html xmlns:og='' xmlns:expr=''> Lounging at the Waldorf: Memorial Day


Monday, May 26, 2014

Memorial Day

Even though I moved from California to New York during the Giuliani administration - when smoking was legal and Brooklyn was cheap - there remains a few customs of the East Coast that I just don't get. One of them is Memorial Day. As if some secret signal was sounded, on Memorial Day, all New Yorkers stand up, gather the kids, and, without asking why, go to the beach. It's so weird. Like dark-lipliner-with-light-lipstick weird. Like training-piegeons-as-a-hobby weird. Like drinking-Yoo-hoo weird.

They do not care about the traffic, about angrily inching along the "expressway" for hours to travel a mere 20 miles.

They do not care that the beach is packed, that they are surrounded by so many people that it is no longer the not-as-good-as-the-Pacific-but-it-will-do Atlantic coast but a hot, horizontal, nearly naked, rush hour subway platform.

They do not seem to realize that they could go next weekend when there's less people and the room that you might be renting on Fire Island or Asbury Park is half the price.

This day was set aside to remember all those who have served in the military. Unless it's a day to remember those who served on a beach while eating a hot dog, there is absolutely no correlation between the holiday and the habit. Instead, it's been twisted in the East Coast mind to be the first day of summer. Newsflash: the first day of summer this year is in a month, on June 21st.

Oh, no, they say, it's the first day of "the summer season." The what? Now you're just fabricating.

Also odd, no one has ever - not even once! - invited me to share a beach rental for the holiday. I have no idea why.

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