Comfort Station

I would describe Coney Island and the Mermaid Parade in robust detail, I would lovingly paint each sunburned shoulder, each brown limb dusted with sand, each child's scream of delight and dismay, if only I weren't still so very pissed off about my health insurance, among other things. For now, all I can say was that we saw a man dressed as dookie.

Last weekend's visit to the Coney Island boardwalk introduced me to a new euphemism for public toilets: comfort stations. Right now, my mind feels like the comfort station and the crowded beach it served, a perpetually swirling tide of contrasts. Life is like the scent of Chinatown beneath the Manhattan Bridge, disgusting and delicious.

If fun lasted forever, would it still be fun?
Is the dookie that surrounds a beautiful weekend any less stank?