I’d Rather Eat Local Cheez Whiz [Friday Thoughts With TeeCoZee]
Noon has already passed us. Make good of it or fate will take you to the blood bank. Or drive you…to the blood drive. It’s Friday, May 30, Two Thousand and Fourteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 73˚ & cloudy and somewhere, somebody is resenting the fact that he rented out the VFW hall for a Memorial Day bash, only to realize that the holiday already came and went. But let’s be honest, 31 days or not, it was a very short month and I have a few things on my mind.
– As soon as I finished up last week’s Thoughts, I discovered that the site had garnered over a thousand hits on the day. I was flabbergasted, thinking that something I actually did was read by the masses or general strangers. 10 seconds later, I realized that out of those thousands, nobody read The Thoughts. But I’m fine with it. It’s lonely at the top. Who wants to be on top? Nobody. That’s why it’s lonely.
– It’s always hard to convince myself to eat ramen. Some days I crave it, but I eat fancy meals instead. On other days, the thought of it makes me want to gag and it’s the only thing to eat in the house. Today, I’m proud to announce that not only do I want ramen, but I will eat it too!
Actually, correct that. I expected to eat it as soon as I finished that statement. I went to the kitchen to discover that I had the wrong burner on the whole time. Now I’m starting to have second thoughts.
Okay, well fuck, my house just filled up with smoke. Turns out I lit the wrong burner…again. This time there was a greasy pan on top of it. Thank god I don’t have a working smoke detector. I really don’t want this ramen. That’s just the kind of day I’m having. My cooking game is about on par with my putting game.
So I started playing Pitch n Putt Golf and by playing, I mean line-driving the ball and praying that it rolls onto the green. It’s actually a good strategy for those that have no skills. And lord knows that I have no skills in anything. In fact, I should start a seminar to teach people how to get away with doing things terribly. It’s not the technique of having a good golf swing, it’s getting the ball to the right location. It’s not the style of writing that’s important, it’s the punchlines. It’s not the way your coordinate your clothes, it’s the originality of how you do so. It’s not the craft that goes into the painting, but the idea behind it. It’s not half-assing your way through life, it’s a way to cope with having no skills in your cache.
-In any event, we played 18 holes at Corona Park this morning, and things did not go according to plan. See, I was used to a really shitty course, where all the grass is dead. I wasn’t prepared for real landscaping [where the rough is actually rough], nor did I expect my previous strategy to falter. Final Score: Zook- +22, Coze- +35. And that, children, is why you don’t gamble on something that you’re not good at.
– I went to a “local” restaurant in Park Slope yesterday, so you already know where this story is going. I don’t remember what it was called, which is good, because now they can’t track this. It confirmed my suspicion that any establishment that deems themselves “local” is so far up its own ass that it can see the future. For starters, calling something local is a cop-out for admitting that you’re cooking with shitty ingredients. The arugula may be soggy, but that’s because it was grown in Red Hook! The water taste funny? That’s because it came from the Gowanus Canal! Why is the milk sour? Well, it’s from a local farm in the Bronx and the cows get really frightened whenever the 4 train goes by! Isn’t that cute?!? Cows!!! In all honesty though, most of their “local” items came from Vermont. VERMONT IS NOT LOCAL! It’s 314 miles away! It’s about as local as a Philly Cheese Steak. No, it’s LESS local than a Philly Cheese Steak. I’m going to eat Buffalo Wings every day from now on. Don’t worry, they’re local. S’all good. In the end, I got a speck sandwich, because it seemed to be the least local item on the menu. Let that be a lesson: an environment may make you nauseous, but as long as prosciutto is present, all can be salvaged.
– Summer Fridays are for dorks.
– The Top 5 Things I Realized Yesterday That I Don’t Miss:
4) Driving big cars
3) Working at Toys R Us
2) The 5th grade
1) The broken glass on the Coney Island beach
– I’m still not sure if my roof ever got fixed [it’s been a dry month, hard to tell]. The whole process of the leaking roof has been long and laborious, considering how unwilling my landlord was to hire professionals. But now, without batting an eye, he hired professionals to fix the brownstone facade of the building. And more power to him, it’s very important for your property to look good on the outside. I guess that’s where the word, “facade”, came from. Because when it’s all said and done, the building will look gorgeous, disguising the fact that the inside is a shithole. I’m thinking about writing a remake of “The Money Pit”. Or some other vehicle starring Tom Hanks. That is, if my computer doesn’t get leaked on.
– We got a sneak preview of the blockbuster hit, Summer, this week. Of all the things I hate about summer, I think the worst is the fact that women stop wearing bras. Get over yourself, ladies, you don’t see me shaving my beard off so my face can be “free and easy”. I’m trying to practice abstinence and I’ve got all the cleavage in my face 24/7. And of course I have a problem in which my eyes always dart to the object in the room that is making the most movement, and well, you know what that means. I miss Winter, when I was able to look people in the eye, or at least in the general facial region. You know what else I hate? Happiness, sunshine and freedom!
– I enjoy vegan ice cream, which makes me feel like a hypocrite. I’ve considered mixing it with prosciutto bits in order to even itself out. It’s not my fault I enjoy the consistency more than the real thing! Right?
– Try this trick over the weekend: Go to the club. Do the Macarena. Get kicked out of the club. Write a scathing Yelp review. Track down an employee. Date that employee. Swiftly break the employee’s heart and wreck his/her car. Do the Macarena. Repeat.
Have a cliche weekend, everyone!