Friday, June 24, 2005
Singing for my supper
I realize that this will make something of a ridiculous post, but a rule is a rule. I've got two slices that have been sitting in my fridge since the night of the last post and it's lunchtime and I've got to eat them. It'd be a crime not to.
But really, what more can I tell you? If you read my last post you know that I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of a pie that Holly & I had ordered from Gino's on Flatbush. Again with the poison pizza, I know. But in truth it wasn't altogether bad.
I finished that post before the pizza man arrived and when he did I went downstairs and took the pie from him. He was a shortish man, probably mid-thirties, of Latin or Central-American descent. The pie (with mushrooms) was $14. I gave the man a $3 tip? Does that seem high to you, dear reader? I'm uncertain about this. For some reason, $2 seems too little, but $3 seems too high. What's a boy to do? The box was quite hot and I commented on this off-handedly, and the man said "Hot pizza is good." I agreed with this bicycle-bound Socrates, with the caveat "but not too hot." It would seem that I am the Plato of the pizza delivery man set.
Holly & I decided, since it was a pleasant evening, to emerge from our cave and take the pizza up onto the roof. I carried plates, the box of pizza, two cloth napkins and put the salt and red pepper shakers in the pockets of my shorts. I was extra careful with the salt, not wanting to incur any bad luck, especially just before eating a pizza. Holly carried up a mostly empty bottle of ginger ale for herself, along with two glasses, one with water in it (for me) and one already with some ginger ale. I also took two paper towels in case the chairs that were on the roof or the table were wet. I arrived to discover that they weren't. I took two more comfortable chairs that were stashed in the hallway just outside of the roof entrance and put them alongside the table that someone had brought up there. "Whoever put this table up here is a genius," Holly commented. Perhaps it was our pizza delivery man.
We were both ravenous, and put away three slices apiece (for those of you doing the math at home, that means that I have two slices remaining in my refridgerator). The pizza was fine, the right temperature, and sitting up on our roof on a cool late spring evening it would have to be pretty bad for me to complain. We talked about the upcoming 4th of July and how in my previous experience this was a lousy place to watch the fireworks as they were generally fired too far uptown (on the East River) or directly behind the tall buildings that would block our view in downtown Brooklyn.
We finished our pizza, returned the chair to their places, put the unused paper towels with them for future rain-water clearance, and went back down to our apartment with our plates and glasses and the two uneaten slices still in the box.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying
This may have to be my fastest blog entry ever. I've got a pizza coming in the mail and I've got to get this thing posted before it gets here. The man on the phone said half an hour but like I believe him.
I had pizza three nights ago. At a place called Pomodoro somewhere near Spring St. It was on the corner of some street or other. I didn't pick it, Holly's friend Kate did. We were on our way to the Living Room to see their friend Paul play and we hadn't really had any proper dinner. I was all turned around by the fact that I'm not used to getting out of the Spring St. Subway station on the 6 on the downtown side, so for some reason I thought we were heading West and that Ben's on Prince, which I tentatively suggested, was behind us. When it was revealed that the pizzeria I would have chosen was behind us and to the North it was struck down. We'd go to whichever pizzeria presented itself. I was all like "I'm going with the flow," but a little voice in my head said "Run! Run for your life!" The little voices in my head tend to get a little carried away.
The pizza was poor. The place looked like it got most of its clientele by catering to tourists or visitors to nearby Little Italy. The dough was marginally uncooked and the cheese was a tad rubbery. The sauce doesn't bear mentioning for better or for worse. I only had once slice. What more is there really to say about that?
As we were walking away—and I'm not sure if I'd realized that we were in fact heading West yet or not—I saw partially obscured graffiti on the wall which I thought was worth noting. It was painted in large spray paint letters (not wide, just tall) "Holy Death Bleeding like a virgin Romeo," which to my recollection is not one of the lines from Allen Ginsberg's "Father Death Blues" though perhaps it should be. Were he still alive I could suggest it to him, though I don't think he'd share my enthusiasm for it, even if I could show him the wall. The line is lacking in rhythm and would not be accompanied well by a small accordion-like instrument.
The thing that got me most about the whole thing was "Romeo" because [fucking A my friend Eric is on the phone now and I haven't spoken to him in a while and every time he calls I'm in the middle of something and have to go. Okay, there he goes.] men don't usually bleed following intercourse (okay, so there's something of a heterosexual bias here, and I'm not into the rough stuff, but that's enough about that [and now Brendan-geez! no more answering the phone--but what if it's the pizza delivery guy and he can't find the house!]. What it made me think of was this whole bit in Night and the City which I'm in the middle of reading right now about how male cats, have all sorts of bristles on their pricks or something, so that sex is actually excruciating for them, though they've just got to have it! I'm not entirely clear why it isn't more painful for the female cats, since what's being described isn't exactly what I'd call a French tickler, but that's what this interlude in the book claims. I'll do some more research (reading only, thanks) and get back to you on this perhaps.
What more can I tell you before I have to get this thing out so I can beat the pizza guy? Later on, after we'd heard Paul play at the Living Room and I was sitting at a table right next to an enormous window which opened out onto the street a group of women engaged in a bachelorette party came in. The bachelorette was given the task of going about the bar and finding a condom which she then had to inflate. This is a picture of her from the back while she inflates the condom, though the condom is not visible.