where have you gone Midre Cummings? on the improbable demise of an american pop icon

Over the last few weeks, our own beloved subalternist (Nathan) and imperial elite (Bryan) have been united in a quest to watch the AFI top 100 movies list before Vadim "It's not on the LIST!" Avshalumov. Early this morning, returning from a night of sleep into Beta induced angst and identity crises (also having something to do with that zany Rat Man, his infantile sexuality, and the improbability of spending 6 weeks of class on the same footnote), I happened upon Nathan and Bryan watching Psycho, which I was informed was Nathan's last film, Bryan having finished earlier that night. Nathan and Bryan promptly claimed victory over electronic mail, thereby violating a little known clause in their bet that notice of victory was to be sent by telegram, or, barring the availability of a Western Union, singing telegram. Vadim, at 7 pm, sent notice via a lovely six-foot blonde who entertained us all with a rendition of Jerusalem before announcing Vadim's victory.

What ensued was no less than a hullabaloo. Vadim, fresh off a peccadillo with Erika Eleniak, bragged to the brotherhood about being the real victor of the contest; Nathan, in typical fashion, claimed Vadim was lying about women, and, in an effort to trump Vadim, cured Lupus.

The claim has not, as of yet, been settled.

While I should side with the subalternist, I have reason to suspect he is lying (really, I have reason to debase him in public; I'm sure he actually won). In his last post, the subalternist signed his blog "Vaslav De Gaulle", misspelling my own nom-de-guerre of Vaclav de Gaulle, invented for Axis and Allies in the grand tradition of Abu Ala, Abu Ammar, and Abu Mazen.

All this aside, the turmoil of the list has interrupted our trek down Broadway. We have not, as of yet, gone to Creative Health for smoothies and ginseng donuts.

Having nothing to do, I have decided to write a dissertation on the great Phillies centerfielder Midre Cummings and his absence from baseball. Or, rather, I have decided to write a dissertation on fan's memory of moderately talented outfielders, and the more interesting idea of obscure, fleeting fame.

To make my argument short, in the long list of AFI watchers, Nathan is Mickey Mantle (because of their shared drinking problem) and Vadim is Pete Rose, being a thief, liar, a communist, and unworthy of entree to the hall of fame.

Best,

Eitan
(Here on referred to as Nickelodeon P Forswyth)

Maps

Nate...They don't love you like I love you...Nate

The calm before the storm

It was a cold, grey night. All were sleeping.
Except for nathan. for he was awake.

-Midnight Cowboy

Realism and Dadaism

Fair comrades,

Refer yourself to http://www.menupages.com/restaurantdetails.asp?neighborhoodid=0&restaurantid=1728, and there you will see that there are no huevos rancheros on the menu, hence my noble overlord cannot be correct. Considre, whose voice do you trust? That of the masses or that of a priggish dadaist buyer of antique desks?


And Giant is the key to David Harrington Caldwell.

Faithfully your,
Vaslav De Galle

The Failure of the Subalternist Position

Although my subaltern friend is good at two things (drinking and pretending to be sober), he is not good at posting updates to this website, or "blogging" in the parlance of our time. The subaltern made one major mistake in his last update; namely, he claimed that the heuvos rancheros came with a rice, a travesty of Elohist proportions. The heuvos rancheros consisted of black beans, a tortilla, and an egg so overfried that the yoke never ran. Which begs the question: if the yoke does not run, is it still an egg? I went to Bryan with my question. "Shut up; I hate you. Nathan's my best friend, and long live Sigma Chi!" his only reply.

The Subaltern voice must be surpessed and Gentleman Powelson had his napkin stolen by the proletariat and tried to blame it on me.

Subaltern realities: Bryan Mochizuki and the Jewish question

The author of the following posts is the true history of the masses. Ignore the faux dogmatic propagandization and the imperialist rhetoric of one Bryan Mochizuki. And dont give any heed to the previous posts, with their elitist contradictions, their supposed populist support, and their equivocating attempts to place itself as a true account of the journey. What you have before you is the history of those huddled masses struggling to breath. In this post are the hopes of every poor, black, gay, Hispanic, Muslim, lesbianized, hermoaphroditic, and anti-Semitic person who ever attempted to eat down Broadway and then return. The revoluion lives on!

With a flourish

Eitan and I on our earlier movement, had spotted La Rosita for evening dining. The menu is linked above. As the hour approaced seven, we approached that infamous PapaCooch, and offered him our hospitality for the evening. He, having no money, and being embroiled in the lightness of his being, declined. Upon further thought, his lesbian urges came to the fore, and we made a foray in force. Passing Deluxe, we narrowly avoided a Bryan Mochizuki look alike, descended past those hallowed halls where the gods had before privileged us to eat, and made our way to La Rosita. Once there, we found that La Rosita was in fact a bar and a restuarant, much to my dismay. Bryan had cornmeal pancakes and rice, Eitan had huevos rancheros and rice, and I had breakfast burritos number one and rice. The food was filling and cheap, but it went down too fast, like a cheap bottle of bourbon. Afterwards, we spoke of Theodor Herzl and the Hives, then returned up Broadway. I vowed to wreak vengeance on Creative Health, for not being a bar, but as I'm of the subaltern vocation, no one noticed. On the way back, Eitan bought a desk, DBB laughed and Jennifer cringed.

Until our next foray,
The subalternist

eczma and the 49 cent cordial

wann those lazy february days, Nate and I, skipping class for some bim-bom-bap (not the name; i don't eat korean), decided to eat at every west side of broadway restaurant in a row, from 114 to 42nd. with crazy rules for double dipping, and shattering definitions of restaurant (we have to eat anywhere there's food suitable for humans), Nathan and I dilly-dallyed through our first block. failing to make it into le monde for at least a week. then, fighting over who was bryan's best friend, we finally made it into le monde and kicked things into high gear.

approaching the restaurants with a gusto reserved for AFI movies or Tarin O'Donell watching, Nate and I breezed through three blocks in 2 days, enjoying our protein bars at Vitamin Shoppe and 49 cent cordials at Rite Aid (which does not carry Nathan's eczma creme).

The first legit food establishment since the blog was the Famous Deli between 108th and 109th. Nate had the fish filet with a side of macaroni salad and I had a tuna melt with a side of slaw. Pros: surprising;y good food, especially the fish filet. Cons: a ten dollar credit card minimum recalling the AppleTree fascists. All in all, a good deli, with awful looking, yet pleasant tasting food, and the first restaurant outside our comfort zone, surprisingly far from the good olde days of ferris booth.