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February 27, 2010
The little kid in his polar-fleece pullover with the teddy-bear ears sprouting from the hood lounges in his yellow and red plastic tricycle with his Capri Sun like a fat guy in a threadbare T-shirt watching NASCAR while flipping open another Bud. His feet are up, and not on the ground where, if he had even a fraction as much ambition as Fred Flintstone, he'd find he could propel himself along the Amsterdam Avenue sidewalk. But no, this kid just lies back and lets his New Balanced mom push him instead, courtesy of the handle behind his seat. Big shocker.