A Race at the Bottom

Du 2 Luv 4 A Sub, I missed a lot of high school. Good planning on my part – older boyfriend, with a car. He 2 suffered from Luv 4 A Sub.

That boyfriend was exceptional, with good taste and good ideas. He had the wherewithal to go to the auction of J Edgar Hoover’s detritus – what remained after the dissemination of anything of value – and to bid successfully on a large, pig-shaped cookie jar with a graphic USA stamped into its snout. The purchase itself was quite exceptional in my 16-year-old eyes, but the commerce that followed was cunning.

Courteous phone call to Andy Warhol, collector of cookie jars, and an arrangement was brokered. The trade took place in Mr. Warhol NYC apartment. Cookie jar – feel it’s heft – for two large, signed lithographs, Chairman Mao and The Cow – feel their weight. Both hung in a college dorm room. They were large, floor to ceiling, and had impact.

That boyfriend was resourceful, ingenious, creative and adventurous.

We drove to town in his brown Impala, for Italian subs that dripped olive oil and pink vinegar, staining the waxell wrapping. Lunch hour cut into third and fourth periods deeply. A small sacrifice for sub-edification.

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Subs. Chain Subs. Ugh.

At the bottom of the sandwich food chain. The bottom.

Can A Sandwich Be Slandered?
Quite the cat fight between Quizno’s and Subway.

Weighing one on each hand. Quizno’s (feel the weight of air). Subway (feel the weight of helium).

I dunno. You call that a sandwich.

Puffy Bread vs Cottony Bread. Not much of a battle. Pretenders, both.