(Originally
published 9/7/13)
New York
City has a reputation for serving tasty pizza—a distinction that is rarely
duplicated in other parts of the country and indeed the world. But with its
many first-rate pizzerias and pizza restaurants come countless ill-tasting,
stomach-churning losers as well. The sheer quantity of pizza places in New York
ensures many “bad slice" experiences, and today I had one.
The extraordinarily
lame pizza I stumbled upon was in the vicinity of New York University and
Washington Square Park. From the outside the shop had a peculiar allure and
appeared a place that might serve high-quality pizza. Patrons had to walk down
a few steps to enter, which added to its appeal. But the compelling ambiance
ended abruptly when you physically entered the establishment.
A
blackboard outside trumpeted its $1.00 slice—impressive considering the going
rate is $2.50 and more nowadays. However, once inside, another sign—call it the
fine print—said there was a $1.00 tax on the $1.00 slice. Did the mayor and the
city council impose this tax under the cover of darkness? While I know they get
their jollies doing stuff like that, I really did not think there was a
specific pizza tax. Rather, this was a little pizza parlor legerdemain—clumsy,
sleazy, and illegal. And even at $2.00 a slice—still cheaper than the norm—it did
not rise to the level of real New York City pizza.
Not even close.
Beware of the $1.00 slice, even the ones without a $1.00 tax attached to them!
Fortunately,
there were more uplifting and interesting events in my life today than bad
pizza and unscrupulous pizza makers. I was witness to an NYU student acting as
a tour guide for incoming students and their families. His name was Austin, and
he told the assembled it was his boyhood dream to attend the university because
of his favorite show,
Friends, which featured Dr. Ross Geller, a
professor at NYU, played by David Schwimmer. Why did I want to go to my alma
mater? I could walk there?
Today’s
busy day commenced with me riding the subterranean A train into Manhattan,
instead of the Number 1 train (track work, what else?), my usual, brighter mode
of transportation. I have always found that A train rides feature much more
entertainment and homeless standup than on 1 train excursions. I wanted to give
a particular homeless man a buck or two this morning, because his importuning
was simultaneously eloquent and poignant, but found it too difficult to get
into my wallet while sandwiched between two bodies. On my return trip, three
spry youths took advantage of the A train's captive audience between its
extended express stops—59th Street and 125th Street—to break dance, or whatever
it was they were doing. They were remarkably agile in twirling around the subway
floor, standing on their heads, swinging on the poles, and contorting their
bodies into frog-like and pretzel postures. I would have given them a dollar or
two, too, but again concluded reaching into my wallet was more trouble than it
was worth.
Finally, I
met Michael Styles today, a Manhattan conman and philosopher with an opinion on
everything. What did I learn about Michael in the brief moments we spent
together? Well, he wanted to be an actor and appeared in a few commercials at
some earlier point in his life. He is a hair stylist now but cannot find enough
work to make ends meet. So, if I got it right, Michael is a homeless
hairstylist. By his own admission, the man's also an alcoholic. Perhaps this is
why he cannot find full-time hair-cutting jobs. Michael has “had” hundreds of
women through the years, he said, but is no Wilt Chamberlain. He counts five
women, in fact, who want to enter into “relationships” with him, but he finds
them—
relationships—entirely too complicated. Michael would rather just
have sex with them and leave it at that. At the end of the day, he was looking
for a few bucks—to buy a sandwich, not a drink, he said.
I wonder if Michael
Styles was telling me the truth.
