The Philadelphia Pizza Blog part one

Do you love pizza? I sure do. It comprises the main portion of my diet. I eat pizza at least once every day. If you've been reading, you've heard about Pasqually's by now, which is my personal staple. However, in the name of research and the greater good, I have been eating at a multitude of pizza places; let my horizons be expanded, or maybe let them be confirmed.

But before all of that, I'd like to follow up on something I started to talk about last night. This whole deal with poverty. Bummer, right? I view myself as at least moderately impoverished. I'm living right now off an advance made by the financial aid office from two fat federal AND privatized loans which (unless Obama intercedes) I will have to pay back sooner rather than later. You could say I'm living on borrowed time. This inspires in me, when asked for fifty cents or a cigarette when walking to class, getting a coffee, etc. a tinge of annoyance with the person asking me. Sometimes this escalates to more than a tinge as it did the other night. I'd like to say to them, DO I LOOK LIKE I CAN SPARE SOME MONEY RIGHT NOW? in all capitals. Because I don't feel like I can, but is that true?

No way in hell. I can spare lots of money. I wear a fancy watch. I have (semi) nice clothes. I have a Latin dictionary that cost 150 bucks, for christ sake. And these people, they don't have any of these things. They have clothes that are falling apart, a beer (if they're lucky) in one hand, maybe a cane in the other, and a SHIT load of mental disorders. Not only do they not possess this hidden value in cash that I do, but they even represent a deficit with regards to their myriad problems. But if I hold their hand and saw "Aww, thanks for calling me a fucktard, here's a quarter. Go buy yourself some gum," what then am I accomplishing? It's a fat old catch-22 brought on by the business of pity. That's the business they're in: pity. In Prague, Ryan and I (and some others surely) once crossed over the Charles Bridge for some cruisin' and some boozin' around eleven in the morning, walking past a man on his knees with his forehead to the ground and his arms cupped and held out in front of him (that's one hardcore bum, we said); when we crossed it again, probably about seven, eight o'clock at night, the SAME guy was in the SAME position--he hadn't moved an inch-- and we said, wow, he really is a hardcore bum, and old Ryan gave him fifty bucks. Fifty dollars, for sitting in the same spot for nine hours. But the thing is, he wasn't just sitting, he was inspiring pity. We all felt pity for him, poor guy, having to sit there all day just to make some money, so Ryan gave him what he wanted. I wouldn't have done it, but hey, he was one hardcore bum.

The way I see it, I'm not really so poor. Definitely not as poor as I was last year. I have money, it just isn't mine. Maybe I represent the same deficit as them. At least I don't have mushrooms growing from the black mold in the shower any more; now it's cockroaches and house centipedes.

PIZZA BLOG TIME. Over the last couple of weeks, I've eaten at four different pizza places, ordered the same thing at each of them, and put the same spices on each. Three (3) slices of cheese pizza with cracked red pepper, parmesan cheese, and oregano. Here's the sitch:

EVAN'S PIZZA

The first pizza I got. Greek owned restaurant, a family place, Phillys/Eagles/etc. games always on. Block and a half from my house in University City. The people are nice (well, pushy) as you're ordering, and when you sit at the table with your pizza and a one dollar pounder of Rolling Rock, you feel pretty at peace. The games keep you entertained, there's a lot of strange people afoot, the place itself is just slightly warmer and cozier than outside. All things considered, when you first bite into the pizza, you think, "Okay, this is some solid pizza." Then you bite the pizza again, and the taste of the stale sauce starts to hit you. "Oh, this has been under a heat lamp for a little while." Next bite, "Oh, this has been under the heat lamp for an hour or so," then "a couple hours," etc. I one time I did have fresh pizza there, it didn't bother me SO much. Their crust, however, is not prime. It's too hard. Almost hurts the teeth. Anyway, the rating?

--ALL RIGHT PIZZA.

If there's no where else to go, this pizza will do the trick. And good thing, because they're open until two.

GIANFRANCO PIZZA RUSTICA

This place is in Old City, the aforementioned forty blocks I rode on my bike. As you walk around this part of the city, especially if you're like me, you're broke as hell, and you CANNOT spend 25 dollars on an entree of lobster from the City Tavern (no, not even if John Adams had lunch with Ben Franklin there one time after work). The neon orange sign just screams "cheap as fuck!" in the distance. It's a cramped, tiny place, however-- it's cheap for a reason, mostly just a countertop and a few tables (intimate? maybe)-- and you have to watch Mexican Idol or whatever while you wait quite a long time for your slices. But shit, man, these slices are HUGE. About twice as big as a single Evan's slice; I'm legitimately sure I'll only need two, so I only order two. You know the thing about this, too? These slices have to be even older and staler than Evan's. Not only that, but after going back to get a third slice (I'm a hungry dude), I'm even less full. Does it make real sense? Probably not. Useful note that they are also the most expensive slices on this list: $2.50 a piece.

--SHITTY FUCKIN' PIZZA.

Totally not worth it. Spend your two fifty on a beer at whatever the "FREEwittycommentsBEERfromaroundtheworld" bar is down the street.

BEST HOUSE PIZZA

Weird name. Having only seen it in passing until today, I recalled it as "Best Pizza House in Philly," "Best Pizzaria Joint," pretty much all of the "Best [Anything]" combinations you can think of. But Best House? Who knows. Their cheese pizza happens to be french bread-- all the better, so I can be EVEN more full before I have to translate Caesar and waste my life away. They're still into saving Haiti, too, for some reason, so before I even get the slices I'm kind of turned off by all the sad little Haitans I have to look at, telling me "every penny counts!" with a penny taped to the board next to them (does this penny count?). Finally the pizza is reheated. I go through the same rituals: sprinkling it with the spices, setting up my table arrangement, waiting for Chris (my roommate) to get his slices, so I don't finish TOO much earlier than him; and then I take a bite. Well damn, this pizza isn't too bad. Gives a bit of heartburn, from the frenchiness, but the taste is all there. The cheese and sauce actually taste good, which is tough when getting pizza by the slice. And to top it off, I'm actually full after the three slices. Oh, and besides the Haitians, there is a Turner Classic Western on the TV, so the entertainment is there.

--SOLID PIZZA, AWKWARD ATMOSPHERE.

Did I mention that the place was twenty degrees hotter than outside?

PASQUALLY'S

Okay, so you know my feelings on this place coming in. They have my brand of cigarettes, they have the cheapest beer, and the staff remembered who I was after the first few times I came in. This place, like all the rest, has been around since the 40s or something, so there's sort of a tradition to be upheld. The first thing Pasqually's does right: they don't have the slices sitting on display for you to see how old they are. Rather, they have a menu actually listing all the options for slices, and they bring it out from the back to your table. Yeah, there are times when the slices are old, but even then, damn. Without the spices, it's a bit bland, but it's legitimate New York style slices-- the kind you need to fold in half to eat at all because of the thin, soft crust-- and the grease is just delicious. These are probably the worst slices for you, but they're easily the most delicious. Only gripe: not quite as filling as some of the others. But overall?

--DAMN GOOD PIZZA.

Besides all the crazies, which they have a pretty good handle on, they even keep the TV on the SyFy channel so you can watch Sharktopus while you eat.

All this to say, even Gianfranco Pizza Rustica is better than MARTINI'S of Kalamazoo. Fuck that place.

Oreos wrapped in bacon and deep-fried

Sounds pretty good, doesn't it? I'm still a vegetarian.

I've come to the cruel reality that I need to work for at least three hours every single day on my fuckin' classes. I don't know if I've told you this before, but it blows. At the end of those few hours I'm so burned out there isn't much else I feel able to do, besides watch the John Adams miniseries, or maybe that shitty quantum physics documentary "Down the Rabbit Hole." Get real spiritual with it.

Wanna know what rules? Ethiopian food. Just had it for the first time about four days ago, and I've had it twice since then. In case you're unfamiliar, as I was, it's usually just a bunch of lentils mashed together with some sauce, a little side salad, all served on a bed of this phenomenon called injera. What injera ACTUALLY is, I don't know (even though I've read what it is on the menu each time I've been there, thinking "yeah, I'm going to remember this this time around), but it also goes by the name... TEF? TEL? bread. It's essentially a crepe-like deal, really spongy, and huge. They lay this out on a big plate, slop some of their "wop," I think they call it, on top, and give you some extra bread on the side. Spicy as hell, super filling, and guess what? Super vegetarian. Not deep fried or anything. Fuck all that bacon-- as much as I miss it, I'm all right with this.

Last night (at Pasqually's, once again) I ran into the typical "What're you into? UFOs? I'm from Vermont and I've seen them. You're just one of those Everything's Cool tattoo guys, aren't you? Well I'll tell you, everything's not fucking cool, DUDE, you didn't work for it. I worked for it. My brother was in the air force and fucking LOVED cheese. That's what the god damn air force will do to you. Love that fucking cheese. You didn't even work for it," crazy people. It was all right, besides the fact that my body was running feebly on too little sleep and every time she would swoop around to my table (literally SWOOP and come in really close, like a ghost), it would scare the hell out of me. I was just trying to watch Sharktopus on ScyFy but this bitch had to keep asking "Do you care who wins [the Phillies/Mets game]? I don't fuckin' care. We're all losing, " etc. There's a certain state of mind where I can appreciate a person like that-- okay, they're out of their fucking mind, maybe the booze doesn't go so well with their medication, whatever, something to point at and laugh. But SOME of them [crazies] aren't so OBNOXIOUS either. They can take being shot down for a cigarette or some change, but others will grab your arm, tug on it a bit, and call you a liar, or a fucking cheap when you turn them down. And you know what? The only reason that pisses me off is because they're right. I am, in fact, lying when I tell them that I have no cigarettes, or don't smoke, or "only have five bucks for the rest of the week too, man, we're in the same boat." I suppose being so transparent is the real irritant.

Anyway, I'm hella tired-- just rode forty blocks and back on my bike. Turns out, Old City in Philadelphia isn't so bad. Expensive, but all right. Time for some John Adams and then bed.

PS: for all you non-Facebookers, I call this "Layers of meaning: a cosmology for the modern housewife"

at the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards

here i am, standing upon the border of the blogosphere for the first time in years. i've brought a few things along with me for comfort-- you'll notice the angler fish on the right from the xanga days, a familiar username, and a much-loved quote for my first title. i'm no good at titles, it's all going to be downhill from here. BUT since i am not one for pictures, i figure i can keep all of you wonderful people informed with my words in their absence. i am, after all, experiencing so many new things right now living in philadelphia, taking my first graduate courses, etc. so what a better way to organize them than a blog? oh, and it'll keep me writing.

this whole all lowercase letters thing is turning out to be pretty irritating. all right, here's the great transformation:
Wonderful. I mentioned before graduate classes. REALLY, it's only one course, and it's Latin Composition. I get to put phrases such as "He hopes that soon he will attain the highest office, the highest honors; but I, knowing the man, know that he will never obtain them," into Latin! I have eighteen or so of these little babies to do a week in addition to a (long) reading passage, and some other small things. It's lovely coming into class, being as prepared as I ever have been (nb. I never really have been) and getting my ass completely slammed by the graduate students. Do I truly have anything to offer the discussion? Probably not, but as we're talking so much about style, I sure as hell can try. Oh what the hell, I'll post one of my compositions here.


PERPAUCADEREBUSPRAETERITISDICEBATDEREBUSFUTURISAUTEMMAGNASPERABATINTELLEXITVEROCUMMULTISOPTIMISQUEHOMINIBUSSEPUGNAREINHACCAUSADEQUAMAGISTACEREQUAMABILLISDESENTIREPRAEPONERETNEQUEEGONEQUETUUMERRAVISSEPOSSUMUSPUTAREENIMVEROSCIMUSQUIDEMPRUDENTIAMEIUSPROBITATEMVIRTUTEMQUELAUDENDAOMNIA

Looks pretty fuckin' rad, doesn't it? Trust me, you aren't interested in the translation.

This neighborhood in West Philly (indeed University City) has proven itself to be a very interesting place. I was getting some pizza and cigarettes from Pasqually's the other day-- a daily venture I make either for food, cigarettes, or beer-- and three drunk old men were outside the front laughing and carrying on. Naturally I lit a cigarette and stood awkwardly near them until one addressed me. This man said he'd lived here since he was seven or eight years old (when this area wasn't as nice as it is now) and ever since he was that young he's loved these few blocks. How it must have been easy for me to make friends right away, because everyone's so damn friendly. That whether black, hispanic, Muslim, Christian, or Atheist, everybody, seeing everybody else going to the same shit as them, just loves one another here. Sounds pretty utopian, right? One of the men had a doctorate from Berkeley, the other two... well, were drunk.

On the other hand, the second night I was here I had a rock thrown at me by a eight year old black boy after I refused to "give him all of my food."

That however has been my only negative experience. And it wasn't even negative, per say, because it was so god damn hilarious. There's a cafe I like a lot around the corner from my house, Cafe Clave, where they have live salsa music on Friday nights. I'll tell you what, that's a hotbed for 35 year old women who want to get dolled up and "just dance. Fuck everything, I just want to dance." Good music, though. And good coffee. No Fourth Roast, but delicious enough.

Anyhow, good day.