While it’s all well and good to maintenance a sign–especially when you’re trying to keep up with the bouge quality of Williamsburg–it’s a horrible thing to trick loyal drunks into believing that their prized margarita-filled Styrofoam cups could become as much of a thing of the past as a Lena Dunham-free Greenpoint.
Not only does a “Food & Drink Museum” conjure images of like old ass moldy epicurean non-delights, it also screams pretension. Can’t you just eat instead of looking at your food and trying to “inspire day-to-day curiosity about what we eat and why.” We eat because we’re fucking hungry, bottom line. Or in some dickless “men’s” case, to find refuge in something that makes us forget we don’t have a dick. Maybe this is why most of the board of trustees for the museum are “men.” But one supposes it’s better than a Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding Museum.
Going on a picnic is already very dubious in the dick department. But adding another couple into the mix only serves to add an extra layer of eunuchness. What self-respecting man really says to himself–on a Sunday of all days–let me get some delicious sundries and cheeses from the Bedford Cheese Shop and take my pretend girlfriend, boyfriend and his pretend girlfriend on a picnic?
Like other 50s pastimes, picnics have an appropriate place in history–that place is not in modern Williamsburg.
Then once you’ve moseyed on down to McCarren Park in your Chubbies, you make an even further spectacle of your dicklessness by spreading out a blanket bombastically with your boyfriend as your pretend girlfriends watch. It’s all just so demeaning. And the use of a cheese knife, well, I needn’t tell you that it’s a strong indicator of dick size. Either use a chef’s knife or none at all.