Wendy Korwin     A Tale of Two Smoothies New York City is better than Charlottesville for four reasons. One of them is falafel. Another is smoothies. Smoothies suck ass in Charlottesville. For four dollars, I get a trip to The Corner, a kava-kava shot in the ass, and a glassful of fruits that were never meant to be in the same cup. The line isn't long but it still takes 15 minutes. The cashier hands back my change with a smile that assures me that all four cents I'm getting are sorry that they couldn't stay with her too. I feel clean. I feel healthy. I feel Lilith Fair. I feel like I'm gonna overdose on herbal goodwill. I walk outside wishing I smoked crack. Instead I go to Subway. Meatballs. In the City, it all works differently. I start at the subway. I get out at some station at some place on some road where some guy almost runs me over while I cross since after all that planning, I've still taken the wrong exit. I'm crossing the road because somewhere in the distance, I see a Smoothie King. There are all sorts of great things at Smoothie King. Each store has three walls stocked with vitamins, weight gainers, and meal replacement bars and a turny stand of magazines with strong people on the cover. This one has a white-tile interior and loud hoopdee music bouncing off the walls and out the door, where a pathetic, uniformed teenager is standing with a tray full of free samples. The menu makes no sense, but I read it over anyway. At Smoothie King, you can get 40 oz. smoothies. I dare myself to order a 40 but can't quite do it. The cashier doesn't smile or look like he really likes fruit. I walk outside because unlike in Charlottesville, there's stuff to do outside in the City. I look down at my smoothie. Its cup isn't made of flimsy plastic but instead a half-inch of styrofoam. I punch a straw through the thick plastic top that's helmeting my spacecup and throw the wrapper in the vague direction of a trash can. I admire the packaging some more. In some ways I envy my smoothie, safe in its styrobunker while I walk around exposed to angry taxi drivers and pigeons. Styrofoam seems like a good thing. I take another happy sip of smoothie knowing that my cup is one step closer to becoming its weight in landfill. The thing about the smoothies from Smoothie King is that they don't taste good. They taste like shit. That's not the point. The point is, New York City smoothies are better than Charlottesville smoothies in every way that New York City is better than Charlottesville. They're rude, grimy, lumpy, and willing to kill the planet for the sake of being cool. Their names aren't "Pineapple Pizzazz" or "Raspberry Rumba" but instead "Power Punch," "Muscle Punch," and "Super Power Punch Plus." No attempt is made to cover up the fact that you're too lazy to get some real food so you'll pay four dollars for a cup of an unknown pseudoliquid. New York smoothies are all about admitting that food sucks and you do too. I get back on the subway and head to the Penn Station Krispy Kreme. The other two things that make New York City better than Charlottesville are Long Island and Hoboken.

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