Lately, I've taken some deliveries to some shitty parts of town, to some shady characters. Dudes that look like they might stick a knife in your belly rather than pay for some pizza. The thought flashes through my mind on every third delivery after 11 pm.

I try not to think about it too much, try not to worry. But often, when I'm en route, I think "This could be it, this could be the night where some dude bonks me over the head and takes a pizza and the $17 in my pocket".

The next thing that goes through my head is "What am I listening to?", because, I don't know about you, but I don't want the last voice I hear on this planet to be Sammy Hagar's. So, when on the way to these dicey deliveries, I flip through my iPod until I find a suitable song to be my last.

Songs that are on my iPod that I would be OK with hearing, if it was the last song I heard:

Jaded Lover - Jerry Jeff Walker
Proud Mary - CCR
Red Wing Boots - The Sycamores
Sweet Virginia - The Rolling Stones
Salt of the Earth - The Rolling Stones
Like a Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan
Pancho & Lefty - Willie Nelson/Bob Dylan
Final Hurrah - Paul Westerberg

Just as often though, I punch up a Mischke Podcast. How weird would that be, taking your last breath while Mischke does an ad for R.F. Moeller?

Alright people, I'm tired, had a rough night.

Take care.

...from Big-Time Minneapolis,

-The Pizzaman

I came across this posting yesterday in the Rants & Raves section of Craigslist:

I have a crush on my pizza delivery guy. The problem is I don't know what to say to him. Do I just come right out and ask him out for coffee? I don't even know his name and sometimes when I order some other boy shows up. Last weekend I ordered when I wasn't even hungry in hopes of seeing my pizza boy but when the pizza came it was delivered by some bald guy.

What to do?

The readers of Craigslist responded with some crackerjack advice, ranging from "fuck the bald guy right there the next time he delivers" to "Ask him out for pizza"  to "drop your towel and answer the door in a provocative pose". (and this post, which insinuates that the eco-friendly Pizzaheroes at Galactic are less-than-heterosexual)

Now, contrary to popular belief, (and more than a few porn movies) the Pizzaman doesn't see a lot of love action on the Streets. Oh sure I see female Pizzalovers in some revealing clothes once in a Blue Moon, but their boyfriends are usually hanging around or they make the payment then immediately slam the door or they're strippers and indifferent (although strippers almost always tip very, very well).

When I first got into this racket, I figured I'd be seeing plenty of scantily clad women who would invite me in for a Brandy and... But, so far, it hasn't panned out.

However, I have made a few deliveries where love has entered into the equation:

Recently, I delivered to a girl who wrote out a check, handed it to me and said "My phone number is on there, call me". I looked at the check. She had tipped me a lousy $1.50, so I replied "Uhhh... I've got a girlfriend", which was a lie. The girl had a face like a chewed rubber boot, so I wouldn't have called anyway, but the fact that she tipped so poorly was a definite dealbreaker. No cheapskate girlfriends for the Pizzaman.

And, of course, there's the tale that I shared with Mike Mosedale for the City Pages story "The Pizzaman Always Rings Twice": I once took a delivery to a place on Emerson Avenue. The girl who ordered specifically asked for me to make the delivery. So I pounded on the door, and it turns out it was this girl who I had delivered pizza to a half-dozen times at about four different addresses. I also used to see her at rock shows. One time I got her into a show for free. I never knew her name, but somehow she knew mine. Anyway, she had a towel on, like she had been in the shower. She was super cute, and I'm thinking, "Oh, my God, this is it, this is it." You know the part, when the porn music comes on. Gung-ch-ch, gung-ch-ch. Then I looked at the shower, and I see this dude step out--big naked hairy hippie dude with his crank hanging out. And then I was like, "Oh, I see what's going on here." He came to the door, and said, "What's up?"

But, for the most part, the ladies on the Streets of Pizza don't seem to love the Pizzaman like they should (or at least the way I think they should). They're usually indifferent, they just want some pizza. I don't think I even register on their radar.

So, to the lovelorn Pizzalover on Craigslist, I would offer the following advice:

• Tip generously
• Muster up some courage and just ask him out
• Slip him a note (I've found that we, even as adults, have never really gotten past the fourth grade, as far as matters of the heart are concerned)
• If all else fails, get naked.

While this last one may not work and you might be terribly embarrassed, the Pizzaman will have a great story and you WILL get superb delivery service in the future.

Guaranteed.

Send your stories, comments and naked photos to: Pizzaman@citypages.com

So I take this order over to XXXX Cheapskate Avenue last night.
It's a couple of pies and some beverages, the total comes to $38 even.
I walk up the steps, ring the bell, knock on the door.
No answer.

I knock again.

A metrosexual looking guy dressed in a white untucked button-
up shirt and baggy jeans with gel in his hair appears on the other side
of the glass. (if you want to know what kind of guy I'm talking about,
hang out in front of Rosens on a Friday night)
He's talking on his cel. He looks at me and holds up
his index finger.

"It's just the pizza guy" he says and keeps talking.

I wait for a minute or two (or forever) and finally he comes to the door.

"Hey there, guy" he chirps.
( I hate being called "guy")
"That'll be $38, please"
"Uh, yeah, here" he hands me exactly $38.
I hand him the pizzas.
"Was there something wrong?" I ask.
"No. Why?"
"Because people usually tip..." I begin.
"Oh yeah... here. Have a day"
He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a dollar bill,
flips it towards me and shuts the door.
I grab the dollar in midair and look at it.

"Thanks a fuckin' lot, pal" I say to no one.

I get in the car, still clutching the dollar.
What a slap in the face, what an asshole.
"Have a day" ?
What the fuck?
The weird thing was, this was the second guy of the
night that was dressed in the exact same outfit and
tipped poorly. The other guy even said
"Have a day" as well.
What's up with these fuckers? Is there some kind
of club where everybody dresses the same, tips
shitty and says "Have a day"?
I sure as shit hope not.

So I get home and I'm going through my night's
take when I find this guy's dollar in my coin pocket.
I felt like I was holding a turd in my hand.
It's dirty money, tainted money.

I considered throwing away, but instead, I did this:

I ran into my friend "Trevor" the other day and we were talking
about our careers in the service industry. (Trev's a bartender)

"With every fake smile" I said "Every false 'Thank you' every
customer that chews my ass, I feel it eating away at me. 
It makes me feel like a fraud, a fake, insincere. I want to mean
what I say and so often can't do that. I'm starting to feel a little
like a prostitute, selling a little piece of myself on every doorstep.
Don't you feel like a low-level whore sometimes, Trev?"

He looked at me with a crooked smile on his face and said,
"No, I don't feel like a low-level whore, I feel like a high-class panhandler"