In the general case, NYC, meaning Manhattan, is a wild ride.
That’s not because Wall Street is in Manhattan. Hollywood isn’t in Los Angeles, either. If Hollywood isn’t in Manhattan or Los Angeles, and Wall Street is and isn’t in Manhattan, and Manhattan is not Mannahattas, does this mean it was Walt Whitman who was the sixteenth president of the USA, married to Ghislaine Maxwell, and struck down by an assassin’s bullet?
In the specific case, the wild rides were at Coney Island.
That was when Coney Island was outside NYC, or, perhaps, on its margins, its edge, its edginess. Coney Island was a sideshow. A peep hole into a peep show. Were there coneys on Coney Island, any more than on any other of the between 36 and 42 (depending on the tides) islands in the NYC archipelago, if we may call it that.
Coneys are associated with Easter, and the resurrection of Christ. Also, with bunnies– Playboy bunnies. Wild rides are associated with cowboys, and explorer folk such as Christopher “Cross Clutching” Columbus, who also, extending his adventures, studied at Columbia University, of the Ivy Leagues. Aha! The Ivy Leagues and Hollywood have conspired…
Conspired to deliver a wild ride to NYC. Where they love a wild ride. Or, whatever they love, are a big, big market. A target audience. A shimmy shake, on a Nielsen rating shoot out, at superlative corral. Bump the jump on a pump of oil, or a shale deposit, a rape, or sotto voce, or borrowed, or tossed, lambasted.
NYC was and is a hopelessly wild ride. New Yorkers are divided whether they like a wild ride, hopeless or not. Hopeless– or otherwise. The issue should be decidable enough NYC reach a point where no one gets mangled. No one gets thrown in jail for nothing. NYC not be a sausage grinder.
Spam of Human Affection 
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