My Coney Island

Coney Island Memories
My Coney
Island
Memories
all stories written by JK Sinrod
The following pages contain some short stories and observations of my life
growing up in Brooklyn, NY. Excuse the fact that they are in no particular order
since they were written separately over the years. At the end of each page click
NEXT PAGE to continue.....
http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/index.html (1 of 9)7/21/08 1:57 AM

A Hot Coney Island Night

It was 1962...... our transistor radios played the Beach Boys and The Four
Seasons. We could hit those high Frankie Valle notes till we turned about 13. We
hung in groups, strength in numbers..... loyal to the block, loyal to the
neighborhood. We ruled the streets. We never used words like, LOVE, HELP,
THANKS. Moat of us were poor kids. Jews, Catholics, Italians, Irish, Polish. Our
parents were different, but we were all the same. Some called us white trash, but not
to our faces! We had our rules. Cursing, cheating, conning were all fine. Making fun
of someones heritage or color or race was fine too, as long as you could take it in
return. But above all mother's were sacred. Your father may have been a bum or a
drunk but, you never ranked on anyones Mom.... NEVER.

We played street games, not for fun, but for blood. Winning was
everything. Didn't Vince Lombardi come from Brooklyn? We played stickball, ring-
a-leevio, johnny-on-the-pony, punchball, poison ball, stoopball, single double triple,
kings, box ball, I declare war on Germany, red light green light. (How many of
these can you remember the rules to?). We did arm wrestling and Indian wrestling.
We raced from sewer to sewer, jumped fire hydrants, climbed barbed wire topped
fences, till we spent the last ounce of our sweat, or till our Moms stuck their heads
out the windows and screamed our names to come home for supper. We played all
day and night. Seems like we were always testing ourselves? Who was the fastest,
strongest, even the best spitter? Loyalty, strength, speed, power, quick wit, and a
big mouth, yeah those were the tickets to survival.
As tough as we were, we were still little boys, who stayed up late at night
under the covers compulsively waiting for our favorite song to come on our
earplugged transistor radio or we couldn't go to sleep! Sherry, The Gypsy Cried, are
two special ones that I can recall waiting for. The girls were even tougher. They had
to be I guess? They had big heaps of stiff, crispy crackly hairsprayed hair. They
would pop big bubble gum bubbles in our faces to show us who was boss. Eyes thick
with black makeup, lips with white. Skintight peddle pushers showing off every
curve to torment us with... (you can look but don't touch!). Man oh man did they
smell sweet, with cheap perfume and scented hair lacquer. The girls were always
smarter and more mature, and would use it to tease and torture us. Us boys would
jump over garbage cans, and engage in near mortal combat like knights of olde for
their favour. If you blasted them with your best serious curse word and said, "F
you"... they would quickly and calmly say, "you wish"... always having a better
answer that left us speechless. (What did that terrible F curse really mean anyway?).
When you got close to one.... I mean really close, your blood pressure and the sweet
smell would make your head swim. I ask you.... what feeling comes close to the first
time you put your clumsy arms around the slim waist of one of those girls, and drew
her near.... closer.... for that first kiss? On her breath may have been, Dentyne, Sen-
Sen, Bubble gum, Violets, Chiclets, or milk..... ugh.., and hopefully no cigarettes!
I find today, that when the right song comes on the radio, like Under The
Boardwalk, or Up On The Roof, I find myself back there... smelling the salt air and
the perfume, on a hot Coney Island night.

The First Kiss

My first kiss was with an immigrant girl from Belgium, we'll call her Heidi. I
was about 12, she was 15. Deadly cute, short of stature, beautiful dirty blond hair,
and a boyish figure that drive boys wild to this day. She had real charm speaking
broken English with a slightly crooked smile. She tried her hardest to educate me
about sex, but I didn't really understand the facts of life as yet. I helped teach her
some choice "American" phrases and street smarts, and spent the entire summer
along with everyone else, trying to get her attention. She ignored me. I ran like the
wind.... hit sewer length home runs.... wrestled other would be suitors to the ground,
but to no avail. By the end of the summer I had won her over with my newly
discovered charms. Someone else told me she "liked me". (The old Brooklyn,

"human telephone" chain of command, succeeded where direct contact simply

wasn't done). Before we knew it we were spending the nights together on the stoops
holding hands. This was in private of course. I think she was embarrassed at being
with a younger guy. We would meet in darkened hallways and make out with the
radio blasting AM style tunes in the background. The first kiss was strange and
awkward for me. With "Do You Love ME" by the Contours screaming in the night,
she immediately went into a teenage mode of opened mouth kissing. "In my country
this is called French kissing" , she said.... I was shocked and pulled back. She had to
explain it all to me. Really she did! Through her teachings and my as yet
undiscovered work ethic, we managed to spend the entire Winter exploring this
brave new world together. Heavy winter coats, gloves, woolen hats all disgarded.
Freezing temps, huddling in hallways, we emerged that spring as different people. I
was now a savvy bigshot junior high school 13 year old man of the world, who had an
older girlfriend. She was an "old" 16 year old that I had used up too early.
A year after our last date, at a then closing Steeplechase park, she got
herself in trouble with an older guy this time. I saw her with a big belly in the streets.
She laughed at me with a still proud expression on her face.
I didn't see her again for years. I was 17 or so, sitting on the bus coming
home from high school, when a very tired looking young woman boarded. Tattered
clothes, hard lines of a tough life on her face, greasy dirty blond hair. She was
holding the hand of a small child, with another baby in her arms, and evidence of yet
a new one on the way. Our eyes met, then turned away. She still had that proud,
tough look on her face but no smile now. I felt sick. Not so much by what had
happened to her, but by the fact that we were unable to say a simple hello. What we
had was between two different kids.
I spent years reflecting on her. Remembering those hot Coney Island nights
running through the streets, and those frigid ones in the hallways with her as well.
Wondering if it was fate that had me meet her at an age where she was just a teacher
and not yet a mate. Had it been a few years later, I might have been riding that same
bus, but not as a cool 17 year old student with my entire life and career in front of
me... but as a tired and beaten down teenage father.

Steeplechase
Park about 1962
A Day In The Life..... 1967

The alarm went off it's about 7 something..... gotta get going. Wash... comb
hair... look in mirror. Hair short and neat. Little hint of longer sideburns. Jeans
black skin tight size 32... they look good, just bought them at the dungaree factory
on Coney Island Ave yesterday.. about $3 bucks. They are poured right down into
my brown penny loafers, Can't wear bluejeans to school, not allowed. (Why I
wonder?) Button down shirt. Need a little cool touch. Look in closet at 4 inch wide
Mod ties. Which one, hummm...... polka dots? No. Here's a nice paisley one. Grab
books bound by a one inch red rubber strap. Run out the door to catch the Seagate
shuttle bus. Just a few people on it. Caryn, Tina, Butch, Nancy, Jimmy. It's too
early for a hello. Just a nod of the head will do. We get off and I run outside the gate
to transfer to the Surf Ave bus. Almost empty now but by the time the bus makes it
past the Surf Ave. projects, I'm packed in like a sardine with fellow babybomers.
There's Mitch, Alan, Mike, Dave. Mitch and I always get a kick out of the stupid
early morning cartoons. Alan and I argue baseball mostly. Still too early and hot to
talk much. What's air conditioning? Luckily I'm pressed full body up against a
sweet young thing. Is that Este Lauder? Man it's just perfect mixed in with my gallon
of Canoe. We can barely breathe we are so close. Hope I don't embarrass myself, did
I remember to brush my teeth? No matter, I don't speak, either does she. I'm going
steady with someone else anyway and its 1967. I hear music through the perfume
and the deodorant. The Monkees are wailing, "Take the Last Train to Clarksville".
Someone has a transistor radio on the bus. It's near the window of course, for
reception. Hard to believe but by the next year or two, we'll have our hair down to
our shoulders and be listening to Hendrix and Joplin on FM, smoking pot and
having "free love" as much as we can get!
About 15 minutes later we all disengage and walk the couple blocks to
Lincoln HS. I don't have a class for awhile so I walk down to the cafeteria to get a
snack for breakfast. I run into a couple of friends and get the reaction to my wide
loud tie I craved. "far out man".... "groovy"..."psychodelic"... "oh wow". Makes
me feel good, a little different than the rest. Yet I also belong. Isn't that what we all
wanted? I had a bread and butter hero with a milk for a quarter. I walk up around
the study hall. Poor suckers don't have a friend like I do in the program office, so
they have to sit there and silently read for 45 minutes while I can roam the place. The
halls were dead quiet then the bell rings. All hell breaks loose. Wall to wall boys and
girls struggling to get to class. With each change of classes it was a social event.
Saying hi, flirting, making plans for the weekend, slapping fives. All done in about
10 minutes. God help you if you had a class on the first floor and the next was on the
other side of the building on the third.... and a creep of a teacher who couldn't wait to
mark you late each day. I think 3 lates equaled an absence? Made no sense did it?
Some teachers were awful. Some of them were terrific. Mrs Edelman comes to mind.
She was one of the rare ones, whose verve and passion for her English class, helped
her draw out an insecure young writer like me now and again.
Last class is done. School is over now. I pick up a soft pretzel, (we also called
them bagels then), from the guy on the corner for a nickel, and head for the bus trip
home. I'm wearing my team jacket and damned proud of it too! Maybe I'll get
together with some friends that drive, and cruise Kings Hwy this weekend? Why was
it that the other school's cheerleaders always seemed to be prettier? On the slow bus
ride I'm thinking about getting home in time to watch "Where The Action Is". Paul

Revere and the Raiders are on today. I'll probably do my homework with Soupy
Sales on in the background..... but hey the weekend is coming. I spend most of the
evening on the phone. Can't go to sleep or breath without my girlfriend and I
exchanging a few "I love you's" on the phone first. Young love, or is it lust, is all
consuming. We are all there is in our world. Seems different for our kids today.
There's yet another sweet sixteen this weekend. Which jeans will I wear?
The black, blue, brown, or white? Gotta arrange the timing so we walk in late to
make a cool entrance. We are a cool couple alright. I'll be slapping fives with the
guys, while she'll be off in a corner whispering gossip with the girls. Better practice
the Skate, The Jerk, and the Slop in the mirror. I lay in bed thinking, with my
radio on..... "A Whiter Shade of Pale" playing in the background. What will become
of me? Of course I'll marry her (I never did), the war in Vietnam, graduating High
School, going to College, my girlfriend, the Mets, the Jets, my girlfriend, the Rangers,
the Knicks, the next weekend, my girlfriend. How could life get any better than this?
Little did we all know..... it never would.

Kim and June 1967 Kim and Linda 19
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Coney Island Memories p4
My Coney Island
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page 2
http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney2.html (1 of 8)7/21/08 1:57 AM

Superman Is Dead
It was the age of innocence. The little battery powered transistor radio played "Sherry" and
"Under The Boardwalk". Girls had to wear skirts to school, and boys had to have on a
white shirt and tie, or they couldn't go to assembly.... (what a threat!) If you were lucky the
Million Dollar Movie would have an Abbott and Costello movie on that week. You could
watch it everynight, and twice on Saturday and Sundays! I remember seeing Cagney so

many times in Yankee Doodle Dandy, that I knew not only the songs, but all the dialogue
by heart. Why is it that to this day when the young marching soldier asks Cohan, (who he
didn't know wrote the song and just got the medal of honor from the President), "don't you
know the words oldtimer?".... I still cry? We waited on line for hours to get scared to death
by the Tingler in our very own movie theatre! Wore silly 3D glasses for 13 Ghosts, and
sneaked in sandwiches our moms made us because the candy was too expense at 25 cents.
Who was better? Mickey, Willie, or the Duke? The damn Yankees always won anyway,
maybe thats why they had so many fans? We played..... hell..... we LIVED in the streets.
Sun-up till dinner time, then back out again. Hot sweaty summer nights with the smell of
the salt air burning our heaving chests from running around. Then like the shiny white
knight, came the incessant musical jingle of the Mister Softee truck. A cool respit. Time to
sit on the stoop and eat, and fight about which was better. Carvel, Mister Softee, Good
Humor? We fought about everything didn't we? We didn't know it then but we were
honing our skills for the real world. Soon after someone would yell out a game and
instantly we were fighting about "good sides". "Thats not good sides.... you'll kill them
with all the big kids". So we would have to chose sides. How to choose? Another fight! In
reality all this was a ballet of sorts, to be passed down from the older kids to the younger
ones, so they too would know how to handle a crisis..... Like when a stickball court was
occupied, and you wanted to play? You would "challenge" of course! But to properly do
this you needed 2 balls? Why? Who the hell knows? Late at night my dad who was not a
terribly educated man, would send me down to the corner store to intercept the truck
delivering the Daily News and the Mirror. He had to have both for some reason. As the
truck approached, the gigantic letters on the side billboard screamed out "SUPERMAN
DEAD". We all looked at this puzzled? How the hell can this be? We all read the comics
fiercely and knew it was only Kryptonite, and the green kind, that could remotely do this.
We started to argue, some of the younger kids getting very upset. We grabbed the 1st
paper off the stack and read the headlines briefly and quickly opened the page. The actor
George Reeves found dead. Suicide suspected. How could this be? Why would he kill
himself.... why would anyone? Especially him. Afterall he was Superman..... err played
him at least. By the next day it finally registered that an actor who played the guy on TV,
that still looked young on the reruns we were watching, took his own life. Depression they
said............ The age of innocence was over......... Superman was dead!

the 2nd best coaster was the Tornado
Stickball
There were several types of stickball games, and balls. The oldtimers played on the
streets from sewer to sewer, dodging cars. For me the only kind of stickball was fast
pitching against a wall. I was an awesome stickball player. On the fly, against a wall, into
a chaulk box. That was a real mans game. You had to pitch, hit and field. When we were
young our arms were like rubber weren't they? I could pitch 2 or three games everyday it
seems. Used to love the park on 27th street in Coney Island. If you really got a hold of
one, it was going.. going... gone... into the CYO across the street. I never had the real great
fastball, but I could make that Spaldeen dance. Curves, sliders, screwballs, sinkers,
changes. I would dig my knuckles into the ball and squeeze it tight and the ball would
head right for the heart of the plate and at the last second dip and hit the ground, while the
batter always chased. The ball of choice was a "Spaldeen", or more correctly spelled on
the ball as a Spaulding. Since the box was made of a thick chalk line, many ball and strike
disputes were settled by a fresh chaulk line on the ball. The ball moved so damned much,
that a batter was absolutely sure that a thrown ball would hit him, while it curved
effortlessly into the box for a strike. A real good batter would choke up and keep fouling
off dozens of pitches to tire a guy out. I was also a switch hitter, with no power lefty, but I

did it to foil that great curve that some could make break 3 feet. By the 60's you could buy
a stickball bat for a $1 at the toy store. It was straight and thicker that the old broom
handles we used to use. It also had a spiral of black tape up the handle. I still have mine
somewhere. It was one of my most important posessions. Several times a game someone
would hit one on the ground at warp speed directly at you. It usually had tremendous spin
on it. What a challenge not only to reach it, right after you just threw the ball and were off
balance, but also hold it in your hands while it was still spinning. I also remember
something we called an "egg" ball. This was a pop up back to the pitcher that was
somewhow spinning really fast with the ball kind of sucked into itself as it tried to escape
your grip. We would play 1 on 1 or as many as 5 men on a team , with the outfielders
rarely getting 1 ball to field. The fly balls were either pulled very foul, or were hit a mile,
and lost forever. A typical game was 5 or seven innings and the score was about 18-16 by
the time all the balls were lost. I can remember playing against both my older brothers on
the morning of one of their weddings. I was about 16 and they were 24 and 27. I struck
them out and hit a homerun, and as far as I was concerned, that was the day I knew I was a
man.

Of Dimes, pennies, and nickels

Coins were the mysterious and magic jewels of my youth. We would jump at the chance
to pick up a stray penny that was facing face up on the sidewalk. The really desperate kids
would even go for the unlucky face down ones. We would go through garbage cans, and
search the beaches to collect bottles that would net us a big 2 cents each. That 2 cents
would buy us a pretzel, sunflower seeds, or various penny candies that lined the shelves of
the corner store. Licorice shaped like coins, banana spongie things, taffy, dots stuck on
paper, etc. Our dentists best friends? The nickel was much more royal. Now you're talkin'
a Chunky, my favorite. Or to us clever kids, 5 separate penny candies. The dime was
already high finance. Ice cream cones and comic books. Now quarters were big time,
which could get you a bag of Nathans fries, or admission to the Mermaid movie theater, or
holiest of all a Spaldeen. I remember the first automated soda machine that I ever saw. The
cup plopped down, and it doled out a little syrup, than a spritz of seltzer. If the cup came
down crooked, the liquid missed the cup entirely, remember the mess? This feat of magic
was about 10 or 15 cents, but the thing I think was amazing is that for an EXTRA nickel,
you could get ice in your cup!! Now a days we get annoyed when our cup has too much

ice, and not enough soda. So now that I impressed the younger ones in the audience with
the value of any coins, here's the true story......
My pals and I were walking the boardwalk absolutely tapped out. I mean
between the 4 of us we had zero money. We walk up to one of the telescopes that you
have to pay 10 cents to see the boats on the ocean with, for about 10 minutes. This
machine was obviously for the tourists, cause there was no way in hell one of us Coney
Island boys would ever give up a whole dime to be a Peeping Tom. We could peek
through the wall slats of one of the bathhouses for free to do that. We look into the lenses
which were blackened and closed up. Finally we find one that is working! Someone must
have just been there, and walked away before the 10 minutes were up. We fight to take
turns looking at nothing at all. The thing keeps on going. I mean it won't stop. We think
we have just discovered ice cream. Boy are we getting away with murder or what! Afer
what seems like 30 minutes we are getting bored, and are trying to figure out how to get it
to stop. After all why should some other creep get to see the show for nothing? Strange
logic, I know.... I rap the contraption on the side, and low and behold...... a dime comes
out. A whole dime. We all grab for it, and in our haste it falls through the crack in the
boardwalk planks and onto the beach below. 2 of the kids take off to find it under the
boardwalk, (hence the title of the famous song is born). When they are gone, I rap it again
on the side... this time 3 dimes come out into the little cup on the coin return. Well now we
are laughing so damn hard it hurts. More raps.... more dimes. Again and again till our little
grubby hands are full of more coins than we've ever seen in our lives. Meantime the other
2 kids are directly below our feet still looking. We are helping direct them... "a little to the
left", and "it fell right here". We are filling up our socks with the dimes all the while.
Finally the flow of dimes stops. It never occurs to us to split it 4 ways. 2 is better. After all
they left us. They come back up without the dime, and shake the telescope in disgust. We
walk the rest of the way home trying to hide our "dime" limp caused by the coins sliding
in our socks underneath our feet. 2 of us are laughing like hell, the other 2 can't figure it
out. The next day, we treat the whole gang to Mr. Softee.... we paid in dimes.

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My Coney Island
Memories
page 3

1960 program from the Mermaid Theatre.
(we got to see the movies well after they were already out, on their second run.... hey
at .25 cents and no cable channels or vhs ,how could you beat it?)
The End Of Summer Loves

(posted to AOL message board 1996)
This time of year brings to mind years gone by when I was a young teen. I
grew up in Coney Island and then Seagate. These beach areas always had a swelling
of population during the summer months. It seemed that each hot summer there was
a young cutie that moved into a vacant apartment summer rental with her family. One
summer we actually had a family with 5 sisters from South Carolina move in our
block!! They usually proceeded to absolutely tear my heart out. Making it worse was
her exotic accent. Maybe from down south, or as far away as NJ or Queens! The word
spread quickly. "Did you see who moved in down the block?". "Yeah what a dog". As
we secretly acted nonchalant to jockey for position. Before you knew it, we were
wearing our clean sneakers, and combing our hair with Vitalis or Bryl Cream. Guys
that were normally your buddies, were all of a sudden tripping you, poking fun at you,

and generally trying to make you look bad!! In a few days the sizing up began in
ernest. It always started off slowly with lots of game playing. Flirting, teasing, hard to
get, I like your friend better, were the games that were played. Playing rough and
tumble street games just so you could have an excuse to playfully put your arms
around her. The pressure of trying to hit that "Spaldeen" out of sight when she was
watching. That first feeling of closeness to someone that smelled just SO GOOD, was
exhilerating. It was near the end of the summer with dreaded school coming closer
that things would finally heat up. Holding hands actually in front of your buddies! Oh
my goodness was I crazy? Sitting on a quiet stoop at night in each others arms.
Secretly meeting under the boardwalk to make out on the sand. I can still smell the
ocean and the sen-sen on her breath! Love hurts like hell when you're a young teen
and your summer girlfriend is going back home, probably forever. For some reason
we didn't have the social skills back then to take a phone number or write. It was
almost like some inevitable force. It started like a hurricane, then it was simply over. I
still believe that there is no such thing as puppy love. Especially when it's happening
to YOU. Seems like the entire winter was spent in black and white, just waiting for
that first warm breeze of summer to add some color to my world. Time to keep an eye
on those vacant apartments again.

My first teenage love, Brenda. at the NY Worlds Fair

1965
Since she lived in Canarsie, I had to take 2 buses to the train
to Manhattan, to catch the 14th St line back to Bklyn
to another bus, just to see her! Still one of the sweetest girls I ever knew

An Ode To Steeplechase and Coney

(this is my first story posted to
AOL board 1996)
Reading some of this stuff on my computer has made me nostalgic for the old
Coney Island and especially the king of the parks, Steeplechase. My hey-day was the
early '60's. By then Coney was ragged around the edges and going downhill. When I
was about 12 (1961 or so), it was heaven. My Mom would give me a whole dollar and
I would go with my buddies, (Danny Sweet, David Louie, Joey Yosso, Larry
Rosenbloom, Dennis Cavanaugh, Maurice Bank, Steve Hornberger, Larry Zeller,
Joey Keonig etc), down to the Bowery. The rides, Playland, Murray Zarets Animal
Land, Bat-a-way, et -all. That dollar would last me a whole day, and if I was clever
(weren't all us Brooklyn kids?), I would have enough left over for Nathans fries, (they

were in a cone shaped cup, placed in a bag for .15 cents. add salt a little ketchup and
shake until the bag was soaked with grease). Yet we would trade all that for a day at
Steeplechase. You would get a blue and white round wheel-card that would get
punched the appropriate number of times depending on how good the ride was. This
later changed to script, and then ride tickets.
The signature ride was the dangerous wooden horse Steeplechase race around
the park, they careened around old creaky tracks at breakneck speed. There were no
seat belts, so you had to hold on for dear life! When it was over the ride let you off at
the entrance to a funhouse to be tortured by a midget clown with a cattle-prod. For
you younger readers I swear this is all true! I was petrified of him but you couldn't
ride the horses and avoid the funhouse.
The Whirlpool was a spinning Mexican hat where 20 riders would sit on the top
and fight to push each other down the slope which was spinning around like a top.
This ride was often temporarily closed, while they cleaned up the vomit once a day.
The giant mahogany 2 story high slide which you slid down on a piece of carpet or
towel. I was pleasantly surprised to find the giant bicycle ride, where we supplied the
power to all go in a circle, turn up at Gaslight village in Lake George in the '70's.
When you were out of tickets and money, you could stay for hours looking for
unpunched tickets on the floor, watch the demon like little clown electricute people,
see the girls skirts being air blown up to their necks, or watch the very first real color
TV set in a very quiet dark room. When the news was out that it was to going to close,
we all made sure we went again, only to find everything in a state of disrepair. The
big smile on the guy on the front of the building had many broken windows or teeth
missing, and the shrine to George C. Tilyou was desecrated. Someone had even stolen
the dangerous and very rare Red San Francisco Bats. We went anyway, and looked at
everything through rose colored glasses, trying to relive the greatness our parents told
us of. That final night of operation in 1965 they played Old Lang Syne, and There's
No Business Like Show Business. 67 bells were sounded, one for each year of
Steeplechases existence. The neighborhood was falling apart as well. Empty rundown
slum buildings, gated shops. I never realized until I was an adult looking back how
depressing it was for us all. This was my first real experience with the death of a loved
one, Steeplechase.

the funhouse, where the little clown would terrorize us The

wooden Steeplechase horses

One Less Summer

written
9/1999
It's the time of the year that seems to evoke sad memories. For some
reason the coming of the fall and winter leaves us cold as well. Of course as kids the
coming of the wind signaled the start of dreaded school. What was ever worse than
that? Getting up early. Dealing with dress codes. Rules, rules, rules. Yuk. No more
girls legs to see. No more bathing suits. Also it was the start of all the big Jewish
holidays. Couldn't play ball in a suit. The end of the year. Another one down. One less
summer in our lives. Often it was saying goodbye to a transient summer love. The end
of another great baseball season. It was getting dark earlier and earlier.... hey where's
the light? At 6:00pm coming home from a late session at a bursting at the seams baby
boomered High School, it was already cold and dark! Time to do homework, watch a
little TV, and go to sleep. The rides and games of chance were closed and boarded up
tight all around the Bowery in Coney Island. The mechanical laughing fat lady at the
Magic Carpet Ride Funhouse was just sitting there, doing nothing. The paint peeling
off her fat cheeks. I would always look at her for a long time, scared to death that she
would wink at me or move on her own. The wax museum was open all year round, but
without the barker screaming into a raspy microphone "see Lena Medina..... the 5
year old mother". The trees were barren, the sand was blowing around the ramps to
the boardwalk. Just a few days ago it was teaming with millions of folks, who got off

the trains at Stillwell Ave. schlepping all their bags of towels and goodies to the beach.
Nathans put up its wooden shack like walls, so you could still eat standing up outside,
yet be somewhat protected from the cold. Come to think of it, Nathans was always
crowded, Summer, Winter, didn't matter at all. Winter had its good parts too. The
anticipation of snow coming and cancelling school. Cuddling at night in a doorway or
stoop fully dressed with your sweatheart. Christmas and/or Chanukah presents.
Movies. New Years. Stocking hats. Gloves. Boots. The best part of all was the sniffing
of the air trying to, be the first one to say, "hey the summers coming"!
We Bad
(posted to AOL 11/00)
Oh yeah. we bad. We were Coney Island street kids alright. Mixed Italians,
Jews, Polish, Irish, mutts, and whatever the summer bungalo's brought in. The girls
were tougher than most of todays guys. We had a right to take it out on the rest, didn't
we? What were we supposed to do with our spare time? No video games or cable TV.
Pranks, scams, cons, were what we lived for. After all we were the locals who weren't
allowed to play the games at Facination or the Bowery, 'cause we knew how to beat
them. You name it, we had a solution. Remember the HIT THE BIG NAIL INTO
THE 4 x 4 BEAM and WIN A PRIZE? Almost impossible to do in just 3 hits... but
very do-able if you used a little vaseline from your hair on it. That ring toss game is
unfair, so one of us would distract the barker, while a buddy would bend over and
place the ring right on top of a good prize. (Ooops another secret revealed). These
scams didn't last for too long. Before we knew it, we were all chased down the Bowery
behind Nathans and banned for life!!
Slugs, outright stealing, cheating, that was for losers. I could play at Playland
for hours, not because I was good, but because I knew the location of the secret
switches under or on top of the various baseball and pinball machines. The right push
and a free game.
Our best targets were the folks unlucky enough to walk down our block. We
would watch with roaring laughter as an unsuspecting woman was all tangled up in
our homemade web of "invisible" black thread criss-crossing back and forth across
the street. What a blast it was to set firecrackers with a very slow fuse to go off right in
front of nighttime strollers. We were sitting across the street minding our own
business. Riding our bikes on the boardwalk in tandem each holding the end of a cord
and deftly flipping the hats off the men walking by Brighton Beach. They would curse
us with thick yiddish accents. You little son-of-a-bitch bestids! And of course the
rumbles. Forever talk of, how, when, where, what weapons. In a local fight with one of
yours, over money or a girl, fists were the only legal weapon to use. You would start
out boxing, but it almost always ended with one guy wrestling and pinning the loser on
the ground. Then it was over and you were buddies again. Outsiders were VERY
different. Sticks, rocks, chains, pipes, whatever...... was OK. Especially since you
would always say you were outnumbered. If one of your guys were in trouble it was a
matter of minutes before we would be tearing down Mermaid Ave to come to his
rescue. Of course there was always the weak link of the bunch. The wimpy guys who
hung around for our leftovers, whether they were girls or firecrackers. You know the
kind of guys I mean. The ones that got the last "zip" of the soda bottle. That last inch
of 90% spit, 10% coke. This guy would take regular torture and come back for more.
The night we took him down to the beach and buried him in the sand up to his
neck....... naked. Put him in a garbage can and secured the lid.... rolled him around the
block. Tied and gagged him and put him in front of the meanest, foulest, drunkest
landlord's doorstep, and rang the bell for the umpteenth time that night. The guy
came out with a shotgun once, and the kid almost had a heart attack! (We paid the
price for that one). Funny but after re-reading this stuff, it sounds kind of tame
compared to the school shootings, drugs, and such we read about today.
next page...... visitors

comments

My Coney Island
Memories
page 4

Mermaid Dreams
It was simply the best place in the world for a kid to grow up........... Coney Island.
The rides, Nathans, Steeplechase, the beach, the fishing pier, the Loews Surf ave (line
around the block to see that sci-fi blockbuster The Mysterians.), the RKO Tilyou (I saw
the 3 Stooges live onstage), the Parachute Jump, the Wonder Wheel, Cotton Candy,
Jelly Apples, Buttered Corn, Shatzkins Knishes, Fabers, Playland, The Magic Carpet
Funhouse, etc etc I could go on for pages and pages. A block away from all this was
the true heart of Coney Island: Mermaid Avenue.
In the early to mid 60's it was THE place to shop, and hang out. We had Jerry
Jeromes Deli on 24th, Joe Blumes 5 and 10, David Louies parents chinese restaurant
Mee Wah, The Huba Huba diner, Mindys lucheonette, Meyersons Bakery (raisin
pumpernickle & fresh bagels), Jeffrey Eagles parents dry-cleaners, Nat Sinrods
Tuxedos, Al Sinrods Menswear, Blanche Sinrods Tots to Teens baby clothes, Becky
Sinrods bridal gowns, Sam Horowitz's (later to be Congresman) great old Mermaid
Theater. We had 2 synagogues on our end of Coney, one on 23rd and the other on
25th. Our Lady of Solice church (if you were a Jew and went in you would get instantly
killed by lightning...... really!), and the library on 19th. Other than Tortonno's, I seem to
remember only one pizza place, Johnny's on about 23rd st. It started out at .15 a slice,
can you imagine $1.00 for a whole pie? It quickly went to .25 a slice and $2.00 a pie.... a
big difference back then. I remember 3 good Italian Restaurants. Carolina's was a
family style place. Gargiulos (which we all pronounced Gar-jewl-ios), was the fancy
schmancy Lundy's type place. If you asked the waiter, he would bring you a bunch of
the wine grapes growing on the back trellis. Recently at a boomers reunion, 10 of us
met there. They refused to seat me because I was wearing shorts at lunchtime, even
though it was August & 90 degrees! I told the matre'd ... "I wasn't good enough for this
place 40 years ago, and I still can't get in". He didn't crack a smile. The other Italian
restauant was crazy Stellas. Not only could you bring your own wine, but you could
also bring your own food to be cooked by them, and walk into the kitchen to watch the
waiters fight with the cooks. Never will there be another place like it.
On oir block we had the older white trash teens up the block who called me a
"Christ killer", beat us up & terrified us on a semi-regular basis, just becasue they
could. We also had the much older guys, who seemed to be the guys from West Side
Story, only without the dancing. They would work their little part time jobs by day, play
Johnny-on-the-pony, love up the girls on the beach and then sing real good doo-wop
accapella to put us to sleep on the street corners at night. I remember a small
smattering of Puerto Ricans down the block that were pretty much openly accepted as
long as they could speak some English, but not too many black faces till the middle
60's. Going down to the Iitalian blocks close to Stillwell Ave was like entering a

different world. Pastry shops, Pizza and Italian Ice. Those guys wore "hitter" white tee
shirts with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeve, black pointed shoes, and a
big Vitalis ladden comb in the belt. The girls had big black lacquered hair that could
give you an Indian burn. Careful because if she put out too much, she got a
"reputation" and was branded a HOO-ER (whore). Braving all that was worth it for
Tortonnos pizza. I'd stand up to the counter and Jerry would wink, and give me a piece
of fresh mozzerella.
Every block had a huge empty lot in the middle of it where the trolleys ran years
before. It was a natural place to playball, catch crickets and get in trouble. It was a
shortcut through to the next block.... which could start turf wars. Each block had their
own group of kids with their own talents and reputations. We would ride our bikes
down to the bakery on 27th for a charlotte russe.... 5 cents extra for sprinkles. Then on
to Seagate to try to sneak in, and see what the "other half" lived like? I would ride the
bus for a nickel with my bus pass down to the train station. At 12 we were riding the
trains all over the city. We'd jump the turnstiles and go to Manhattan on a whim. Now
we don't let out kids cross the street alone in the suburbs.
The beach was our private playground. I preferred a game of against the wall stickball
on any hot day in the park on 27th street. If you really got a hold of one, you would do
your own Mel Allen play by play.... going, going.... gone.... into the CYO! In fact we were
convinced that Under the Boardwalk was written just for us. For that matter Up On The
Roof as well. In fact most of the songs played on our transistor radios were. Weren't
they? Remember sneaking the radio under the covers? We couldn't go to sleep until
"that special song" was played?
Lining up for a Saturday/Sunday matineee at the Mermaid. Sometimes 4 movies

plus cartoons, and cliff-hanger serial. All for .25 cents! We would sneak in a paper bag
lunch, or sneak out and go home for lunch and sneak back in again! We had a lookout
posted for the burly and mean Matron, who weilded a very powerful flashlight, and was
constantly interrupting the movie with threats to anyone caught talking or eating. The
lookout would say "OK the coast is clear", and at once a row of 10 kids would take out
their brown bag from inside their shirts, and put their sandwich to their mouths for a
quick bite, before she came walking back. The neighborhood was just so warm and
friendly. Stoop sitting was a cutural artform. Anyones mom was everyones mom when
it came to a kid that needed help. My mom would send me down with money to Paul the
butcher, David the fruit and veggie man, and Sams toyland who were all on a first name
basis. "A little short this week? No problem, pay me when you can." There was never
any thought or worry about crime, kidnapping, or getting ripped off. We would live in
the streets all day and night. I can still hear the mothers screaming out the windows for
their kids to COME HOME. I'd give anything to hear it one more time.

Steeplechase Pool

Mermaid Nightmares
The downfall of Coney, may have been caused by the plight of the
landlords. They needed to rent out all the summer bungalows, and apartments
year round to pay the tax burden and still make money. As the buildings fell into
disrepair, the only ones who would live there were the poor, welfare collectors,
and trash. The buildings continued to get worse, but there was always a new
population of immigrants to move in.
I can remember it seemed like it was all of a sudden in 1963, that the place
was unsafe. We started locking the doors for the first time. Gangs of poor kids
would shake us down for our change. All my white friends moved away or to the
projects. We were the last family to go. We moved into a Seagate apartment for
$200/month rent.... We were paying $65/month in Coney Island. It was a real
burden for my dad to pay that rent. Stores were getting robbed regularly. Gangs
of toughs would come into my dads store and harrass him. Mom and Pop shops
were threatened. First they put up metal storefront gates, then started to close
down and move away. My dad got an SBA loan, and was forced to move his little
shop, then our home to Long Island in 1968. The new groups of immigrants and
trash had no experience or aspiration to become store owners, so Mermaid Ave.
became a ghost town. No stores....... no jobs.......DRUGS naturally followed.
Now (1965) people were afraid to come to Coney for the beach or the
attractions. Steeplechase went down, the bowery games dried up. The town died.
I still have nightmares about being mugged and chased through the streets.
Funny though, I have always been a free spirit and totally non-prejudiced to this
day, and have tried to teach that to my kids. You notice that I don't call these
gangs blacks, though thats what they were at the time. They were poor kids with
a gigantic chip on their shoulders put there by the parents.
1968; The drugs and prostitution were everywhere. My uncle's store on
Mermaid and now on 24th, was regularly robbed. Once they used a battering ram
to break down the adjacent wall in a building next door and the same
neighborhood he staunchly defended all those years walked through a 4 foot hole
to steal him blind. The police thought it was funny. It broke his heart and he finally
closed up shop for good too. What a horrible taste in my mouth it leaves me with.

The End of Steeplechase, Feb

20th, 1966

I cannot believe I left some holes unpunched!!!!

Next page.... visitors comments

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page....

The Trip Back

Jones Beach concert 1999
(turn up the volume and read s l o w l y)
So I'm sitting at the Moody Blues concert at Jones Beach tonight, and I find myself
transported back in time and space. The houselights are off, the stars are out in force,
Justin Haywood is in great voice, and the sweet smell of Marajuana fills the air. Call me
a hopeless romantic, but my eyes are welled up with tears. Although my wife is seated
next to me, my mind is wandering down memory lane......... It's the sixties, and I'm in
Central Park again. It's a past life alright. I'm a concert photographer so I have one of
the best seats in the house..... fifth row center. Can't remember exactly who I'm
watching? Arlo Guthrie? BB King? The Temptations? It's all a blur of loud music, pot,
wine, and good vibrations. Someone brought a bag full of little Italian plums. Another
has a skin filled with Boones Farm wine. Joints are being passed back and forth, forth
and back at a dizzying rate. It's a much simpler time. A time of flashing the peace sign at
a total stranger, and getting a big smile while it's being returned. Whatever was
available, was freely shared by all. We looked mostly alike. Long hair, faded jeans, tie-
dyed shirts, beads, chokers and headbands. Something momentarily breaks this vision
and I'm slammed back to the present. An audience of middle aged, pot bellied, graying,
boomers. The Moody Blues are backed tonight by the Long Island Philharmonic. Let's
face it, although we loved their wonderful, intense mixes of rock and roll, and classical
poetry, we're all here to see if Justin Haywood and the orchestra can do justice to
Nights In White Satin one more time. A song for the ages, the music of our lives. I lean
over to my wife and whisper in her ear, "I wonder if I'm getting an old fashioned contact
high here"? The smell of pot pervades the air and I'm back at my old apartment in the
Park Slope of 1970. It's early morning and I awaken with some sweet young thing lying
sleeping next to me. I don't know how she got there, and more sadly, don't know her
name. I'm immediately taken by her long dark hair and the curves of her body. Her
young musclular legs are as smooth as silk, and taught as rubberbands. I look around
and see my room as if for the first time. The mattress, (leave the last "s" off for savings
my timetravelling mind says), is on the floor. Art posters on the walls. Record player
turning silently. Overstuffed pillows all askew. The sweet familiar scent of pot in the air.
I'm being pulled back to the present, but decide I can control it, and stay here for a bit
longer. I look at my hard 20 year old body in the mirror and notice tears streaming
down my face. The record player is now tracking .... "Nights in white satin, never
reaching the end, letters I've written, never meaning to send...... beauty I've always
missed, with these eyes before, just what the truth is, I can't say anymore.... The
flashing lights of the stage show bring me back to the here and now full force. Old
Justin is hitting all the notes as if he didn't age a day in the 30 years since I first heard
that song on the radio! My wife reaches up to wipe away the tears from my face, not
knowing the brief trip through time I had just taken.

The Park Slope Years; early 1970's
Seems like everyone worked on Wall Street in the 70's. I moved into a run down
brownstone on Prospect Place around 1970. My brother Gene, his wife Joan and their 2
boys, bought it for a song and became the only white folks on the block. I lived in the
ground floor apartment with my girlfriend Linda. I followed in my brothers' footsteps
and became a Stockbroker at the too young age of 22. I wore a a three piece suit,
smoked cigars, and wore wingtipped shoes. Despite all these concessions to style, I
had a full beard and longish hair, and thus was the whizkid "hippy stockerbroker" to the
conservative office oldtimers. We never got a seat on the hot, sweaty & disgusting IRT
to the city every morning to work. I hung onto a strap for dear life while enjoying the
odors of the poor working slobs next to me. I had my first real job, and enjoyed the
prestige and the title of Financial Planner. In reality I was still the little shit from Coney
Island, this time playing with peoples serious money on the big stage. I was a great
salesman, even so young, but really had little idea of what was going on around me.
Catch Charlie Sheen & Michael Douglas in the film "Wall Street" sometime. It's not too
far from what it was like. Very high pressure to sell, sell, sell, or you're out on your ass.
Back in the Slope, we spent weekends looking for garbage that we could use to
decorate the house. Gene built a big tank and filled it with caustic stripper. We would
dump in a piece of junk from the gutters, and in a few hours out would come a beautiful
piece of antique oak. We demolished walls by hand. Carried 50 lb bags of cement up 3
flights of stairs.... and sometimes took a break eating dozens of White Castle burgers.
We made that dump into a beautiful place. My brother even built a goldfish pond in the
back yard. It was a tiny piece of paradise in the middle of a huge slum. In the coming
years, it became trendy for white couples to start buying up these brownstones in
terrible neighborhoods. They called it gentrification. We lived with wrought iron bars on
our windows, and would hear the blasting Latin beat along with the gunshots in the
night from 5th avenue. We eventually had a mix of great neighbors like nowhere else in
the world. Hippies, lawyers, accountants, musicians, gays, Jesus freaks (as they were

known back then), black, white, Puerto Rican, Haitian, everyone got along like family
on that block. Heck we even had a lesbian couple next door! We had a block
association, produce co-op, block parties, and weekend cookouts in the back yards.
When there was a room to be painted, or a roof to be tarred, or a floor to be put down....
without asking there were always neighbors to pitch in and help. We all had tons of
house plants, cats, great record players, and alternate side of the street parking. Our
Brie was runny, and we had wine with every meal. We hung out at the Aquarius coffee
house, or Snooky's Pub. We bought fancy teas and coffees, and ate Hagen Daas ice
cream. We had dinner at least twice a week on Atlantic Ave, or over the Manhattan
bridge in China Town, where our picture was on the wall as if we were celebrities. We
smoked pot by the car load. Seems like it was 24 hours a day.... but marajuana was
good then, wasn't it? God knows we must have had at least 4 different types of Bongs!
Many an evening was spent incessantly chatting about what the Beatles were really
saying, or lying on the floor listening to the same Allman Brothers album skipping over
and over again, too stoned to get up and advance the needle.
I learned the real lessons of life being the youngest in that crowd. We discussed
politics, sex, and what it really means to be a hip New Yorker! I watched all the older
married couples relate. Gene & Joan were the perfect couple, and my mentors. So
complex with just the right touch of intellectualism and real world flaws to deal with. I
wanted to be just like them. For the first time in my life I had terrific role models. I
learned to grow emotionally, and from my brother to not be afraid to try anything, if it
made you a better person. I eventually shed the immature and macho Coney Island kid,
and became a semi-cultured, semi-adult craving self improvement at any cost.
Then I watched helplessly as just about everyone on the block, including by

brother and Linda & I, split up after reading a book called Open Marriage. "I don't know
what I want, but I need to go out and find it", she told me in a moment of crystal clear
obtusity. I was absolutely and totally crushed yet again by the woman in my life. She
got her own apartment near Prospect Park, and we saw each other off and on for awhile
until it finally died out. The stockbrokering also went south with the awful market of the
early 70's. Gene was a Wall Street bigshot, rising to the top of the food chain during the
ate 60's bull market, but was now reduced to being unemployed and directionless. He
was forced to sell the house and split the money with his soon to be ex. He moved
upstate to start a hippie like commune and make stained glass lamps. I too discovered
the joys of collecting unemployment checks shortly thereafter, and took up the guitar,
where I met the future Mrs. Perfect. I played with Paul & Eddie Simon and learned from
that whole crew including Danny Kalb, David Bromberg, Eric Weiss and Dave Van
Ronk. I then did lots of concert photography, mostly to get free tickets and hangout
backstage. Someday I'll post those pictures. Sorry but most of those exciting days
backstage with Ron Delsner & Scott Muni & Dion & the Eagles, have been permanently
removed chemically from my memory. When that middle 70's thing died out, the
biological clock made us move to Long Beach Long Island, to have babies in the

suburbs. It's amazing how much Long Beach looked like Coney Island. I really wish
those Slope days went on forever, but I guess we all have to grow up and move on.

( the future Mrs. Sinrod...... what did she see in me?)

The Weed Years or.... the years

we forgot;
This is going back to an era when it was illegal to do anything but drink. The
establishment wore black shoes and had short hair. We needed something for
ourselves and it was Marajuana, and it was good. One of the reasons it was so good
was because our parents said it was bad. We bought it in Central Park for $1 a joint.
Come to think of it can you imagine buying anything today from a stranger on a street
corner that you put in your mouth? It was an era of trust, even with your local drug
dealer. When we needed quantity, we would sneek up to a 3rd floor walkup in SOHO at
3am, and sample serious stuff from a guy selling exotic weed by the pound. He would
have bins full of all kinds of stuff, and many bodies lying around on the floor in various
states of waking sleep. It was between $20 and $60 an ounce for the expensive
Hawaiian, the rest was much cheaper. Did anybody really know the difference? We had
trust.
We took turns having big weekend parties. Chips, pretzels, wine, cheese, whatever
was put out was quickly gobbled up. We sat around in circles and passed joints around.
From mouth to mouth. My kids won't even drink out of their brothers glass! We had all
kinds of crazy homemade bongs going as well. We thought it made everything better.
Food, (how could you go out to eat without it?). Sex. The movies. Music. The topic of

discussion was always the same. Highness. Are you high? Boy..... am I high! How high
are you?.... Wow...... I....... am..... so.... stoned. Are you feeling it? I'm a little buzzed now.
What did you say? Giggle giggle. This went on forever. The record in the background
was sometimes skipping over and over again, but no one heard it, cared, or had any
energy to get up and fix it! Sometimes someone would freakout with what we called pot
paranoia, and it was always because it was "bad weed". In the middle 70's the good
street pot was replaced by cheap chemically laced junk. It was scary, dangerous and
bad for your head, and suddenly it wasn't fun anymore. The politically correct police
had us believing in the worst. Blindness, impotence, brain cancer. Then we had
children, and the weed years were gone for me. I tried growing my own in the suburbs,
but it just wasn't the same. How do you tell your young children about "just say no",
when we said yes? I have chosen to tell my boys the whole truth about what we did. I'll
let you know how it turns out.
Vistors comments
visit Sinrod Stained Glass website
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Kim

My Coney Island

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Coney Island Memories

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/index.html (1 of 9)7/21/08 1:57 AM

A Hot Coney Island Night

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The First Kiss

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/index.html (4 of 9)7/21/08 1:57 AM

"human telephone" chain of command, succeeded where direct contact simply

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/index.html (5 of 9)7/21/08 1:57 AM

A Day In The Life..... 1967

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/index.html (7 of 9)7/21/08 1:57 AM

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Kim and June 1967 Kim and Linda 19

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http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney2.html (3 of 8)7/21/08 1:57 AM

the 2nd best coaster was the Tornado

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney2.html (4 of 8)7/21/08 1:57 AM

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney2.html (5 of 8)7/21/08 1:57 AM

Of Dimes, pennies, and nickels

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http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (1 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

1960 program from the Mermaid Theatre.

The End Of Summer Loves

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My first teenage love, Brenda. at the NY Worlds Fair

Since she lived in Canarsie, I had to take 2 buses to the train

to Manhattan, to catch the 14th St line back to Bklyn

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (4 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

An Ode To Steeplechase and Coney

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (5 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (6 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

the funhouse, where the little clown would terrorize us The

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (7 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

One Less Summer

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (8 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

(posted to AOL 11/00)

next page...... visitors

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney3.html (11 of 11)7/21/08 1:58 AM

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http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (2 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

Lining up for a Saturday/Sunday matineee at the Mermaid. Sometimes 4 movies

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (3 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

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http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (5 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

The End of Steeplechase, Feb

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (6 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

I cannot believe I left some holes unpunched!!!!

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (7 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

Next page.... visitors comments

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney4.html (8 of 8)7/21/08 1:59 AM

The Trip Back

Jones Beach concert 1999

(turn up the volume and read s l o w l y)

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney5.html (2 of 9)7/21/08 2:00 AM

The Park Slope Years; early 1970's

http://www.myconeyislandmemories.com/Coney5.html (3 of 9)7/21/08 2:00 AM

Then I watched helplessly as just about everyone on the block, including by

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