counting backwards

Zero

With its new logo and its stark white can, caffeine-free Diet Pepsi is the bleakest of all soft drinks. And lately, I can’t get enough of it.

I’m a reformed, 2-liter-a-day soda drinker (whatever was on sale, but I prefer Coca-Cola). But whatever chemical cocktail is contained within this pristine vessel could hardly be called “soda,” much in the same way Bud Light hardly counts as “beer” (unless it’s summer and you’re at someone else’s barbecue).

Maybe this is the evolution of soft drinks, or more likely, what an alien might approximate real soda should taste like. Still, its saccharine, syrupy fizz has been something of a siren’s song of late.

Three Jolly Pigeons

Drinks at the Three Jolly Pigeons with my sister for my friend’s birthday left me in an agreeable mood. So when my sister suggested I go see New Moon with her on Saturday, it was difficult for me to refuse. Honestly, I really didn’t need that much convincing. I love a spectacle. (spoiler)

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Floater

On Thursday, the bathroom by the main entrance smelled unusually foul as I entered to change into my gym clothes after work. Usually, it is filled with sweetly antiseptic air, even if the fixtures look a bit dingy from heavy use.

I opened the first stall, where I usually change for the gym and discovered the source of the stink: a human turd lying on the floor. Funny, I thought, since the person who used the toilet was concerned enough about hygiene to place a tissue-paper cover on the seat. I closed the door and changed in the neighboring stall.

These situations make me paranoid. I don’t want to become known as the guy who left his shit on the floor, especially when I wasn’t the guy who’d done it. I made up my mind to tell a custodian, though I wasn’t fond of doing so. How do you tell someone that there’s a lump of feces on the floor and you expect them to take care of it without sounding like an elitist prick?

I could a custodian and approached with trepidation. He must have sensed my dilemma. Before I could speak, he said, “I know about it,” in a tone of voice that could only be spoken in reference to having to pick a lump of someone else’s shit off a bathroom floor. We parted ways.

Friday, I entered the bathroom to change for the gym. The sweetly antiseptic air had returned. I opened the first stall to change and saw that the turd wasn’t gone; instead, it had been moved to the toilet. I got dressed in the neighboring stall.

Crotch Rocket

The 24oz. can of Pabst Blue Ribbon looked so cool and refreshing in the bodega’s refrigerator. It seemed like the perfect movie companion. I brought it to the cashier, and he wrung it up—$2.50. You can’t even get a soda at the theater for that, and soda just doesn’t pack the same punch. As a bonus, he sheathed the can in a snug-fitting brown paper bag. I didn’t even have to ask; though, situated so close to the park, he probably did so out of reflex.

I cracked it open during the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are, which still gives me chills. It makes me wish life was a Sigur Ros video.

As the feature started, I found that my choice of beverage was validated by the characters on screen. Whip It must have received sponsorship money from Pabst, as there were rowdy people hoisting cans of it and/or strategically placed logo bar signs in just about every scene.

I continued taking measured swigs from the wide-mouth can, which I rested on my thighs when I wasn’t pouring its golden contents down my gullet. I don’t normally drink yellow fizzy beers, but I do enjoy a PBR once in a while. It tastes like the sort of beer my dad would let me steal sips from when I was a kid, sitting in the back yard listening to Mets games on the radio. I would imagine that’s the universal appeal.

Taste and nostalgia aside, PBR, like all yellow fizzy beers can really fill a bladder. Halfway through the movie, it felt as if my lower abdomen was swollen with piss. The thing is, I hate to get up during movies, so I held it and kept drinking. As Whip It plodded through its many montages, my urge to urinate grew until it consumed me. Compounding the problem, resting the beer on my lap had caused the condensation from the can to dampen my pants, so much so that, since I needed to piss so bad, I couldn’t tell if it was actually the condensation that made my pants wet, or if I had an “accident.” Of course, I hadn’t, but eventually, the paranoia became almost as bad as the urge to piss.

Whip It ended. Each character had her own credit-sequence montage. I hit the head to relieve myself, excreting what felt like 23 of the can’s 24 oz. Next time I’ll opt for the 12 oz. can, and make good use of the cup holder.

Amazin' Mathematics

If I had a dollar for every time a Mets player hit into a rally-killing double play this year, I might be able to make a dent in my student loans. That way, every routine 6-4-3 wouldn’t feel like such a kick in the balls.