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.
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