George C. Tilyou, the man behind Coney Island.
Ole Uncle Elisson’s written lovingly of
It’s an enclave of skuzzy, gritty, seedy wonder like no other place in the world. It’s where the rich, famous and downright bizarre (I think Liza Minnelli meets that criteria, don’t you?) come to hang out with the po’ ass children of the inner city on the grungy, neon-lit sidewalks, littered with the familiar yellow and green Nathan’s Famous Hotdog food and soft drink containers, and Popeye’s Fried Chicken detritus...where the young Williamsburg hipsters knock back doubles of Cuervo next to the seasoned old-timers at Ruby’s Bar & Grill.
Having gone there with a few friends from work for the first time since the season opened, I was there to walk on the beach, eat some ground rats’ entrails that the vendors try to pass off as food (what I don’t know won’t hurt me, right?), go on some rides, and enjoy a few adult beverages.
However, since Elisson hasn’t given us the signal that he’s back from
Lower the thresholds of your delicate sensibilities, dear Readers d’Elisson. I give you Coney’s infamous “Projectile Barf & Doodie Man.”