THE PARABLE OF THE BLUEBERRIES

the produce department of your local grocery store is chock full of gay lifestyle metaphors, something i recognized long before a recent episode of Queer As Folk, the Showtime series that leaves no cliche unfilmed (Brian and another guy silently but successfully cruised one another by each grabbing zuchinnis that kept escalating in size) . . . many years ago, i purchased a pint of the plumpest, bluest blueberries u ever have seen at Fairway, the famous discount market on Manhattan's Upper West Side . . . they transformed my bowl of cereal into something worthy of Martha Stewart's Living, blueberries almost the size of grape tomatoes bobbing on top of the whole milk (like i said, years ago) among the flakes of Special K that quickly grew soggy during my rapturous contemplation . . . but when i lifted these perfect little crown-festooned globes to my mouth in a spoon, practically delirious with anticipation, i discovered they were absolutely tasteless . . . not long afterward, i bought another pint . . . if not for their color, these blueberries might have been mistaken for currants, so small were they . . . they stimulated no mouth-watering anticipation, they merely filled my desire for seasonal fruit and quickly sank to the bottom of the bowl . . . do i have to tell u that my unsuspecting taste buds exploded with pleasure? . . . these tiny berries reminded me of the skinny guy, usually from the East Village, who u don't pay much attention to when he's surrounded by Chelsea Boys with bubble butts and worked-out pecs thrust so far forward in their tight t-shirts that they look like Vargas girls in sweaters . . . but get him in bed and discover that the meat closest to the bone is the sweetest.