pictures in the span of about five minutes, because that’s how long we cared to watch the parade before deciding that we NEEDED Nathan’s hot dogs. The stand on the boardwalk had less of a line and more of a glob of people standing around it, the idea being that it was more efficient to push and shove your way to front any chance you got than to actually wait your turn like decent, rational human beings. Luckily, halfway through our 45-minute wait, I heard my name being said behind me with a question mark, and I turned around to see Leah, who was in a couple of my creative writing workshops at THE Ohio State University and could always be counted on for stories about maybe liking girls when the rest of the class was writing crap about trying yoga for the first time. We chatted about her MFA in creative writing and the fact that she’s actually using it to work for a food and travel magazine (swoon!) and how badly I want to go to Columbia for my Masters and my great boyfriend and her great girlfriend and so on and so on.
When my friends Sonya and Adam got to the order counter finally, I let these elderly ladies who had been sort of edging their way in front of me squeeze in behind them. Sonya turned back around to stand with me, and one of the ladies said to her, “You go ahead.” I said, “Oh, she’s with him,” and the other lady said, “Trust me, we know. We’ve been listening to you for the last half-hour. They’re together, your boyfriend’s on vacation in California, that girl has her Masters degree from Chicago, and you want your Masters degree from Columbia. Well, we live right by Columbia, and we could’ve had a kosher meal up there. For half the price.” Sonya and I laughed, but we secretly thought they were totally creepy.
An hour after first feeling the pangs of hunger, we found a grassy knoll on which to lunch and went about our munching
and slurping
and gnawing like the rabid beasts we are.
My chili cheese fries came with a tiny fork, which was a real shame, because I was ready to plunge my entire head into those things until I saw that they evidently expected me to be civil about it. And the corndog? THE BEST ONE OF MY LIFE.
So, yeah, it was a great time. It’s just kind of funny that we went to Coney Island on the crowdest day of the year just to eat some hot dogs that are there year-round.
15 Comments
maybe i DO want to see them naked! just because you have a fancy pants real blog instead of a livejournal now doesn’t mean you can tell me who i do and don’t want to see naked, OKAY? jeesh.
Especially the guy with the hairy ass, no doubt.
Please accept that Jesus and my fancy pants blog and I don’t approve of your porn-lovin’ lifestyle.
YES. ESPECIALLY HIM.
jesus secretly loves that i look at porn but he can’t tell anybody cos his dad’ll get mad. trufax.
“The Last People on Earth You’d Want to See Naked are Always the First to Take Off Their Clothes”
I KNOW! It’s like their way to comfort themselves that they look good or something. If they’re going to parade around with spare tires they deserve to be judged, dammit.
I mean, no doubt if I lost as few as 5 pounds, I’d be parading up and down my street in my skivviest skivvies, but I AM ABOVE RIDICULE.
I can’t imagine how even more outrageously judgemental I’d be if I were thin, though, 4 realz. I’d probably stop everything I’m doing and devote this entire blog to posting pictures of slightly overweight people.
How can I figure out a way to come to New York and live down the street from you and eat hot dogs with you? I need to work on a plan.
Because I’m wicked jealous. Jealous of the hot dogs that I can buy in a store here in lil ole Bend, Oregon. But that’s just not the same as buying them on CONEY ISLAND.
My, my, this relationship of ours is getting pretty hot and heavy, huh?
I can see it now–you realize that plane tickets to NYC currently cost more than breast implants and instead buy us matching webcams so we can eat hot dogs in front of our computers with each other all cybersex-y-like.
This says it all:
Ahahahahahahahahahahaha. I’m so pumped for the Tracey & Jeff entries for just that reason.
Though we will obviously be the only people who get it.
Seriously, that first girl? Totally undeserving of your criticisms. So what if she has a little tiny spare tire sort of kind of peeking out at the hips there? She’s in better shape than I’ve been since, like, my senior year of high school. Granted, I wouldn’t ponce about in a polka-dotted bra and black ruffle skirt, but still…cut her some slack.
The others, though? Totally deserving.
I totally didn’t mean it about her. The make-up freaks me out a bit, but her midsection is actually really cute. Kamran’s been all into working out lately, and I keep swearing I’ll leave him if he loses his little love handles.
I only make fun because I’m crying inside. Or something like that.
Oh, you’re not fooling anyone. You don’t cry on the inside. You laugh. Laugh because you know you’re better than all them bitches.
Upon further inspection of those pictures, though, I’ve come to realize that the most hideous ones, to me, are not the fatties (although, seriously ladies, have some self respect), but the almost-skinny girls with the pasties on their nasty, oddly-shaped breasts. And come on, what mermaid has a ‘fro? Sheesh.
P.S. Please don’t ever lose weight, Katie Ett Ett.
Do you ever read any fat acceptance blogs? Tracey has been really interested in them lately and is trying to turn me on to them, but I already accept my fat so much that I worry reading them might send me over the edge toward gaining 200 pounds. It’d sure be an interesting world if fat was fine, though.
Yeah, fat is still the one thing that it’s socially acceptable to be prejudiced against. But no, I’m not really into joining the fat acceptance movement. I’m too busy vacillating between shaking my fist at the heavens and shouting, “Why, God? Why do I have to have bad genes and PCOS?” and enjoying a Mediterranean pizza and Frank & Angie’s going, “Fuck it. I like food too much to go on the recommended diet for my medical condition.” I do yoga, go on walks, and go swimming regularly. I’m stronger and healthier than most people I know. That’s good enough for me. If there’s an extra-thick layer of fat over my muscles, who cares? Life’s a lot more fun when you’re not trying to meet the expectations/standards of men and mainstream society. Yeah, my fat acceptance is largely rooted in misandrony. I don’t think that goes over too well with the fat acceptance movement.