Here Comes the Nice

Summer weekends have a tricky way of rolling into one, drawn out affair. Or maybe this just occurs in New York, where the fluidity of the city only truly takes effect in the summer months. There’s always some kind of outdoor festival, concert, or rooftop gathering, and you have no other choice but to go with it.

In the couple of weekends, there was the slightly claustrophobic Richard Serra exhibit, the One Night of Fire event, a sprawling assembly of tweaked out urban hippies on the Brooklyn Bridge, an informal rooftop voyeurism festival on the Lower East Side, a French Toast and rhubarb extravaganza in Greenpoint, an art opening in SoHo, a near encounter with food poisoning in Union Square (take note: avoid Zen Palate at all costs), some kind of multimedia thing in Chelsea that my brain is still grappling with, two summer blockbusters, and to-go margs at every opportunity.

Most recently, we all headed to Coney Island for the Siren Festival, which is widely rumored to be the last. Faced with the interminable crowds and bellies full of Nathan’s hot dogs, we decided that the best escape from the mayhem would be to take a spin on the Cyclone. So with the Black Lips playing in the background, we boarded the rickety, 70-year-old wooden roller coaster and held on for dear lives.

Only I was with two couples, so my partner for the ride was a sugary little ten year old girl named Katie. Katie is now my personal hero, because at every turn of impending death, I would catch a glimpse of her, cool as a cucumber, calmly enjoying the ride, whereas I was the exact opposite: tears streaming down my face, screaming at the top of my lungs one long exclamation, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK.”