Jones Beach

Self-Employed Working Musician

One of the greatest things about being a self-employed working musician is that you have a lot of spare time. It's the old cliche--you're broke, but you're happy. Today I took a trip with two of my favorite fellow self-employed working musicians Daniel and Sueyoung out to Jones Beach.

Daniel and I had ridden our bikes out to Coney Island last week. So I was vaguely expecting more of the same bizarre beach flavor. But Jones Beach is a totally different vibe. You pay about $10 to take your car in. And you're going to want to bring your own booze--a Bud Light is $5.75 at the concession stand.

As we set out for the beach, I was immediately struck by the number of trash cans. Jones Beach was put together in the 1920s. I think it was a public works project. The beach is manmade--workers dredged up sand from the sea bottom and raised the island from 2.ft above sea level to 12 ft. Apparently after they got done doing this they had them start building trash cans. You'd have to be a real asshole to littler at Jones Beach. There's a trash can within 10 feet of you at all times.

The Waves

I'm used to Texas beaches. In Galveston, the waves of languid brown water lap plaintively at your feet. Or slap you playfully on the shoulders. Texas waves in no way prepared for what I encountered today.

It may have been partly luck, but the waves a Jones Beach today were totally righteous. Within the first 10 minutes I was utterly exhausted. These waves demanded my full respect and concentration. In a moment of hubris I tried to harness a huge breaker. It promptly knocked me head over ass. As I'm tumbling in the undertow I feel my arm catch underneath me. The wave continues pulling my shoulder forward. I hear the click of my shoulder getting stretched one notch too far in its socket. Luckily I had warmed up with some yoga this morning. Otherwise I might be looking at a dislocated shoulder. It did hurt like the dickens, though.

I then walked down the beach singing to distract myself from the pain in my arm. The waves taught me a lesson today--I'm too damn old to be doing that type of shit. Especially because I'm a self-employed musician and I don't have health insurance. I walked down to the West Bath House and contemplated my own mortality. Nature is amazing and powerful and she must be respected and appreciated.

Solitude and Space

At this point we made a run into town and grabbed some liquid pain relievers. Upon our return things started feeling very magical. We wandered off down the beach--walked in for probably 20 minutes and found an empty stretch. The closest person was probably 50 yards from us. And then she left. Suddenly we had about half and mile of beautiful beach all to ourselves. We experimented with shouting obscenities. No one complained.

Rule #1 of Bed-Stuy: Get the hell out of Bed-Stuy.

Seriously, this neighborhood is great--rich in history and culture. But only if you can escape every now and again. I feel like that's true of New York City in general. Going into the city is a lot like going into the direct sunlight. You need to take precautions or it can be incredibly over-stimulating. Most of the people who live here have built little train-shields for themselves--an iPod and a pair of sunglasses works pretty well.

As an artist and a writer this kind of goes against everything I've ever been taught. I'm supposed to be observant. I want to take it all in--pure seeing and so forth. But there's simply too much information. Sometimes your brain gets sunburned. Sometimes I need to get out of the city altogether. That's when I start jonesin' for the Jones.