The difference between Coney Island and the AK is in one the pigeons come up to you but the homeless avoid you. In Venice the pigeons stay away but the drifters are non-stop. I call them drifters because I’m half way there somewhere between a rat-hole and a sleeping bag under a palm tree. It’s sunny southern California for a full three hundred thirty five days, taking into account the dreaded June Gloom or the only thirty days of the year that Venice Beach reminds me of everyday in Coney.
Even if you’re one of the lucky ones to be inhabitating a so-called home – chances are the walls are as thick as paper so the sound of a screaming meth head echoing in your head isn’t that far. On the edge of la-la land you find antiquated and nearly dilapidated conditions of the 1930’s bungalows and tenament flats with unkempt close quarters. A hologram of a nostalgic past being slowly eaten by hard matter in the form of modern purge-proof mini-mansions. Junkies in full blown zoots rubbing shoulders with ex-addicts stuck in recovery sniffing crazy vibes while trying to stay straight. In Coney Island you only have Russians and the last vestiges of an Italian-American diaspora cooped up and waiting in honeycomb concrete slabs. Crazy over there is reserved for bad hair dye jobs on wobbling grandmothers and the skells I grew up talking about what Brooklyn used to be. It’s a dead zone.
At least here there are signs of life with all it’s turbulence and beauty shining into your skin through sight, sound and the occasional bump. Here there are no walls. According to a random homeless genius the, “ceiling is higher in Los Angeles than other states.” Lots of upwards space mixed with zero left-right space. Extreme mental states mixed with big space hallucinations in an actual small place; the OFW, the AK, on or off the Link, call these little three-brooklyn-block hoods what you want. We the people, gather here for a greater reason. We got scripts to sell and code to write, some are toking up, others on-the-wagon still unorthodox-straight in a major way but mostly minors. Sure we got a good deal of hipster-hating and the general transplant hate is off the charts with locals – but that’s the lack-of-walls-thing again. “Love the locals,” I say, I was after all a Coney Island local. I get spending your whole life somewhere that becomes a paralyzing elsewhere. Us Brooklyn transplants ain’t all bad boys out to get fame and collect your change. We would never dare do that. Some of us crash-landed in this shit hole you call a dream. Believe me, the differences between what I’m doing here and what the locals are doing here are not that different but I never intended for it to be like that. In a perfect world we’re all kings decreeing other peoples behaviour. In a perfect world we all throw tantrums like children complaining about being broke every five minutes and name-dropping “James Franco’s cousins party last night” in every other conversation.
In a perfect world Brooklyn didn’t turn into the other coastal crumb party where the mid-wests young lumberjack scene decided to plant maker faires. Sorry the transition wasn’t smooth enough for you, it was pretty shitty yonder over too. Apologies that I flip-out “old school” BK style when there is hardly any distance between me and the next chump invading my personal space, getting all starey, a characteristically LA behavior that does not bode well with raw Brooklynites who enjoy one-arm of elbow room. It’s cool man, I get it. We grew up with different spacial dynamic. I won’t allow myself to turn into the Deniro impression shouting, “You talkin’ to me?” every five minutes. I’ll deal with this weird shit, no worries. Even when a street full of Eurotrenders in shorts that fit to moose-knuckle can’t move out my the way as I march to Cafe Intelligentsia for an Ethiopian-Americano. This guy is about adaptation not switching up your games. Nor is this about the Brooklyn guy who comes to Venice and uses tall tales to impress the blondes and get into parties for free. I personally have no preference for blondes over brunettes – blue hair always was my thing.
Don’t worry, Venice has plently of New York ex-pats over the age of fifty to cover those “I was a tough-guy” bases. I’ve heard their bullshit and here’s a secret…most of them are from Jersey. Here’s another secret, anyone who talks about where they are from like its the cat’s pajamas needs to shut the fuck up. Welcome to Venice now go home. See, I’m becoming a local now.
I heard on a documentary about this place that, “Venice is the end of America where the crumbs of the great American-Pie all land…”, in the same spot. And everyone, all of us, including the drifter class, the creative class, the conscious class, the high class and those workers living outside the wide borders of Veniceland, that some call working-class chumps are all entangled in the bullshit, the smoke-monster, the vortex or whatever you want to call it. I just call it a titanium pandoras box of the same old precious bullshit. It’s just that over here that bullshit is lined with sunshine and barely dressed.
Tune into these bi-monthly Confessions on Electric Avenue from the Abbot Skinny and watch as we unpack the coolest street in the world.
Political scientist, author, and community activist Norman Finkelstein strolled down the Coney Island boardwalk at dusk on a balmy mid-summer night, just blocks from his bookshelf-lined apartment. The annual mermaid parade was winding down. Families with small children mixed with retirees and hipsters. Tourists lined up to bungee jump from carnival style rigs. Norman averted his eyes but urged me to watch.
We came to a bar and grill with photos of Coney Island scenes plastering the walls and sawdust covering the floor. Communal tables with picnic benches and shared beer pitchers lent a festive, Cinco de Mayo meets Oktoberfest air. This was one of the few old time places to survive the wave of changes on the boardwalk over the past decade under Mayor Bloomberg. Even the wood of the boardwalk was slated to become concrete after hurricane sandy damaged the original teak, Norman recalls.
Dominicans shared a table with Italians. Norman, the son of survivors of the Warsaw ghetto and majdanek concentration camp, and I strolled through the bar and back to the boardwalk. He told me about senator Charles schumer (d-ny) who went to high school with Norman not far from the boardwalk.
He was puzzled by the difficulties that Latinos are having with the educational system. Few European Jewish immigrants knew English when they arrived, but they were able to make it. Why do we see such low levels of attainment by the immigrants from Mexico, the Carribean, and Central America? A friend of his thinks it may be all the bilingual education efforts and English-as-a-second language classes in schools today. These well meaning efforts to do good may actually be holding today’s immigrants back.
Any way, it was clear that Norman was enjoying the diverse crowds. He pointed to the working class guys at the bar we just left. They have probably never seen the inside of a gym, he boasted.
What was it about Coney Island that made it so special? Norman knew right away. With a broad gesture towards the boardwalk he gave his highest praise. This is Communism.
In the moment, I felt it too. Although I did not tell Norman, I knew the feeling from a similar boardwalk four thousand miles away. A boardwalk that long ago lost its boards and got the sensible concrete.