“Every Damn Monday night at Basement East: This music, much like the bathroom, reminds me of what a CEO of a Kentucky pumpkin patch would request. Apparently, no fans like when you boo the artists between songs ‘cause they’re clearly not DETROIT #metalasfuck
Islip Terrace, NY
Hello there, everyone. I'm back! I'd like to apologize to my followers, both new and old, for two things: one, for not posting in over 7 months, and two, for only having three photos in this post. My water closet photoshoot was cut short by a barrage of knocks on the bathroom door. Apparently some people get impatient when they need to use the bathroom...lol! The fast, curt, and slightly aggressive nature of this gas station visit serves as a microcosm of its greater locale: Long Island, New York. Known for its sprawling suburbia, comical accents, endless highways, aggressive motorists, and vast beaches, Long Island is as much a complex idosyncracy as it is a caricature of itself. As a founding fixture of all subsequent American suburban imaginaries, Long Island was the blueprint for destructively effective suburban sprawl; an everlasting monument to the twisted legacy of Robert Moses signed with the ink of concrete and eminent domain. The stereotypes of the Island are true (often proudly so) and yet there is so much left to unpack beneath its sublime facade of asphalt and bagel dough.
This Mobil station, situated in the densely populated hamlet of Islip Terrace, has the most opportune of locations. It sits between the famous Sunrise Highway and the Southern State Parkway. The interior of the minimart was shockingly bare, as if the store had been recently emptied. I bought some coffee and exchanged pleasantries with the very friendly cashier. Soon, as I entered the Southern State, the gas station was obscured by trees and houses and I began my journey back to the hills of the Hudson Valley.