Killer Pizza from Kobe Bryant’s Butt

(Note: Since I wrote this piece in 2003, I have tried the pizza of KPFM. It’s great. If you should ever find yourselves in Escondido or Oceanside, and you have a pizza jones, get your Earthling behinds over there for some far-out fantastic pizza. The rest of this piece is astoundingly silly. But summer is the time to write and read silly blog posts. If you have a problem with that...go eat some pizza! And you know where, too.)

Image of Kobe from luzer (Flickr) / Image of pizza from nruboc (stock.xchng) / Everything else all me!

A friend and I were in Oceanside, California on Memorial Day weekend, searching for a Baskin-Robbins to help feed an ice cream jones. We found a shopping center anchored with a Stater Brothers, but no B-R. What we did find was Killer Pizza From Mars.

The owners took the Mars theme to the limit. Life-size plastic statues of aliens stood in the window like a department store display: E.T. and Jar-Jar Binks (sorry, Star Wars fans), the big-brained dudes from Mars Attacks, and the Alien alien (now, why would you put that in the window of an establishment that sells food???)

The place was packed. Was the pizza any good? I don’t know. My friend and I had a Klondike bar and an ice cream sandwich, respectively. We were looking for ice cream, not pizza.

But this is one example of the importance of standing out in the business world. If the owners had called their pizza parlor, say, Oceanside Pizza, would I have even bothered to take a picture of the sign? Would we have even thought about going inside, contradicting our hankering for ice cream? I think that those who sprinkle their restaurants with some sci-fi magic, who go the extra mile to entertain the customer, deserve to be rewarded.

If I were to start a pizza parlor, I would take a page from the Killer Pizza From Mars playbook. I would give it a name nobody will ever forget. But I’m going to be a little more realistic. I don’t know of any pizza that ever killed anyone, and I prefer my pizza a bit warmer than -81°F, which is the average temperature on Mars. So I’m going to call my pizza parlor Our Pizza Tastes Better Than Kobe Bryant’s Butt.

Now, I have never tasted Kobe Bryant’s butt. And I don’t ever want to. I don’t even want to be within ten feet of it. Twenty feet, more likely. Actually, let’s make it thirty - give or take. I prefer give.

Why Kobe Bryant? Because he’s a guy all of us recognize. And he’s a guy a lot of us just don’t like. We will probably never know whether or not he raped that girl. But the evidence is clear that he is a grade-A bunghole. Remember that public apology, in which we didn’t hear much apology? The only reason he was “disgusted with [him]self” was because he got caught in a painfully public way.

But where does the butt come in? Let’s do a little exercise. Reach behind yourself, shove your finger into your underpants, scratch the crack of your butt, then sniff that finger. (P.S. Be alone when you do this exercise.) That is what Kobe’s butt most likely smells like. That is not what any pizza coming out of my kitchen will smell like.

I could name my pizza parlor Our Pizza Smells Better Than Bell Peppers, but for some reason unfathomable to me, people actually eat those evil mo-fos. On their pizza!

I will not only have one person taking pictures of my sign. I will have hundreds, every day! It will be like Academy Awards night outside my pizza parlor, 24/7. And those who want to see the sign might, just might, want to step inside, and if they are hungry right now they will sit down, and if they will be hungry later they will pick up a take-home menu so they can order a pizza and mount the box on the wall for the amusement of guests, and if someone has an ice cream jones I will have a cooler filled with Klondike bars and ice cream sandwiches, and I will have a life-size plastic statue of Kobe, in his Laker uniform, with red horns sticking out of his head, reaching down in his shorts and scratching his butt.

(Um, that might be even more gross than the Alien alien.)

The Trouble with Used Books

(Note: I wrote this piece in response to an article in the September 2005 Writer’s Digest, “At What Cost?” by James Grippando. Unfortunately, I could not find a link to the original article, and I don’t have access to my original copy - if, in fact, I still have one. The only action I can suggest if you want to read “At What Cost?” is to order a back issue from Writer’s Digest. You don’t need to read it, though, in order to “get” this post.)

I have not been this worked up over a Writer’s Digest article in years, not since the days when it was heavy on the text and light on the pictures. (This is why I am writing this long past the time I should be in bed.) The new/used book dilemma is one I face off with every week, and it’s as slippery as a puck bouncing just out of reach of a hockey stick. This is an intractably gray issue.

Few are those who have the unlimited funds to buy any book they wish to read new, or the unlimited space to keep every book they buy. People who love books just can’t throw them into the trash when they’re done with them, so we need the used bookstore (or the used book webpage) for the dual boons of purchasing text at a discount and finding a home for books that are ready to move on.

But a used book, unlike Harry S Truman’s buck, does not stop at just one “here”, and this is where the trouble starts according to James Grippando. As a book passes hands along the used-book chain, it ups the numbers of those who will never buy that book new -- and thus never give a cent to the author who wrote those precious words or the publisher who took a chance on them.

Last July, in a fit of summer self-indulgence, I purchased two hardcovers at the same place on the same day: The Interruption of Everything by Terry McMillan and The Undomestic Goddess by Sophie Kinsella. (It didn’t hurt that they were both 20% off at the Barnes and Noble.) Those two books were leisure-time fun - until I was finished reading them, at which point they became clutter. As a dutiful daughter, I called my mom and asked if she wanted to read these books, because she is retired now and her reading budget is even more restricted than mine. She said yes, and I put them in a box headed for Las Vegas - a little annoyed with myself for not adding them to the cash-for-books pile. That was before I read this article.

If I had taken these two as-close-to-new-without-actually-being-new books to the used bookstore, the manager would have accepted them with no hesitation - and with remuneration for me, no doubt. These books are on the bestseller list and would have been out the door seconds after going on the shelf. But then those buyers would never buy the books new - and would then likely resell them online.

Grippando warns that if buyers keep choosing used books over new, “publishers may well be able to publish only those authors who can make the bulk of their advance in the first few weeks of hardcover publication. That means fewer authors will get published, and in turn, fewer choices for readers.”

Those words grabbed the writer side of myself and shook it fiercely - the hand you bite may someday be your own, it warned. The reader side of myself stared at the tall stack of books I was about to exchange for cash at the used bookstore, slightly relieved that most of them were out of print. (But then I see a copy of David McCullough’s Truman, purchased at a UBS for $6.99 when a new softcover would have been $20. Damn, damn, damn. Perhaps I should buy 1776, while it’s still 30% off, to make up for it.)

Oddly, Grippando made no mention of real-life used bookstores like the one I’ll be going to, nor of public libraries, nor of informal book exchange groups such as Bookcrossing (which is about leaving books in public places for others to pick up and read) - all of which also potentially bite into new book sales.

Should we feel guilty about buying anything at the used bookstore which accepts in-print books for resale, because there we can also find books that are no longer available new? Should we feel like we are stealing something if we check out an in-print book at our public library, the holy temple of readers? If I put a Bookcrossing label on my book Medgar Evers and leave it on a park bench, am I stabbing myself in the back with the flagpole that hoists the banner of reading?

Perhaps used bookstores and online sellers should not sell used hardcover books until six months after their release date (maybe less for paperbacks, and one month for category romances). That would eliminate the dilemma of going to the Amazon page of a certain book I’m looking for and seeing this:

$23.00 list price
$15.64 Amazon price
80 used and new from $3.25

I see the mass-market paperback in the Barnes and Noble today. I think I’ll get that instead.

A holiday is a holiday, not a shoppertunity

Not too long ago, I went to a shopping center to visit a store I shop at regularly. On the way out, I saw this sign.

I had to read it twice, because I couldn’t believe it the first time.

Yes, that’s no typo – this store is going to be open on the Fourth of July from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m., more or less its normal operating hours. Which means that some of its employees are going to miss Fourth of July fireworks this year. Period.

Really? Is retail so desperate that it has to cater to the douche canoe* who just has to have that dream object at 9:30 p.m. on the Fourth of July?

You hope that whoever is working there is getting double time, at least. But they may not. (Double time pay is not a requirement for private businesses.)

Have you noticed that stores which used to be closed altogether on the Fourth of July (and other major holidays) are now open for business, often for most of the day? I remember when the stores were closed and neither we nor the economy suffered much. We just planned ahead and bought what we needed in advance because we knew that we couldn’t go shopping on the holiday.

Is it really that hard to plan ahead, people?

You really don’t want to be shopping on a holiday. Retail employees really don’t want to be working on a holiday. A holiday is just that – a holiday from the rigors of everyday life. Not another occasion to buy more stuff.

So let’s buy today and kick back tomorrow. Send retailers a message that staying open on the Fourth of July isn’t worth the trouble.

What is a summer after all without some lazy days?

* Yes, I know these are not nice words. But they are words that fit someone who thinks, “Goddammit, my dudebros guzzled up four thirty-packs of Coors, so I got to get some more before we sober up.”

What do I think of “Going Down with Janis” now?

I finished re-reading the book Going Down with Janis, thirty-one years after I read it the first time. What do I think now?

Meh. It may be another thirty-one years before I read it again, if at all.

Not because it’s a terrible book – it wasn’t like watching in adulthood the Sid and Marty Krofft shows you loved as a kid. It just felt like a been-there-done-that trip, which is not an optimal reading experience.

When I first read it, it was like anthropology – looking into the lives of exotic creatures, in this case people who use hard drugs. Hanging out with drug users – whether or not you use yourself – is like hopping on board Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Only you don’t end up in Disneyland.

After my first reading of Going Down with Janis, I searched for biographies and autobiographies of drug users – and that story got tired faster than knock-knock jokes. It’s a story with only two endings: death, or recovery into a life with a fraction of the thrills it had before. (Nothing wrong with being drug-free, but it’s more enjoyable to be sober yourself than to read about someone else being sober.)

I’m now into other kinds of stories – not the fanciful lifestyles of the rich and famous, but about people with difficult decisions to make. People who prove the principle that everyday life contains drama enough.

The 1960s did contain beauty, excitement, and a new freedom to take risks. Then and now, they are better experienced with a clear head.

The weird couture of the Disney Princesses

If you give a meandering mouse a cookie, she will accept it, eat it, and be grateful. The end.

If you give a meandering mouse an inch of thought, she will take it and run as far as she can. Not the end.

A thought which has been unspooling in my head lately has to do with “people” who are familiar to most of you reading – Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty as interpreted by Walt Disney’s team of artists.

Many critics decry the main impetus of their stories – happily ever after doesn’t come unless a prince falls in love with you. Many counter-critics insist that these stories are classics to this day because women are hard-wired to desire domestic stability.

I just want to talk about their clothes.

No one in medieval times ever dressed like Snow White. What is with the bare arms and the pumps with the little bows on them? And no head covering?

When contemporary creators make historical worlds, they know their audience is people alive today, not those alive then. If one wrote a historical romance set in the American South before the Civil War, the heroine and hero had better be against slavery – or at least change their minds by the last page – or no mainstream publisher, large or small, will touch the book. This is also why Snow White appears as if she could easily rub shoulders with Andy Hardy in Carvel.

Next is Cinderella (my personal favorite, BTW). What year is this movie set in, anyway? Lady Tremaine (the stepmother, to non-Disney fans) wears mutton-leg sleeves from the first decade of the 20th century, while her daughters Druzilla and Anastasia sport giant trailing bustles from the 1870s.

At home, Cinderella wears a simple dress whose length (or should I say shortness?) would have been considered obscene until the 1920s. When the Fairy Godmother comes around, what have we here?

Have you ever seen anyone wear a dress that looks like this in any time period? (No, seeing Cinderella at any of the Disney parks does not count.)

On to Sleeping Beauty. Although her tale appears to be firmly set in medieval times, the dress she wears in the forest is anachronistically short.

When she gets into princess gear, just like Cinderella she has a fairy-tale-cum-Jetsons motif.

And it’s blue – most of the time.

When Sleeping Beauty reappeared as a founding member of the Disney Princess lineup, her dress is pink. Why? So Cinderella’s dress could be blue – unlike in the movie, where it is white. Or perhaps silver. (FYI, that is one unflattering blue – Cinderella, of all people, deserves much better.)

What does the attire of fictional princesses have to do with the way the world turns? Not much. Still, it’s something I have to think about.

Why? Because the meandering mouse mind moves in mysterious ways – and also dreams of wearing pretty dresses, even if they are out of time. (My prince has already come.)

More good old books to enjoy

The previous post about Going Down with Janis got me thinking about some more oldy-but-goody books that are well worth reading this summer. Here is a list of other books that are at least thirty years old which are well worth a summer read. (Note: the dates are the years of original publication; some of these books were reissued years later. If you look for these books online, search by title and author and pay no attention to the year.)

1. Valley of the Dolls, Jacqueline Susann (1966) – This is not the original potboiler (I think that title goes to Peyton Place), but it stands on the mountaintop (not the valley) of just-for-fun adult reads. (Don’t forget to watch the movie before summer’s end, too!)

2. Hell’s Angels, Hunter S. Thompson (1967) – This is as close to the Hell’s Angels as most of us – the folks with common sense, that is – will want to get.

3. Airport, Arthur Hailey (1968) – This is the kind of book you don’t see any more – human drama blended with education. Read Airport, and you will not only read a meaty story with adultery, hijacking, and lingering guilt, but a behind-the-scenes look at a metropolitan airport (the way it was in 1968). I like this kind of book – I’m currently reading Frank G. Slaughter’s Doctors’ Wives in my bathroom.

4. Coffee, Tea, or Me, Trudy Baker and Rachel Jones (1969) – The heyday of airplane travel, when all of the flight attendants were cute girls and you actually looked forward to getting on that plane. Even the revelations in the 2003 reissue do not subtract from the magic of the narrative. You haven’t lived until you’ve read the list of what men of various nationalities are (supposedly) like.

5. Portnoy’s Complaint, Phillip Roth (1969) – This is considered a literary novel, and it almost doesn’t belong on this list – except for the laugh-out-loud moments such as the discovery of the other use for liver.

6. The World of Star Trek, David Gerrold (1973) – You don’t need to be a Trekker to get something out of this book – namely, greater understanding of what makes a great television show (hint: it’s the writing) and how even this classic could have been better (hint: less danger, more decisions).

7. Judy, Gerold Frank (1975) – This is one of the handful of Garland biographies which does not play a one-note “poor, poor pitiful Judy” song. Seriously, if you want to read a downer this summer, pick George Orwell’s 1984.

8. (The People’s Almanac Presents) The Book of Lists, Irving Wallace, Amy Wallace, David Wallechinksky (1977) – Yes, this book has been reincarnated over the years, but you must read the original, if only to feel like a naughty twelve-year-old again when you see the “Top Ten Sexual Positions” list (“doggie-style”, huh huh huh huh).

9. Hollywood is a Four-Letter Town, Made in Hollywood, James Bacon (1977, 1978) – A tiptoe through the oversaturated garden of delights that was “old” Hollywood, courtesy of an Los Angeles Herald-Examiner columnist (remember that paper?) It’s…well, it’s like TMZ on paper, minus all of those people who you never freaking heard of.

Summer reading; Going Down with Janis

Today is the first day of summer. No matter where you are right now, from lounging next to a pool from plowing through hump day work, please understand the importance of this day. It is the starting line of fun, fun, fun, at least until your daddy takes the T-Bird away.

But what if you don’t have a T-Bird? Don’t worry - your good friends the books will take you places. Yes, you can look to the New York Times and NPR and Oprah to figure out what you should be reading this summer. I have a feeling, though, that you won’t enjoy those books half as much as you will Going Down with Janis by Peggy Caserta (as told to Dan Knapp).

This was my first adult summer book. I’ve got a little story about that.

Imagine the middle of June of 1981. High noon. It is bright outside, as if we were living inside the sun instead of millions of miles away, and sticky hot – the kind of hot that glues clothes and skin together. The kind of hot that commands something cold to drink, and not water but a chilly bottle of Coke. The kind of hot that was welcome on the last day of school.

The public library was right across the street from the bus stop where I got off on the way home. I stepped in and went right to the 780 section (which in the Dewey Decimal System means music), looking for a reward for months of dutiful schoolwork.

One book stood out immediately – a book painted an almost fluorescent green. Today, almost all books in the library have their original covers wrapped in plastic, but in 1981 it was common for older books to be coated in several layers of paint, with the title stamped on the spine.

I opened the book, and the contents were as – how should I put this – as colorful as the green cover. This is the first line of the book, and it has become a classic when it comes to rock biography - heck, biography of any kind.

I was stark naked, stoned out of my mind on heroin, and the girl lying between my legs giving me head was Janis Joplin.

Oooh, I just had to read this. I checked it out, took it home, and got more of the same: more sex, more drugs, more rock, plus nuggets of violence, illegal abortion, portable toilets with pyramids of feces, and Lee Harvey Oswald. In other words, places that fifteen-year-old me wasn’t going to visit in person any time soon. Better yet, it was salted with language as saturated as one of those black-light ready posters advertised in the back pages of rock magazines such as Creem:

But not tonight. The heroin had seen to that. GoodGodMotherfucking Queen Smack. For all we knew, the sheets we were floating on could have been liquid gold. Over in the corner on a table, the light from a cheap plastic lamp had been transformed into a beneficent minor sun, warming our brittle bones and transporting us to some pestless place where the temperature and humidity were eternally right.

Get your hands on Going Down with Janis this summer, and I can guarantee you that you will just enjoy it more than any book on this year’s “recommended” lists. And don’t wait until fall; this book almost requires sunshine and cold soda.

Now, I can hear the literalists out there asking this question: “Was the story true?”

Who knows, except Ms. Caserta herself? More to the point, is truth necessary to enjoy this book? No more than it would be with, say, a book of fantasy or futuristic fiction.

I am going to start re-reading Going Down with Janis today, and in a future post let you know what I think about it now. Perhaps I will enjoy it as much as I did thirty-one years ago. Perhaps I will feel ashamed - this may be a story which requires more scoops of compassion than pinches of delight. Perhaps the story of one woman’s slippery slide down the path to a heroin overdose is not the most entertaining one since The Wizard of Oz.

But that’s a story for another summer day.