long beach ramble
Before the Quatro de Julio Jones Beach show my girlfrien and I wandered over to Long Beach to catch some rays, trying to take advantage of the beautiful day, the festive nature of things and utilize our tour run for more than just phish shows.
We roll into Long Beach and after skillfully navigating the parrallel and perpendicular streets that run all the way to the high rises that line the beach proper, we eventually score a choice spot a block and a half away from the boardwalk.
Knowing we might have to cough up from dough in order to bask in mother's nature's bathtub, we sauntered towards the water, and thought we had found stealth way onto the beach, when all of a sudden, a kid (who looked more like a homeless person at first, begging for change) looked up at us and began to speak. (I was certain we were being petitioned by a lost soul for a few spare schillings) But no, this person was the beach monitor, sitting next to a closed kiosk, surveying the passersby, for their beach passes. We offered to pay her via plastic, but she pointed to her kiosk, windows boarded shut, (on the fourth of July, mind you, the busiest day of the year) and she said to go to the next block over, where the boardwalk started and they could help us.
As we meander to the beginning of the boardwalk we assume that Long Beach has tapped into the times, and one of these shack-like kiosks will be able to swipe our plastic bar-code VISAge of currency for admission into the wild great yonder. As we enter the boardwalk, coming to the next Boardwalk-Beach-Kiosk Troll, (think more like Gandolf,"you shall not pass" or some dystopian travesty of the mind) we are reminded again that we needed a beach pass and could not saunter onto the hot and sandy without coughing up like much denaro. The Kiosk-Beach patrol pointed their trollie fingers into the distance, informing us that we might find a plastic bar code releaser of mucho denaro in the near-by hotel.
Acquiescing to, what seemed like, our only course of action, we wander past troll after troll of beach hawking patrolli-ness, each kiosk adorned with reminders that platisco-bar codian, trans monetary swipers are disallowed. We passed a total of fourteen of these, along with spandex wearing roller bladers, muscle beach clad work outers, bikers with attitude, little kids having lost their way, until finally, and I mean sun blazing in the name of holy heat blasted on the fronts of fore heads, devilishly hostile heat- finally...we reach the hotel. I casually assume my position in the twirl-a-tilter door way, move passed the front desk, fear and loathing style, trying not to draw to much attention, and in the back alley section of this supposed four-star establishment of lodging, I waited behind another plastico-bar codian, swipe wanter, (btw, I am referring to a Debit Card) whose swipe into the bar code taker was ill met, and machine reeading the dreaded waiting for authorization, flashing non-calming notations about being out of receipt paper. I tippy-toes away from the soon to be hostile bar codian swiper lady, and out the tilter-twirl door, back into the devils den and looked at my girly girl like, idunno cakes? Whatchawedo now. Cause btw, all my words were melting before they left my mouth and sounded smooshtogetha!
We opted for plan A, there being no plan B; we already traveled the multi kilometered baordwalk of devilish delight, thus we needed to procure a proper working plastico-bar codian, swipe mecahnism, receivr with which to properly acquire our rupies and money-types. Up the many blocks, beach to our back now, towards the boulevard and we make it to destination commerce. A BOA sits across this multi-lanes avenue and I lead the lady friend across the street to the first plastico venue I can find. We swipe our plastico for the entrance to the vestibule where the plastico receiver sits, AC'd and cool, much like how heaven must be, us outside this vestibulean arean, in the devil's carnal pit and stomace acid of sun rays all flung down on us and eating our skin. Well, the plastico swipe just to get near the real bar coder reader-then-dispenser is being rude. Not being one to still give up, I try to enter the other side, and lo and behold, no other door.
So after careful consideration we eventually find ourselves a devil;s hot yard, outside typo-swipo for our bard code and plastic to be swallowed, and we have to stand a good five feet, leaning over this not so existent like counter, as if we were really leaning over a counter, because some baby, probably the lost soul on the boardwalk had changed hisself in front of this year card swiper receiver!?! Many, it stank, and the heat, and suns rays hit us like devilish finger tips ripping off skin and causing for all sorts of discomfort, along with a fee for having to smell this dirty used diaper and because of this typo-plastico-card swiper reader receiver not being of my personal institution, I had to pay even more.
But, now, head strong, pockets full-o-denaro and it being quatro de julio so we spearhead back to the beach and blister sun style as we approach the troll, this time with guns ablaze, and pay off this dirty tramp with our gringo dollars just to burn our souls and our soles and eat sand, and salt and finally burn our bellies in the sun of the long beach in Long Island.
Ironic Twist of Fate:
The following day, post Phish 7/4/2012, we go back to the beach to utilize our $24 beach cards purchased by the beach-pa-trols, and decide to enter from the un-assuming entrance, we attempted to wiley our way past the previous day, well-before we even had our beach passes. I expected to see the Pa-trol sitting on the ground, Kiosk closed, due to it being an off day, not Quatro De Julio, of course, and my eyes light up as we come closer to the kiosk. The doors of the kiosk are open, the troll-trols are inside, keeping cool with their Zune machines in their ears, and hipster clothes on. There is a signage of sorts hanging from the now open window of this-here kiosk..."No Paper money accepted!" then a long curcuitous cord extended out of the kiosk and dissappeared into the abyss, and there at the end of the electro-cordian connective tissue of a life line, was a plastico-typo-bar codian swiper. So the first kiosk I went to yesterday, that was closed, had it been open, would have only accepted by plastic-bar code! The same pa-trol, from the prior day, recognizing our daisy faced, visages looked from her pa-trol gear and shrugged. Oh Welly well!
We roll into Long Beach and after skillfully navigating the parrallel and perpendicular streets that run all the way to the high rises that line the beach proper, we eventually score a choice spot a block and a half away from the boardwalk.
Knowing we might have to cough up from dough in order to bask in mother's nature's bathtub, we sauntered towards the water, and thought we had found stealth way onto the beach, when all of a sudden, a kid (who looked more like a homeless person at first, begging for change) looked up at us and began to speak. (I was certain we were being petitioned by a lost soul for a few spare schillings) But no, this person was the beach monitor, sitting next to a closed kiosk, surveying the passersby, for their beach passes. We offered to pay her via plastic, but she pointed to her kiosk, windows boarded shut, (on the fourth of July, mind you, the busiest day of the year) and she said to go to the next block over, where the boardwalk started and they could help us.
As we meander to the beginning of the boardwalk we assume that Long Beach has tapped into the times, and one of these shack-like kiosks will be able to swipe our plastic bar-code VISAge of currency for admission into the wild great yonder. As we enter the boardwalk, coming to the next Boardwalk-Beach-Kiosk Troll, (think more like Gandolf,"you shall not pass" or some dystopian travesty of the mind) we are reminded again that we needed a beach pass and could not saunter onto the hot and sandy without coughing up like much denaro. The Kiosk-Beach patrol pointed their trollie fingers into the distance, informing us that we might find a plastic bar code releaser of mucho denaro in the near-by hotel.
Acquiescing to, what seemed like, our only course of action, we wander past troll after troll of beach hawking patrolli-ness, each kiosk adorned with reminders that platisco-bar codian, trans monetary swipers are disallowed. We passed a total of fourteen of these, along with spandex wearing roller bladers, muscle beach clad work outers, bikers with attitude, little kids having lost their way, until finally, and I mean sun blazing in the name of holy heat blasted on the fronts of fore heads, devilishly hostile heat- finally...we reach the hotel. I casually assume my position in the twirl-a-tilter door way, move passed the front desk, fear and loathing style, trying not to draw to much attention, and in the back alley section of this supposed four-star establishment of lodging, I waited behind another plastico-bar codian, swipe wanter, (btw, I am referring to a Debit Card) whose swipe into the bar code taker was ill met, and machine reeading the dreaded waiting for authorization, flashing non-calming notations about being out of receipt paper. I tippy-toes away from the soon to be hostile bar codian swiper lady, and out the tilter-twirl door, back into the devils den and looked at my girly girl like, idunno cakes? Whatchawedo now. Cause btw, all my words were melting before they left my mouth and sounded smooshtogetha!
We opted for plan A, there being no plan B; we already traveled the multi kilometered baordwalk of devilish delight, thus we needed to procure a proper working plastico-bar codian, swipe mecahnism, receivr with which to properly acquire our rupies and money-types. Up the many blocks, beach to our back now, towards the boulevard and we make it to destination commerce. A BOA sits across this multi-lanes avenue and I lead the lady friend across the street to the first plastico venue I can find. We swipe our plastico for the entrance to the vestibule where the plastico receiver sits, AC'd and cool, much like how heaven must be, us outside this vestibulean arean, in the devil's carnal pit and stomace acid of sun rays all flung down on us and eating our skin. Well, the plastico swipe just to get near the real bar coder reader-then-dispenser is being rude. Not being one to still give up, I try to enter the other side, and lo and behold, no other door.
So after careful consideration we eventually find ourselves a devil;s hot yard, outside typo-swipo for our bard code and plastic to be swallowed, and we have to stand a good five feet, leaning over this not so existent like counter, as if we were really leaning over a counter, because some baby, probably the lost soul on the boardwalk had changed hisself in front of this year card swiper receiver!?! Many, it stank, and the heat, and suns rays hit us like devilish finger tips ripping off skin and causing for all sorts of discomfort, along with a fee for having to smell this dirty used diaper and because of this typo-plastico-card swiper reader receiver not being of my personal institution, I had to pay even more.
But, now, head strong, pockets full-o-denaro and it being quatro de julio so we spearhead back to the beach and blister sun style as we approach the troll, this time with guns ablaze, and pay off this dirty tramp with our gringo dollars just to burn our souls and our soles and eat sand, and salt and finally burn our bellies in the sun of the long beach in Long Island.
Ironic Twist of Fate:
The following day, post Phish 7/4/2012, we go back to the beach to utilize our $24 beach cards purchased by the beach-pa-trols, and decide to enter from the un-assuming entrance, we attempted to wiley our way past the previous day, well-before we even had our beach passes. I expected to see the Pa-trol sitting on the ground, Kiosk closed, due to it being an off day, not Quatro De Julio, of course, and my eyes light up as we come closer to the kiosk. The doors of the kiosk are open, the troll-trols are inside, keeping cool with their Zune machines in their ears, and hipster clothes on. There is a signage of sorts hanging from the now open window of this-here kiosk..."No Paper money accepted!" then a long curcuitous cord extended out of the kiosk and dissappeared into the abyss, and there at the end of the electro-cordian connective tissue of a life line, was a plastico-typo-bar codian swiper. So the first kiosk I went to yesterday, that was closed, had it been open, would have only accepted by plastic-bar code! The same pa-trol, from the prior day, recognizing our daisy faced, visages looked from her pa-trol gear and shrugged. Oh Welly well!
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