Bent like a reed in the wind
A lousy weekend. Saturday afternoon only earned me a lot of empty pages and a sore back. I didn't realize how sore until we went to the grocery. Every step produced a small vibration in my body. It wasn't painful. Not much it wasn't. Sometimes I could even take a full breath. That was fine, until the pizzas.
St. Louis has its own style of pizza. I recognize it by the paper thin crust, which is when I stop caring what else may be involved. The frozen pizzas (convenient, if not Alton-Brown-approved) in the grocery are mostly thin-crust, but a normal pizza can be found if you look. I had to look quite a bit at the pizzas because some mental deficient had put thin-crust pizzas in front of the good stuff. They had even left the boxes upside-down so that I had to first determine that it was a sauce-covered cracker on display, then guess that something edible may be behind it.
I opened the freezer door to investigate and two pizzas fell off the shelf. Rising crust, but supremes. Olives and shit. Fuck that. I replaced them and knelt to look at the other stock. The two pizzas fell again, knocking my head. Actually scratched me up. I pushed them back into place then roughed up some of the other pizzas before they got any ideas. Then they were revealed: pizzas with three meats atop two fingers of dough. The kind of pizza made from Saehrimnir. I grabbed one and my sanity cracked a little... more.
Some month. Don LaFontaine is dead. Robert Giroux is dead. David Foster Wallace is dead, and I'm not feeling so hot myself.
A lousy weekend. Saturday afternoon only earned me a lot of empty pages and a sore back. I didn't realize how sore until we went to the grocery. Every step produced a small vibration in my body. It wasn't painful. Not much it wasn't. Sometimes I could even take a full breath. That was fine, until the pizzas.
St. Louis has its own style of pizza. I recognize it by the paper thin crust, which is when I stop caring what else may be involved. The frozen pizzas (convenient, if not Alton-Brown-approved) in the grocery are mostly thin-crust, but a normal pizza can be found if you look. I had to look quite a bit at the pizzas because some mental deficient had put thin-crust pizzas in front of the good stuff. They had even left the boxes upside-down so that I had to first determine that it was a sauce-covered cracker on display, then guess that something edible may be behind it.
I opened the freezer door to investigate and two pizzas fell off the shelf. Rising crust, but supremes. Olives and shit. Fuck that. I replaced them and knelt to look at the other stock. The two pizzas fell again, knocking my head. Actually scratched me up. I pushed them back into place then roughed up some of the other pizzas before they got any ideas. Then they were revealed: pizzas with three meats atop two fingers of dough. The kind of pizza made from Saehrimnir. I grabbed one and my sanity cracked a little... more.
Some month. Don LaFontaine is dead. Robert Giroux is dead. David Foster Wallace is dead, and I'm not feeling so hot myself.
