The Gay Uncle took a (long) subway ride out to Coney Island yesterday because a) it was his boyfriend’s birthday, and that’s what he wanted to do, and b) they’re talking about closing down Astroland again and he wanted to ride on the Cyclone at least one more time before he dies (or simply die riding on the Cyclone). Fortunately, it was a perfect day–sunny, clear, and breezy. Also fortunate was the fact that the copious quantities of pizza and beer that G.U. consumed had little impact on his enjoyment (NOTE: the one-to-one beer-to-slice ratio does not work for the number four.) He strolled the boardwalk. He rode the coaster (twice!) He even went to the Aquarium and saw a mother walrus and her baby (a strange term for a being that was born at 112 lbs). The problem came on the return trip, when a three year old boy boarded the subway with his mother and grandmother and proceeded to SCREAM at the top of his lungs for about eleven stops. He wasn’t in pain. No one was molesting him. He didn’t have to go to the bathroom. He didn’t even seem tired or angry. He was simply screaming. Loud. Very loud. For no reason. And how do you think his mommy and granny reacted? They did NOTHING. Not a stern glance. Not a weak suggestion to please use an inside voice. Not even a hollow threat that if he didn’t stop yelling right now, they would never go to Coney Island/visit Grandma/ride the Q train ever again. Now, the Gay Uncle hasn’t had much luck correcting parents’ behavior on the train, so he kept his big monkey mouth shut. But he had secret fantasies of using some of his patented methodologies on the child: ones that are not in his book, and involve lead weights, wire, duct tape, honey, and fire ants.