I’d Rather Eat A Gallon Of Blueberries [Friday Thoughts W/ TeeCoZee]
Good Moleman to you. Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It’s what separates us from the animals. Except the weasel. It’s Friday, April 19th, Two Thousand and Nineteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 60˚ & Pantone 11-0608 and somewhere, somebody is waiting for a siren. From a distance, he starts to hear one coming. Or maybe it’s going? Either way, it must be for him. But then again, it kind of sounds like a fire truck. Didn’t he order an ambulance? Did the fire people intercept his call and go rogue, much like Robert De Niro’s plumber terrorist character in Brazil? Are the fire people going to come and douse him with a hose? Or would the hose be filled with sewage, like the hose Robert De Niro used in Brazil? That would make the situation so much worse. Maybe it is actually an ambulance. He doesn’t know the difference between sirens. He tries to remember what an ambulance sounds like, but his mind keeps remembering the Bonkers Police Bike siren that he got as a kid from eating 15 boxes of Corn Pops. What if the cops were coming? What if they took him to jail for crime? He wouldn’t fare too well in Crime Jail. Suddenly, the siren is gone. Come to think of it, he doesn’t even remember why he needed an ambulance in the first place. And me? I had that Bonkers Police Siren, too. I also have some things on my mind.
– After a whole month of being an automobile
owner driver, I’ve already fancied myself to be an expert at parking. That is, unless I have to actually park. Even though the car is compact, I feel like a fat guy on a rush hour 4 train. I keep thinking I’m doing it right, but it’s oh so wrong. I could readjust 10 times and still be 3 feet off the curb. I am not an expert at parking. Let me rephrase that. I am very good at the logistics of parking. I know where to park and when. There’s a bunch of blocks near my house that have houses with driveways. Not only is it less crowded, the inclusion of driveways prevent me from ever having to worry about parallel parking or using anything resembling tact. That is, unless I have to park at any time that’s not 12:45 on a Thursday or Friday. Let me rephrase that. I am good at keeping track of alternate side guidelines. I found a spot last week that doesn’t have to be moved for 3 weeks. This week it was suspended for Holy Thursday, which, sure. Next week it’s suspended for…you guessed it. Another Holy Thursday. This time it’s the orthodox version. I don’t know what I find more improbable: that Christians cannot agree on a single date that changes every year or that there’s Greek Orthodox street sweepers in New York. Considering that they only take up 0.25% of the US population, I’m willing to bet that there aren’t any street sweepers in that category. And more power to them. They should find more holidays to not work on. How about Casimir Pulaski day? Or Solemnity of Ascension? Actually, that one is already a street sweeper holiday. Perfect. Another day where I don’t have to move the car, which I’m kind of good at. That is, unless there’s actual parking involved. Let me rephrase that. I’m really bad at parking.
– I see the same drunk guy on the train every night. He always stands at the door, wobbling. Whenever the train pulls into a station, he dizzily peeks his head out, as if he’s looking for somebody and figuring out if it’s his stop or not. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering where this guy came from. It’s very possible that he’s getting off work, but what kind of job would allow him to get plastered every day? It’s also likely that he had drinks after work, but the consistency is alarming. He is always in the same middle car of the Q train that gets into Canal St at 9:31 PM. Every. Single. Night. Drunk people cannot be that accurate. It makes no sense. In all of my years living here, I’ve never encountered a more fascinating creature. The punctual drunk. His wife may hate him, but at least dinner never gets cold.
– This edition of Ad Nauseous is brought to you by Peapod By Stop & Shop: We may not sell Pea Pods, but we own the domain!
There’s nothing to really criticize here. It’s crisp, clean and makes people want to buy blueberries regardless of the fact that in April, that bountiful fuckton would run you hundreds of dollars plus tip. It’s effective and to the point. On an aesthetic level, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this ad. However, on a personal level, I have a lot of issues with this ad. My overindulgence in blueberries could be considered as a vice. I literally have no limits when it comes to them. I could eat a pint in 48 seconds and still want more. My body is an ever-expanding blueberry depository. Some days I wake up and think to myself, “What? You need some antioxidants? Well buckle the fuck up, because I’m going to the produce market baybeeeeee!”. And then I eat a grotesque amount of blueberries. My only saving grace is that I can’t buy them by the gallons [anymore]. If I was given an infinite amount of blueberries, I would probably die. My stomach would expand to the point that I would explode and turn into a pile of purple goo.
I saw this ad on my way home yesterday and I knew what I needed to do. I dropped Rachel off at home and beelined to the produce market. Usually, I can get 2 pounds for 5 bucks and I had an Andrew Jackson in my pocket ready to be spent. I was a rabid animal, totally willing to eat a container on my way home in order to look better in front of my future ex wife. I plowed through a gaggle of old ladies and tripped over a guy with a broom to get to my…dried cherries? The blueberries were gone. Nowhere to be seen. Alls I could find were Strawberries, but no thanks, I’m not a moron or a pervert. I frantically maneuvered around the crowds and was eventually approached by a security guard. He thought there was a kid missing. I told him that the situation was much more dire. Blueberries are missing! Bleary-eyed, I went to a crappier produce store and bought a tiny 6 ouncer for $4. Just two handfuls worth. It wasn’t even satisfying. It was an insult to my untamable hunger. There’s an emptiness inside that can’t be filled. Damn you, Peapod By Stop & Shop. You ruined my weekend.
– I got heckled for being a Dodger fan the other day. This actually happens often, but this particular person’s arguments caught me off guard. He drilled into me for supporting a franchise that would uproot their original fanbase to move across the country and uproot a thousand Mexican American families to build their stadium. He laid into me thick, calling me a hypocrite with thinly veiled right-wing ideals while remaining in the guise of a leftist. I was blindsided. My only response was to laugh uncontrollably and clap. When he ran out of breath, I asked him who his team was. He proudly stated he was a Yankee fan and walked off into the sunset, feeling very proud of himself. If I had been able to stop laughing at the absurdity of it all, here’s the top 5 rebuttals that I had planned on throwing in his face:
5) The displaced families of Chavez Ravine went on to flourish in Silver Lake, a mere mile away.
4) Despite Walter O’Malley’s misdeeds, proximity and the emergence of Fernando Valenzuela made the Dodgers one of the most revered teams among Mexicans.
3) The “Brooklyn Dodgers” were only a team for 25 years. They’ve been in Los Angeles for 51 years. Get over it.
2) Yankee Stadium is also in a neighborhood where it doesn’t belong. All of that area of the Bronx should be used for public housing. The average resident of The Bronx cannot afford to have good seats at a Yankee game. They should really re-locate to Manhattan or Connecticut. You know, where their “real fans” live.
1) Fuck you, you stupid fucking Yankee fan, why don’t you go jerk it to pictures of trophies you blowhard braggardly fuck!
– Try this trick over the weekend: Go to a sporting event. Remind the fans of some social injustice that somebody in the franchise committed.
Have a judgey weekend, everyone!