Kokomo

I realize that it seems rather odd that I'm living in the second largest metropolis in the world, and yet I keep finding myself near the ocean or in the wilderness or at a tourist trap for old people. Call it the "grass is always greener" syndrome or balance perhaps.

However, there was nothing balanced, okay, "greener," or even authentically green about the Water Taxi Beach I visited last weekend in Long Island City. 

It was just plain odd. 

To get here from Manhattan, a free yellow pontoon takes patrons across the East River over to LIC, which is the middle ground (and the more affordable, less overly hip home for artists than W'burg) between Queens and Brooklyn. It sounds inviting, if not, at the very least, surreal: a shoreside margarita hangout with view of the NYC skyline. 

But it was rather disappointing. (Note the rainbow plastic palm tree.)

Don't get me wrong, I expected nothing less than the Velveeta-est of cheesiness. And that I got. Guys with popped collars and meatheads with Old English tats across their stomachs. Chicks with chunky highlights and knockoff designer shades. Bad house music. Even a mom in a thong bikini dancing with her kids in the DJ tent. 

I'll even excuse the girls sunbathing between the picnic benches. 

But what I won't excuse is the shoddiness of it all. It looked like a bunch of sand was dumped in an unused parking lot between old industrial buildings (some of which, of course, are being converted to high rise condos named "The Foundry"). The benches were dilapidated and the bar tents were grungy. The only thing that saved my weak $10 well vodka soda (I even had to ask for a lime) was that before pouring in the half shot of booze, the bartender flipped my plastic cup into the air, caught it behind his back and twirled it. Classy moves studied straight from Cocktail. Except I think Tom Cruise worked with glass, not plastic, and didn't wear a basketball jersey.