Pizza is so casual, so trite, so "been-there-done-that." It takes one really freaking amazing pizza to really stand out in your memory of a life-long pizza consumption. I think that is because there is really nothing to it. A little dough, a little sauce, throw some cheese on top, maybe a little meat and veggies, and there you go. Not brain surgery. Therefore in order for someone to say, "Wow, that pizza is REALLY good," the pizza has to actually be REALLY good. Down below you will find a list of pizzas that I can remember as being noteworthy. They stood out for some reason or another. They were remarkable enough to rise out of the metaphorical dough of 'just-averageness,' to stand out as something truly worth writing home about. I decided to also include in my list pizzas that were so horrifically disgusting as well. For certainly those stand out too.
1. Papa Johns. True, it is fast food pizza, but good grief. Amazing.
2. NY Pizza in Norman, OK. Thin crust, greasy, NY style pizza. Can't explain it. But some Italian in the middle of Oklahoma can cook some amazing pizza.
3. The 'seafood pizza' I had with Russ in Cordoba while we were touring Spain. This stands out due to its inclusion in the horrifically disgusting department.
4. Mellow Mushroom. Love that crust. What in the world is it?
5. Bagel Bites. I grew up heating up those frozen minature bagels with the little cubes of pepperoni on top. And my mouth still waters thinking about them.
6. Square pizza lunch day in the cafeteria. Nothing like pizza, corn, a little individual carton of milk, and a Star Crunch for lunch.
7. Coach's Bar-B-Q Chicken Pizza in Norman, OK. Again...I don't know what is going on in Norman with their pizza. But this pie will melt your soul.
That is all that I can think of for truly remarkable pizza, both good and bad. What stands out to you as remarkable pizza?
Monday, January 29, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Big Foot has Big Feet
I normally hate shopping at the local grocer's, but not today, thanks to the friendly folks at Weekly World News. These are the professional journalists that publish those black and white tabloids that you look at in the check out aisle. Don't pretend like you don't read the headlines. I know you do. If you happened to catch the latest edition, you would know that Big Foot has recently gone on a diet. And it was quite successful.
On the left half of the front page was a bloated, dejected, and obese Big Foot. He was holding his ballooned, hairy stomach with a pitiful look of disappointment across his bearded face. It read: BEFORE 800 lbs. On the opposite side of the page was a much slimmer, much more enthusiastic Big Foot. He was showing off his trimmed midsection with his hands on his hips and he was smiling wide for the camera. It read: AFTER 650 lbs. In a large, bold font, the text ripping across the top was: "Big Foot Diet! He loses 150 lbs!" (and here is the kicker...) "It can work for you too!!"
I found this humorous enough to actually lift from its spot on the magazine rack and flip through it (there was only one copy left). I feel like the editors of Weekly World News deserve my time with this headline. I've seen the front pages about Bat Boy, impending apocalypses, and Satan-shaped clouds before, but nothing has demanded my attention like this one. Here they are trying to sell me a diet program by appealing to its success on Big Foot. They deserve nothing less.
My question is - How large do you really have to be to resort to the Big Foot diet? At what point is that even an option for you? When Jenny Craig, Atkins, and South Beach doesn't cut it, is the last option honestly the Big Foot Diet? Certainly, there is something inbetween. I'm curious to know what is even involved with the Big Foot diet. Just what was that mythic monster cutting back on? No more eating of humans? No more wildlife? Tree bark? And how in the world is that going to apply to ordinary folk like you and me.
I should of read the article to find out. My attention was diverted when I opened it up with a different article about a message from the future. Supposedly there will be a ground breaking story on Mars in 2023.
On the left half of the front page was a bloated, dejected, and obese Big Foot. He was holding his ballooned, hairy stomach with a pitiful look of disappointment across his bearded face. It read: BEFORE 800 lbs. On the opposite side of the page was a much slimmer, much more enthusiastic Big Foot. He was showing off his trimmed midsection with his hands on his hips and he was smiling wide for the camera. It read: AFTER 650 lbs. In a large, bold font, the text ripping across the top was: "Big Foot Diet! He loses 150 lbs!" (and here is the kicker...) "It can work for you too!!"
I found this humorous enough to actually lift from its spot on the magazine rack and flip through it (there was only one copy left). I feel like the editors of Weekly World News deserve my time with this headline. I've seen the front pages about Bat Boy, impending apocalypses, and Satan-shaped clouds before, but nothing has demanded my attention like this one. Here they are trying to sell me a diet program by appealing to its success on Big Foot. They deserve nothing less.
My question is - How large do you really have to be to resort to the Big Foot diet? At what point is that even an option for you? When Jenny Craig, Atkins, and South Beach doesn't cut it, is the last option honestly the Big Foot Diet? Certainly, there is something inbetween. I'm curious to know what is even involved with the Big Foot diet. Just what was that mythic monster cutting back on? No more eating of humans? No more wildlife? Tree bark? And how in the world is that going to apply to ordinary folk like you and me.
I should of read the article to find out. My attention was diverted when I opened it up with a different article about a message from the future. Supposedly there will be a ground breaking story on Mars in 2023.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Butter, Chicken, and Middle Fingers
As a 16-year old, my buddy and I invented this game to play with our new-found freedom of driving without parents in the car. We drove around Dallas with the mission of seeing how many people we could get to flick us off. We would keep score and everything. This usually involved interactions with other drivers at stoplights. We would look out the window to the adjacent vehicle and make faces at them. Simple as that. And if the timing was right and the other driver happened to be in a particularly bad mood, we would get the finger. And we would laugh and giggle (and snicker) and keep score. Wow, that was 10 years ago now that I think about it. Sheesh.
I was reminded of this the other day when I was driving around and repenting of my road rage. I got to thinking what it might be like to try and revive the old game. Here I am, a 26 year old "adult," married, attending grad school, and all that and driving around, intentionally trying to get people upset with me enough to communicate with me very bad things through their fingers. Would that be inappropriate? Probably immature. And actually, probably sinful. But man, it would be fun.
Maybe to redeem the game, I could drive around and see how many "thank you" waves I could get. You know, instead of making people angry, I could intentionally try to make them thankful. I'd let in anyone who wanted in my lane. I'd politely swerve out of the way when people cut me off and I'd smile and wave at them to communicate, "Hey, that's ok. I'm not upset about that." Maybe then people would appreciate my driving sacrifices for them. And they'd raise their hand to me to let me know they were grateful. Redemption in action. The same hand raised from 10 years ago, only with all five fingers in the air.
I was reminded of this the other day when I was driving around and repenting of my road rage. I got to thinking what it might be like to try and revive the old game. Here I am, a 26 year old "adult," married, attending grad school, and all that and driving around, intentionally trying to get people upset with me enough to communicate with me very bad things through their fingers. Would that be inappropriate? Probably immature. And actually, probably sinful. But man, it would be fun.
Maybe to redeem the game, I could drive around and see how many "thank you" waves I could get. You know, instead of making people angry, I could intentionally try to make them thankful. I'd let in anyone who wanted in my lane. I'd politely swerve out of the way when people cut me off and I'd smile and wave at them to communicate, "Hey, that's ok. I'm not upset about that." Maybe then people would appreciate my driving sacrifices for them. And they'd raise their hand to me to let me know they were grateful. Redemption in action. The same hand raised from 10 years ago, only with all five fingers in the air.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Ins and Odds
People who are concerned with their language prefer the expression "T.O.ed" to ticked off. Now, whether or not "ticked off" is an expletive is not the reason behind this observation, though I do not think "ticked off" is vulgar in any possible way - rendering the Wal-Mart style, edited version of T.O.ed moot. The point that I want to make is that T.O.ed is not a proper correlation to ticked off. If you are going to edit the expression, you should say T.ed O (ticked off). Nobody is "tick offed," therefore nobody should be T.O.ed. And certainly not P.O.ed. They should be P.ed O.
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Horse shoes? Think about this. Why do horses need shoes? Now, I am no equestrian, but I really can't think of any good reason why they would need to nail on those iron-wrought bars onto the bottom of their hooves. Is it to make the horses more comfortable? Do they prefer to walk around on iron rather than grass? Is that what makes the clip-clop sound? I'm not sure, but I can't think of any other animal that we staple or glue on shoes to the bottom of their feet. Why horses? Confused, I am. I wonder if these are the "gift horses" everyone is warning me about.
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Kathryn loves chocolate. Occasionally, for whatever reason, I call her a chocoholic. Then I got to thinking about it. People add on the suffix "oholic" to just about anything to make their point that the person is doing x in excess. The famous one is "workoholic." But this makes no sense. It is all derived from alcoholic, where the actual word "alcohol" has "ohol" in the root word. Now, bear with me here. Think of it like this. Alcoholic = Alcohol + ic. The think that makes someone who drinks alcohol abusive is adding the "ic" on the end, not the "oholic." For some reason, half of the alcohol word got carried over into all these other words when we add "oholic" on the end. So a "workaholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol at work (or, I guess, someone who abuses work while drinking alcohol). A "chocoholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol with chocolate (or someone who abuses chocolate while drinking alcohol). So I guess the proper way to call Kathryn what I really wanted to call her is chocolateic. And all you hard workers out there, don't be demeaned in letting people call you workaholics, you are simply a workic.
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I saw a Chia Pet in the store the other day. Has anyone ever actually owned one of these "pets?" How is this company still in business. Ch-ch-ch-chia!
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Horse shoes? Think about this. Why do horses need shoes? Now, I am no equestrian, but I really can't think of any good reason why they would need to nail on those iron-wrought bars onto the bottom of their hooves. Is it to make the horses more comfortable? Do they prefer to walk around on iron rather than grass? Is that what makes the clip-clop sound? I'm not sure, but I can't think of any other animal that we staple or glue on shoes to the bottom of their feet. Why horses? Confused, I am. I wonder if these are the "gift horses" everyone is warning me about.
---
Kathryn loves chocolate. Occasionally, for whatever reason, I call her a chocoholic. Then I got to thinking about it. People add on the suffix "oholic" to just about anything to make their point that the person is doing x in excess. The famous one is "workoholic." But this makes no sense. It is all derived from alcoholic, where the actual word "alcohol" has "ohol" in the root word. Now, bear with me here. Think of it like this. Alcoholic = Alcohol + ic. The think that makes someone who drinks alcohol abusive is adding the "ic" on the end, not the "oholic." For some reason, half of the alcohol word got carried over into all these other words when we add "oholic" on the end. So a "workaholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol at work (or, I guess, someone who abuses work while drinking alcohol). A "chocoholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol with chocolate (or someone who abuses chocolate while drinking alcohol). So I guess the proper way to call Kathryn what I really wanted to call her is chocolateic. And all you hard workers out there, don't be demeaned in letting people call you workaholics, you are simply a workic.
---
I saw a Chia Pet in the store the other day. Has anyone ever actually owned one of these "pets?" How is this company still in business. Ch-ch-ch-chia!
Friday, January 05, 2007
Donkey Kong: The Key to the Meaning of the Universe
Today I had the pleasure of baby-sitting Caleb, the cutest 4 year old little lad you possibly have ever seen, for the afternoon. His mother is bursting-pregnant and so I volunteered to take him around town for the afternoon. We had a delightful time. First, we dropped by the public library where we combed the shelves looking for books on cars, coyotes, volcanos, and dinosaurs. Then we stopped by the local Dairy Queen and each had a little cup of ice cream. I ate mine. He decided it would be better instead to smear it all over his face, his shirt, and his pants. We walked across the street to a little pizza joint that happened to have one of those old school arcade machines, you know, the ones where you drop in quarters and they let you play for a few turns? It was one of those classic ones - where you could either play Ms. Pacman, Galaga, or Donkey Kong. Caleb gave Ms. Pacman a few runs but inevitably got cornered and subsequently killed by those roaming, neon ghosts (Blinky, Inky, Pinky, and Sue). We stuck around a little bit afterwards to watch the arcade self-run through various levels of Galaga, Donkey Kong, and Ms. Pacman again.
Caleb was fascinated by Donkey Kong. I think it may have changed his life. For the next 20 minutes, we had one of the most stimulating philosophical conversations I may have ever had. He fired questions at me left and right. It was relentless. He was plagued by what I perceived to be a simple plot and his little brain would not stop until he had sufficiently figured it out and what it all means for him, his family, and the universe. Our conversation went something like this:
"Who is that guy at the bottom?" Mario. "Why is he climbing up those ladders?" He is trying to get the Princess back. "Why does he want the Princess back?" Because Donkey Kong has her. "Why does Donkey Kong want the Princess?" I don't know. "Does Donkey Kong want to eat her?" He probably does. "Does he want to eat her for breakfast?" I bet he probably wants to eat her for lunch or dinner instead. "Why is Donkey Kong throwing those barrels?" He's trying to stop Mario from getting the Princess. "Why does Donkey Kong want to try and stop Mario?" I guess Donkey Kong wants the Princess all to himself. "Why is Donkey Kong so bad?" That is a good question. I'm not sure. "Why does Mario have two hammers?" I guess two is better than one, right? "How can he climb up the ladder with two hammers?" (I thought this was the best question he asked) - Wow, I don't know. I guess it would be hard to climb up the ladder while holding a hammer in each of your hands wouldn't it? "Why does Mario want the Princess?" He wants to save her from being eaten by Donkey Kong. "Does Mario want to eat her?" No, he wants to take her to the Candy Cane factory. "Who is that at the bottom?" That's Mario.
And on and on we went. I think our conversation ended with Caleb deducing that Donkey Kong kidnapped a woman of royalty to appease his carnivorous appetite, while a jumping, Italian plumber scaled multiple ladders to retrieve her back and take her to the North Pole where Santa was so that she could take her mind off the traumatic and perilous event. And somehow that made sense to him. Although with all of his inquiry, he failed to ask, what I thought, was the most important question, namely, what does a big, barrel-throwing gorilla have anything remotely to do with a donkey?
Caleb was fascinated by Donkey Kong. I think it may have changed his life. For the next 20 minutes, we had one of the most stimulating philosophical conversations I may have ever had. He fired questions at me left and right. It was relentless. He was plagued by what I perceived to be a simple plot and his little brain would not stop until he had sufficiently figured it out and what it all means for him, his family, and the universe. Our conversation went something like this:
"Who is that guy at the bottom?" Mario. "Why is he climbing up those ladders?" He is trying to get the Princess back. "Why does he want the Princess back?" Because Donkey Kong has her. "Why does Donkey Kong want the Princess?" I don't know. "Does Donkey Kong want to eat her?" He probably does. "Does he want to eat her for breakfast?" I bet he probably wants to eat her for lunch or dinner instead. "Why is Donkey Kong throwing those barrels?" He's trying to stop Mario from getting the Princess. "Why does Donkey Kong want to try and stop Mario?" I guess Donkey Kong wants the Princess all to himself. "Why is Donkey Kong so bad?" That is a good question. I'm not sure. "Why does Mario have two hammers?" I guess two is better than one, right? "How can he climb up the ladder with two hammers?" (I thought this was the best question he asked) - Wow, I don't know. I guess it would be hard to climb up the ladder while holding a hammer in each of your hands wouldn't it? "Why does Mario want the Princess?" He wants to save her from being eaten by Donkey Kong. "Does Mario want to eat her?" No, he wants to take her to the Candy Cane factory. "Who is that at the bottom?" That's Mario.
And on and on we went. I think our conversation ended with Caleb deducing that Donkey Kong kidnapped a woman of royalty to appease his carnivorous appetite, while a jumping, Italian plumber scaled multiple ladders to retrieve her back and take her to the North Pole where Santa was so that she could take her mind off the traumatic and perilous event. And somehow that made sense to him. Although with all of his inquiry, he failed to ask, what I thought, was the most important question, namely, what does a big, barrel-throwing gorilla have anything remotely to do with a donkey?
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