The Coney Island Mermaid Parade is the sweet and freaky collision of drag, burlesque, special effects and little girls’ birthday parties. It’s a cavalcade of glitter, grease-paint and family-friendly toplessness, a celebration of summer and fun and art sweeter and trippier than Spongebob Squarepants singing for a Flaming Lips session at a gay pride parade.

The loudspeaker in the parade staging area said it best:

If you are the parent of a small child, you should know that there may be exposed body parts that could damage your children. If anyone walks by with those body parts exposed, please make sure to cover your children’s eyes.

Words can’t say what the pictures can — here’s a collection of photos David and I took at the 2008 Mermaid Parade this Saturday:

More after the jump:

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I posted something last night about the worst haircut I’ve ever seen, complete with a cute little drawing to illustrate it. At about 6 pm, both BoingBoing and Gawker linked to it, increasing my traffic tenfold.

“Oh look,” I thought. “Everyone thinks I’m witty, brilliant and wonderful. It must be true if the Internet says so!”

Then I left work and got on the subway — and saw the owner of said haircut. I felt really, really bad. On the one hand, this guy was obviously seeking attention with his ‘do, and now he’s gotten it. But then again, taking cheap shots at strangers kind of sucks, I think, even if it does pay off in the dizzying sweet nectar of Internet attention.

When I got home, I saw this comment, which really made me think:

Style is a product of Risk Taking… & those of you who laugh @ people who take risks are simply too scared to be true inventors…

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Gawker ran a pretty spectacular post today, purportedly cribbed from a Craigslist post that’s since been deleted. It’s by a woman who makes gold-digging look ambitious and blue-collar. She’s not digging for gold so much as trying to find a man who will take the earth-sized diamond at Jupiter’s core and set it in a ring.

Then top himself somehow when he proposes.

Here’s the post itself, a choice excerpt below:

Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy. I’m not from New York. I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 – 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won’t get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

It gets better. Go on, treat yourselves. The post reads real to me — either by a real life poisonous white dragon who’s looking to line her nest with more gold, or by a real life comedic genius who was hoping his/her inbox would explode with outraged responses.

The best response of all, though, is in the comments section. It takes the out-of-control DeLorean that is this vicious bitch’s ambition and hits it with a lightning bolt just in the nick of time:

It’s a closely guarded secret, but the vast majority of investment bankers have the same sexual fetish: they like to shit on their partner’s face. It has something to do with their ability to understand quanitative analysis. Left brain right brain stuff. Very spreadsheety. So anyway, all the wives of Goldman Sachs managing directors, they’ve had to accept that that’s part of the trade-off for the lifestyle. Ask any dry cleaner on the UES or Tribeca. Shit stained 500 count sheets are the norm. As soon as you start demonstrating a willingness for that kind of play, they’ll be knocking down your door.

This is why I eat the Internet.

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