I have nothing against tomatoes. In fact, they complement my
basic food groups.
They’re tasty on top of a big ol’ juicy hamburger, either as a
slice or sloshed out of the ketchup bottle.
French fries would be downright lonesome and tomato soup would
be downgraded to hot water.
I have nothing against tomatoes. In fact, they complement my basic food groups.
They’re tasty on top of a big ol’ juicy hamburger, either as a slice or sloshed out of the ketchup bottle.
French fries would be downright lonesome and tomato soup would be downgraded to hot water.
Pizza and spaghetti would be rendered unworthy of their lofty status without the sauce.
Even a rare salad needs a hunk to go with the lettuce and – you guessed it – nothing like a spicy Bloody Mary or two to help get settled in for the opening kickoff.
But as a nearby resident of the San Benito Foods cannery in midtown Hollister, I have one polite and professional and passionate plea.
SHADDUPPPP!!!!!
What a racket that thing makes, especially at night – and I’m about eight blocks away. It sounds like a jet warming up, except that it never takes off.
It’s also resembling the steam coming out of my ears.
Here’s why: I pay $900 a month for a clean and comfortable apartment, which doesn’t have air-conditioning. It doesn’t need AC because a cool and refreshing breeze off the Pacific Ocean swooshes in like clockwork every night.
So I can just slide open the window, finish my burger and brew, put on my Michael Jordan pajamas, and lay my head down on the pillow and start dreaming of Jennifer Lopez, hopefully without snoring too loudly and startling the neighbors.
But with the Benito Blastoff roaring from just down yonder on Sally Street, it’s either close the window or stay awake and dream of engineering a loud explosion rather than the much-prefered J-Lo in a bikini.
Now don’t get me wrong about the nightly noisemaker.
I grew up next to a neighborhood called South Chicago, which featured nightly sounds of freight trains, 24-hour buses, the clanging of the steel mills, sirens signaling stab victims and, if you were listening closely, a few pistol shots or shotgun salvos.
But that was growing up as a kid in a big city. I’m older and crabbier now and need my sleep so I can be older and crabbier at the office the next day and get paid for it so I can pay my rent and hopefully be able to open my windows at night.
So here are my solutions:
– Find the volume knob inside the plant and turn the steamer down. OK, it was a great practical joke on Hollister for 88 years. We all have to admit that. Maybe the factory could wear a gigantic lampshade instead.
– Buy some high-tech do-hickey that will lessen the noise. Or find a couple of fat guys to take turns sitting on top of the pipes wearing steamproof shorts. Pay them time-and-a-half even.
– Or maybe the city could take it over and raffle the plant off. If everyone in California bought a ticket for just a buck, it would still pay handsomely for the factory, equipment and land, and enough tomatoes to keep every resident in free salsa for centuries.
If I win the raffle, I promise to turn it into a giant sports bar, with no cheering to exceed the city sound limits unless, of course, the White Sox win the World Series.
Barry Bonds could come down for an exhibition and knock a few baseballs from the roof of “Fitz’s Can-Can Sports Bar” clear over San Benito Street and right through the Free Lance’s front window, which might send up some cheers of its own.
Please. Anything but the Whistling Tomato Torture.
Knock it off before I quit drinking Bloody Mary’s in protest.
I’m warning you. The industry will never recover.
