Imported

Last Song

Filed under: Imported

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

Posted by The Pizza Man at September 15, 2005 1:20 PM

 

Love on the Streets of Pizza

Filed under: Imported

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

Posted by The Pizza Man at September 13, 2005 3:20 PM

 

Thanks For The Light

Filed under: Imported

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:

Posted by The Pizza Man at September 8, 2005 4:23 PM

 

Whores and Panhandlers

Filed under: Imported

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"

Posted by The Pizza Man at September 5, 2005 2:27 PM

 

The Chase

Filed under: Imported

It was a small order, a couple sandwiches, some chips, a soda.
The total was $15.80., a credit card order, the address was in the 'hood.

I arrive at the door, pound on the door and wait. A large woman comes
to the door and asks where she should sign.
"I'll need to see your credit card and your I.D., please"  I say.
"Ummmm....ahhh...." she gives me the same look nearly every customer
gives me when they don't have the goods, the loss of eye contact, the
lifting of the head, the hand going up.
"It's my boyfriends card....ahh, he...he just left...." she stammers.
"Is he going to be gone long? I can come back if--"
"No, no.... he went to work. He won't be back for awhile. He
went to work" she explains.
"Hurry up! Hurry the fuck up!" a loud male voice booms from inside the house.
"Can you pay in cash?" I ask.
"Ahhh... no, I ain't got any cash".
"What the fuck is the problem? Hurry up!" the voice from inside yells again.
"Sorry" I say and walk back to my car.
I get into my car only somewhat defeated, this type of shit happens all the time.
I start the Pizzacar and drive off. I'm about 8 blocks away when I spot a car in
my rear view mirror weaving through traffic, passing people on the right,
honking his horn.
I'm thinking, who the fuck is this, Popeye Doyle?

The car, a Hyundai with one side totally smashed in, pulls even with me and I
see the driver, a man, yelling and waving his arms.
"Go back! Go back! Bring that sandwich back, motherfucker!" he screams.
I recognize the voice. It was the one coming from inside of the house.
"Gimme my food!" he demands at 25 mph.
"You got the money?" I yell back.
"Yeah" he replies.
"Pull over here" I tell him, pointing to the side of the street.
We pull over, the guy jumps out of his car and runs up to my window.
"Gimme my food. Why'd you leave?"
"Because the woman said she didn't have a credit card or any money"
"How much is it?" he says, pulling cash from his pocket.
"15.80"
He turns around so I can't see his loot.
"I got 14 dollars" he shoves a wad of cash at me "Close enough, right?"
"Nope" I say "You're a buck-eighty short."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, at least another $25.
He thrusts two more dollars at me.
I hand him the bags.
He runs back to his car, starts it, peels out, blows a red light and is gone.

Damn, he must of really wanted that sandwich.



Bring that sandwich back, motherfucker!

Posted by The Pizza Man at August 17, 2005 2:58 AM

 

Seen/Heard

Filed under: Imported

Sign taped to door:
"Mailperson - Please leave drugs on doorstep"

Overheard through the door after delivering pizza
to well-dressed, 40ish man with family:
"Pizza's here! Come and get it! I'm eating! I'm not waiting!
Fuck you guys!"

Seen during heatwave, next door to Pizzalovers house:
Seven Asian guys sitting around shirtless, watching TV in
a very small living room.

Overheard while walking down the street - guy in hospital scrubs, on cel phone:
"You know that guy in bed 2? Uh-huh, he died this weekend. Yaaayyy!!"

Tattooed Punk-Rock Pizzalover on cel phone wearing "I Hate Everyone" shirt:
"I love you Mom"

Posted by The Pizza Man at August 3, 2005 2:58 PM

 

The Pen: Mightier Than The Pizza?

Filed under: Imported

"Some people ain't no damn good
You can't trust 'em, you can't love em
No good deed goes unpunished
And I don't mind being their whipping boy
I've had that pleasure for years and years"
    -John Cougar Mellencamp
    "Crumblin' Down"

Last night I drove over to XXXX Old Duffer Avenue to deliver a
pie. The building was one of those "Seniors" apartment complexes.
I had delivered there before and most of the Pizzalovers in the building
treated me OK. I mean, sometimes it's a drag, for old people move
pretty damn slow. But for the most part, they're kindly citizens.
However, this particular customer wasn't.
I buzzed his apartment and waited. And waited. Now, this ain't no big thing,
I'm used to it at this address. I understand that these people don't have
the spring in their step that they used to and I'll probably be moving pretty
slowly when I get in my 70's too.
Anyhow, once the customer showed, I knew he was going to be trouble.
I'd delivered to this guy about a year ago and he was a total dick.
He was in his late 50's - early 60's, but in good shape, he moved briskly.
I braced myself and was prepared to keep that smile on my face no matter what.
He opened the door and immediately barked "Where do I sign?"
(He had ordered by credit card)
"I'll just need to see your card and ID, please" I said. (this is standard BS Pizza procedure)
"I don't need to show you anything"
"I'm sorry sir, I really need to see your ID and your card"
(He had been informed of this when he placed his order on the phone)
"Well, you're going wait a long time. Stay right here. Don't go anywhere"
I nodded and he disappeared into the building.
5 minutes passed. (5 minutes seems like an eternity while standing in some entryway holding a pizza)
Finally the guy came back to the door.
"You're going to have wait some more" he said and went back again.
I called my sister, checked my voicemail and sent a text message.
After 10 more minutes the customer arrived with Visa card and ID in hand.
He shoved them at me and snapped the CC receipt from my hand.
"Give me a pen" he commanded.
I handed him one.
I checked his ID and CC number - everything was Kosher.
He threw the receipt on top of the box and grabbed the pizza from me.
I took the receipt as he started off with the pie.
"Thanks" I said, and noticed he still had my pen. "Could I get my pen back?"
He then turned around and THREW the pen at me, hitting me in the forehead.
"Thanks... Asshole" I deadpanned.
I started down the sidewalk.
I heard his voice behind me.
"What's your name?! What's your name?!" he demanded.
I stopped, turned and replied:
"Steve Perry"


Now, I have NEVER, EVER used any kind of harsh language
with any Pizzalover, but this guy really got to me. I sat in my car,
my blood boiling. I was bummed that some old coot could get me that riled
up, could press my buttons like that. Why do people have to be like that?
I was only doing my job and this guy decided to make my life miserablefor
no reason whatsoever.
Finally, I cued up an old Mischke Broadcast on my iPod and put
the Pizzacar in gear, in hopes that the 'ol  Mischke magic would put me
in a better mood. (It did)
As I drove away, with Mischke's voice coming through the speakers,
I looked in the rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of my forehead.
There was a pen-mark right above my right eyebrow.
I rubbed it with my finger and drove on.

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 27, 2005 2:30 AM

 

Back In The Saddle

Filed under: Imported

"I'm riding
I'm shining up my saddle
I'm riding
This snake is gonna rattle

I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back"
     -Aerosmith
    "Back in the Saddle"

Well, after a few days of trolling the web and making calls, plus a
few rides from my lovely assistant, Miss Wigg, and one Ms. K. Majaris,
I finally landed a new rig.
I'm the proud owner of brand-new used car.
Fanfuckingtastic.
The new pizzacar is a real Champ, $1300 worth of Japanese brilliance...
Japanese brilliance with 188,000 miles on it, but Japanese brilliance nonetheless.
But the new ride seems pretty tight and it gets me where I'm going.
Now, I'm not saying it's perfect, au contraire mon fraire, the
passenger door doesn't open correctly, the defroster's a bit screwy and
worst of all,  no AM radio reception.
No AM = no Mischke.
At 10 'o clock last night, I felt sad that my 'ol buddy Mischke
was talking and I couldn't listen.
This must be corrected.

In any case, I'm back on the Streets.

I'll post more later... I have a bunch of stories to tell ya.


 "So lock up your daughter
 Lock up your wife
 Lock up your back door
 And run for your life
 The man is back in town"
    -AC/DC
    "TNT"

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 26, 2005 3:13 AM

 

Cheating Death

Filed under: Imported

I went down to the auto shop today to get my things from
my totaled Pizzacar before it was towed to the scrapyard.
While I was gathering my stuff, my lovely assistant, Miss Wigg,
took a few photos.

After seeing the photos, I've now decided that I "cheated death".



The contents of my car:

- 1 F. Scott Fitzgerald biography
- 1 Credence Clearwater Revival "Chronicle" tape
- 2 bungee cords
- 1 baseball mitt
- 1 pair bowling shoes
- 2 red handkerchiefs
- 1 foil covered 2x4 belonging to "The Snake"
- 1 Steve Miller Band "Greatest Hits 1974-1978" tape
- 1 pair insulated work gloves (not mine, they belong to Howard)
- various insurance papers

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 19, 2005 3:15 AM

 

My Luck Done Run Out

Filed under: Imported

Here's how it went down:

I was driving West on XX Street when this Blazer totally blew the stop sign at XXXXXXXX Avenue. I don't think the guy even slowed down, he was in front of me in a split second. I hit the brakes and one thought ran through my head "This is where my luck runs out". The impact wasn't too harsh, the front end of my car crumpled as it as designed to, absorbing most of the impact and I was wearing my safety belt, so I escaped with minor injury. (my neck, back and knee are hurting today) Once the two vehicles stopped, I got out, the other driver and I exchanged "Are you OK's" and a few witnesses and gawkers gather around. Someone called 911. We all stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes until the other driver said "I'm gonna pull  up and get out of the intersection". His front driver's-side wheel was all fucked up, so he drove hesitantly a few feet. Then a few more. Then he started to really get on the gas and sped away. Since the other driver's car was fucked up and he had stopped, nobody bothered to get his license plate number.
Actually, I took a look at his plate, but his plate-light was out so I couldn't see anything.
The Police showed up a few minutes later, but couldn't catch the guy. I gave the officers my insurance and license etc, he took witness statements and gave me a case card. The crowd dispersed, leaving me to wait for the tow truck alone and in the dark. The tow truck driver from Bobby & Steve's showed up, loaded the car and took my baby away. I called a fellow Pizzaman (The Snake) and he gave me a ride back to BS Pizza. I walked home with the knowledge that I'd have to spend the next few days dealing with insurance bullshit, trying to get my shifts covered and trying to get some scratch together to get a new ride. I couldn't get to sleep until around 5am and the phone started ringing at 8am.
I'm dog-tired and my neck and knee are killing me.

Keep your eyes peeled for the offending hit-and-runner:

-Caucasian male 20-30's
-Short hair
-Driving a early to mid 90's Chevy Blazer white/silver/primer in color
Blazer has front driver-side damage including a fucked up front wheel
Blazer also has "For Sale" written in orangish grease pencil on driver's side rear window
- the phone number listed starts with area code 952

If you see (or know) this chump, let me know.

pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 15, 2005 12:13 PM

 

My Least Favorite Car Crash

Filed under: Imported

It's 11:27 pm and I was just in an accident about an hour ago... I think I'm OK... my neck is sore and my back's a bit screwy, but I'm in one piece... some dude in a Blazer pulled out right in front of me.. he hung around for a few minutes then took off... I, nor anyone else, got his license plate number.. the cops came, I called AAA, the tow truck arrived (Thanks Bobby & Steve's) then a call to a fellow Pizzaman (The Snake) for a ride home.

I gotta go deal with more insurance/Police bullshit.

Looks, like I'll be needing a new car.

I'll post in the morning with the details...

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 14, 2005 11:37 PM

 

News Flash: Old Republican Threatens The Pizzman

Filed under: Imported

There's this semi-regular who's been ordering quite often lately and the last three times I've delivered to him, he's been drunk. Now, I'm not talking kind of drunk, I'm talking falling down, slurring, shitfaced drunk.
He's an older guy (60's?) and lives in one of the swankier parts of MPLS in a huge house with a big backyard that contains a series of ponds connected by waterfalls.

The problem with the guy is that... well, he's a total fucking asshole. He bitches about the price, he's rude, he argues with me about the checking policies and he writes the check out to "Broders" half the time.

And did I mention he's a right-wing nutjob? The last time I delivered to him, he had the "O'Reilly Factor" on and whenever O'Reilly would mention a Democrat this guy would yell out "Faggot!" or "Fucking liberal" or just plain "Fuck you!".
Yeah great, not only is this drunk guy yelling at me, but he's barking at anyone left of Pat Buchanan.

Finally, he stumbled to the doorway with his check in one hand and the other hand gripping the doorway. I started to look at the check.

"I oughta kick your ass", he slurred.

I could not believe my good fortune, for I would love to punch this guy's lights out.

"You wanna go?" I asked, my hands starting to ball into fists.

He never answered.

At this point, the guy nearly fell down, so I split.
I left him gripping his pizza and leaning unsteadily against the wall.
Fuck 'em.

Seriously though, I was hoping he'd take a swing at me just so I could justify slapping the shit out of him.

Posted by The Pizza Man at July 6, 2005 1:23 PM

 

Yet Another Letter From A Fan

Filed under: Imported

This email landed in my inbox the other day.
The sender, identified only as "bb", doesn't seem to be big on punctuation.

"This is the most incredibly inane website I have ever read thanks for making
my life worth living Good luck with the Lottery thing and thanks for delivering the mediocre"


Dear bb,

You're welcome, jackass.

love,
The Pizzaman

Posted by The Pizza Man at June 30, 2005 12:36 PM

 

I, Robot

Filed under: Imported

As you may or may not have noticed, I haven't posted for a long time.
I've heard the rumors on the Streets:
-"He's on the Michael Jackson jury"
-"He had a lung removed"
-"He's in Europe"
-"His National Guard unit has been called up"

But the real reason is, I've been depressed. For the last few months I've been driving that black bus of despair. Business has been down somewhat and tips have been way down, so I've had to work nearly every damn day just to make ends meet. I only had two days off in April and three in May. Plus, the shitty weather this Spring has been killing me. Not the weather itself, but the way that Pizzalovers have been reacting to it and how they all seem to take it out on me. Now I'm used to people getting weird, depressed and downright mean during February and March, but the protracted shitty Spring we experienced really brought out something in my fellow Minneapolitans that I've never experienced. It seemed as if every other delivery was to a Pizzalover that made my life a living Hell. After several weeks of abuse, I started to "turn off", the Streets became rote, my head wasn't in the game. I started to feel like a robot, read address - drive to address - deliver pizza - take it in the ass - get paid - "thank you", as though I might as well be putting lugnuts on Chevy's. And the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was re-live the experience on the internet. The dirty looks, the shitty tips, the front door spaz-outs of Pizzalovers... Christ, it felt like I was slowly marching towards a death "by service industry".

The breaking point came one night when I delivered a cheese wheel to a pain in the ass regular that always complains about the fact that she has to write a second phone number on her check. (store policy) I rang the bell, she answered, handed me the check and we went through the same routine we go through every time I grave her doorstep:

"Could I get another phone number on this check, please?"
"I order all the time"
"I know, I just need another phone-"
"I've never had to do that before"
In my head, I'm thinking "Sure you have... EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME I'VE
DELIVERED TO YOUR HOUSE"
I stay cool, I've been through this before.
"Ma'am, if I could just get another pho-"
"I can't believe this! This is embarrassing! I'm calling your manager!"
Blah, blah, blah.

It was at this very moment, while this woman was going apeshit, that my mind kind of slipped away. I started looking at this big airplane moving across the sky. Oh, how I wish I was on that plane going somewhere, anywhere... anywhere was better than there at that moment. "I don't write bad checks! I can't believe this!" I imagined myself getting off the plane in some tropical land where they place a umbrella'd drink in your hand the moment you step onto the tarmac. Ah yes, that would be beautiful but... "I'm not writing another number on here! Do I look like I write bad checks?" With my mind gripping that icy, tropical drink in St Barts, my lips in Minneapolis formed-"Ma'am, it's store policy. I just need..." Then she really started to go ballistic. She started screaming at me "I don't write bad checks!"

Now, most of the time, when it gets to this level of ridiculousness, I just walk away.
But this time I was so mentally removed from the situation that I just stared at the plane, wishing. My food service anus so calloused from the repeated verbal ass-fucking I'd endured that I barely noticed the woman still yelling at me. Finally, she said "I don't want it! I'm never ordering from you again!" (she ordered three days later) She slammed the door in my face.
I walked back to the car and turned on Dark Star. I was a couple of blocks away before I even realized what really happened. I had just stood there and taken it, my wink reflex long gone. After work, I went home, got into bed, pulled the covers over my head and I've been piloting the black bus ever since.

But fuck it.
I'm back.
I'll be posting again real soon-like with a few tales of drunken right-wing nutjobs, pissed off cyclists, shut-in old ladies and stoned-out root beer lovers.

Send letters, notes, and the number of a good therapist to:
pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at June 27, 2005 3:05 PM

 

Spring has Sprung!

Filed under: Imported

A few signs that spring has arrived on the Streets of Pizza:


Everybody has their windows open-
The other night I was on the sidewalk after delivering some Hot & Fresh when I overheard what I assume was one side of a very loud phone conversation. It wasn't very hard to hear, since this girl had all of her windows open and was yelling at the top of her lungs.
"I'M FUCKING PREGNANT! I'M PREGNANT. I'M. PREG-NANT.
NO, YOU LOOK, I'M FUCKING PREGNANT... NO...NO, I DO NOT
FUCK A DIFFERENT GUY EVERY NIGHT. I... NO, THAT WAS JUST ONCE.
THAT WAS... I WAS DRUNK, OK? I ONLY FUCKED HIM...
NO, IT'S YOURS.
IT'S YOURS.
IT'S YOURS.
IT'S YOURS.
DON'T GIVE ME THAT...
YOU PUT YOUR DICK IN ME.
YOU PUT YOUR DICK IN ME.
You put. YOUR. DICK. IN. ME.
FUCK YOU!"

All the Mexican Dudes Are Outside Fixing Their Cars-
I must have seen twenty instances of this on Sunday alone.
Those cats really have my respect for tearing their cars apart right on the street (much like pizzamen have been known to do) and doing the job themselves. The scene usually consisted of three or four guys sitting around a car that's either up on blocks or on the ramps, having a few beers and trying to figure out how the fuck the brake assembly on a '87 Accord goes back together.

Shirtless Guys-
Once the temperature gets above 65 degrees, the Streets of Pizza turn into an episode of "Cops".
Every other delivery, it seems, some dude comes to the door shirtless. Fat guys with their guts hanging out, skinny guys with nearly-visible heartbeats, man-boobed guys displaying their B-cups, they come to the door half naked and greet me like nothing's wrong.
I kind of feel like saying "That'll be $20.23, please. Ever think about shaving off all that nipple hair, buddy?"
Unfortunately, this trend doesn't seem to be catching on with the members of the fairer sex...

Posted by The Pizza Man at April 12, 2005 1:04 AM

 

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

Filed under: Imported

After a period of mourning for my deceased pizzacar, I decided it was time to "move on".
So I hesitantly started looking for another pizzacar...

Wait a minute, scratch that, hold on... that's not how it went at all.

Actually, after my previous pizzacar crapped out, I spent several days feverishly calling on every cheap-ass used car I could. I bummed rides from various friends to take me to various suburbs, to look at various "creampuffs". Finally, I found a real gem in Forest Lake. The only problem was it was in Forest Lake... thirty miles away. But thanks to a ride from "The World's Most Decent Human", I was soon behind the wheel of my new pizzacar.
Now, I shall return to the Streets of Pizza triumphant!


I would like to thank all of my friends and family who helped me through this troubled time. I would also like to thank SoP readers who wrote in with their prayers and kind words. And a special thanks goes to City Pages HMFiC, Steve Perry, who wrote a fine letter of condolence and sent a nice fruit basket.

Finally, an extra-special thanks goes out to this ex-pizzaman who
offered to sell me his pizzacar. I almost took him up on the offer,
but couldn't meet my connection.

FOR SALE:
1 used pizza car:
1993 Mazda 323, 174,000 miles
-Bad ball joints
-Bad suspension
-Two cracks in windshield
-Locks don't work
-Bald rear tires
-Black hole in drivers seat
-One windshield wiper
-Tape deck useless
-Bad right-front speaker
-Dented and rusty
-Smells like wet dog
-Very reliable!

Yours for $50 or a bag of weed

Posted by The Pizza Man at April 7, 2005 2:15 PM

 

SoP Mailbag: Three Encores, The Slow Count and a Few Future Trips to MAACO

Filed under: Imported

While delivering to a teenage beer bash, this man of the road
employs the 'ol Pizzaman trick "The Slow Count"
and exacts his revenge with a Roosevelt:


Dear Pizzaman,

I delivered pizza for five years for a Domino's. I don't live in MPLS so
you'll never know where this occured thanks to the anonymous power of the
internet. I was playing in a local band on a Friday and we were hot that
night. We got asked to play three encores, it was a great night.

The next night, I'm working and get a call to deliver to a house. I go there
and there's plenty of kids and beer but no adult supervision. So it goes.
The pizza came to $11.15 lets say and just as the guy starts to give me the
money another young gentleman elbows his way, literally, to the door.

"I want to pay him! I want to pay him!" say the young man with the
enthusiasm of an eight year old. Who really gets that much of a charge out
of paying for a pizza?

So he takes the money from his friend and hands it to me, saying, "Give me
the change back ALL of it."

I have no problem with this. Although I'm delivering to a middle class
suburb, I'm used to getting no tip sometimes. That's life. So I count him
the change back. Nice and slow.

"5, 10, 15," I begin.

It's November and it is cold out. I am dressed in my rather flashy orange
parka and he is wearing a T-shirt.

"25, 50, 55..."

I can take the cold a lot better than he can. He's shivering. He tries to
get me to hurry up.

"C'mon, c'mon..." he stammers, his hands tightly in his armpits.

"Oh, you made me lose count. Ok, 5, 10, 15..."

He wants the money. He wants all of it. So now he's waiting. With every
snort or sub-lingual noise, I look back at him threatening to lose count
again." He keeps silent for what seemed like a long time.

Finally, I give him the change. All of the change.

"Thanks. Have a good night, LOSER" And then he laughs.

He goes back inside the house. In there is warmth and beer and friends. Out
here is nothing but anger. I imagine that I grabbed and twisted his
testicles underneath the bag when I handed it to him.
I imagine that I have a discussion with him where I point out that I have a
girlfriend and I will be having sex when I get home, much in the way that he
undoubtably won't. I have my own car, a cool loft apartment and a great
band. Did I mention the three encores the night before?

So out of my pocket I pull a dime. That's (the tip) I get from a (regular customer)
when I deliver two pizzas to them on a Friday night. That's what the change
works out to and that's what they give me, every Friday, on an order over $20.

I hold that dime in my hand. Which car is that fuckers?

So many cars line the driveway.
How will I ever know which car is the right one?

I realize with some reservation that I will never know. I will never know
which car belongs to that motherfucker. I will never know which exact car to
exact my vengence on.

I walk down the driveway and casually run the dime down the side of all of
the cars. No one can see. No one will know until tomorrow. And, most
importantly, no one can prove anything.

I have other stories where I'm not
such an asshole.

sincerely,

(name withheld to protect the guilty)


---

Got a story from the Streets of Pizza?
Your band called back for three encores?
Tell me about it:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at April 1, 2005 1:10 AM

 

Pizzacar - R.I.P.

Filed under: Imported

Prizm, Geo - age 15 (103,000 miles), of Minneapolis, on March 23rd.
Tireless pizzacar with 12 months of service. Survived by loving owner
of 1 year, The Pizzaman. Preceded in death by brothers, Honda (Accord);
Toyota (Camry) and Ford (Taurus).
Born in California in 1990, Prizm relocated to northern Minnesota
where he spent 14 years of dutiful service for one Ellie Gracebaum.
Upon Ms Gracebaum's incarceration, Prizm moved to Minneapolis to
serve as a Pizzacar. 
Prizm acted as sober cab for many a drunk, had a sweet stereo and
never failed to start in the winter.
Representatives from Oswalt's Auto Repair declared a "fucked differential" as the cause of death.
In Lieu of flowers, the Pizzaman will be accepting tips.

Services will be held at Big Chicks Auto Wrecking at 3pm Wednesday, March 30th.



In better days...

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 28, 2005 9:27 AM

 

I Got 99 problems But a Bitch Ain't One

Filed under: Imported

"If you're havin' girl problems I feel bad for you son
I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one"
-Jay-Z
"99 Problems"



It's been a tough road for the Pizzaman the last couple of weeks. As you can see, I haven't posted for several days.
This has been due to the fact that I've been in Pizzacar Hell.

 It all started about a month or so ago when my brakes started to make that very special noise which indicates that a brake job is imminent. I put it off for a couple of days in order to raise the capital for the trip to the mechanic. (usually I'd take a crack at the job myself, but it was still pretty cold and I didn't feel like wrenching on my car out in the street in 20 degree weather) After a few days of granny driving and babying the brakes, I brought the pizzacar to my mechanic. Now, as a Pizzaman, I make a quite a few trips to the wrenchman and for 5 years I've been going to the same mechanic. The people at the garage have always been fair, fast and accommodating. They did the brake job in a few hours (cost: $160) and I was back on the road, headed to your doorstep once again.

Unfortunately, a few days after the brake job, I started hearing some noise coming from my front-end whenever I'd take a left. I worked the next three days to raise the money to make a return trip to the garage. I brought the car in and it was diagnosed with a bad CV joint. In fact, both of the CV's were shot. I told my mechanic to replace the one that was bad, leave the other one and I'd fix it in a few weeks. They called a couple of days later saying the car was fixed. (cost: $300)

But it wasn't.

The first left turn I made resulted in the same noise, only it was worse. I called the garage back and they said to bring it in on Monday. So I spent the next two days driving around, making my deliveries with the minimal amount of left-hand turns. I had to map out my delivery routes in a clockwise manner to maximize the rights and minimize the lefts. The one-way streets were really a pain in the ass. I had to circle around, sometimes 3-4 blocks out of my way to avoid the left-hand turn. But somehow, I managed to get the job done.

On Monday I returned the car to the shop, they said it was the other CV joint and it would be a couple of days until it was done.
I had to scramble to get some money together.
 I counted the cash I had on hand, cashed in my change jar, made a few calls and put together a financing plan with my money people.
 My garage called to say the car was fixed. This time, I made one of the garage employees drive the car and upon turning left for the first time, the noise screeched out once again.
So for the next week, my car sat at the garage while they tried to figure out what was wrong with it.

Meanwhile, I was on the phone trying to borrow a car or get my shifts covered.
A few kind friends lent me their cars for a few shifts (thanks RJ and AS!) and my pizza brethren stepped up to take on my lost shifts.
Finally, my mechanic called to say that the differential in my car was shot and it wouldn't be worth repairing.

Fanfuckingtastic.

So currently, I'm sidelined.
My old pizzacar sits behind my mechanics garage and I'm searching for a replacement.
I've been working the phone, calling on used cars, trying to land one before my next shift.

Cars.com
Carsoup.com
The Auto Shopper
The Star-Tribune
The Pioneer Press
Craigslist.com
Used car lots.
I've tried them all, with very few promising leads.
And the fact that I have to rely on my friends to cart my ass around to
look at any of these cars makes the process frustrating.

As of right now, I'm carless and waiting for my one my pizza brethren to
bring me to Golden Valley to look at yet another high-mileage jalopy.

I hope to return to the Streets of Pizza (and streetsofpizza.com)
triumphant, with new wheels, as soon as possible.

 
"Got no money and you got no car
Then you got no women and there you are"
-Young MC
"Bust A Move"


Got a used car for less than $2000?
email The Pizzaman:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 26, 2005 3:43 PM

 

Maybe they're morally handicapped

Filed under: Imported

Here's a list of cars driven by the last 13 able-bodied fuckers that parked in the handicapped zone in the BS Pizza parking lot:

1 - Ford Explorer
2 - Chevrolet Tahoe
3 - Saab 9-3
4 - Honda Accord
5 - Pontiac Grand Am
6 - Mercedes ML 350
7 - Chrysler Town & Country
8 - Honda Accord
9 - Chevrolet Caprice
10 -Toyota Pick-up
11 - Ford Taurus Wagon
12 - Cadillac Escalade (!)
13 - Chevrolet Suburban

At least 4 of these people had yellow ribbon
stickers on the backs of their cars.

I guess their attitude is "Hey, I support our troops.
Unless they got their legs shot off and are trying
to find somewhere to park their handicap-van".

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 20, 2005 11:36 PM

 

SoP Mailbag: My Favorite Car Crash

Filed under: Imported

A former Pizzaman writes in with a tale of a hunk of Detroit steel vs a motorized rollerskate:

Dear Pizzaman,

I spent about five years on the pizza road and managed only three serious collisions. The best of these involved my 1978 Mercury Grand Marquis against a Geo Prizm. A total mismatch.
 
It was a busy night, and I'll admit I was in a bit of a hurry. Total pain in the ass delivery: downtown, illegally parked, slow elevator, slow customer. I shagged my ass back to the car and fired her up. The pizza gods had smiled upon me in one small way: there was nothing ahead but a string of green traffic lights. "Great," I thought. "Gun it."
 
Fifty yards onward, as I crossed Ninth Street, I began to wonder, "Why the fuck is there all of this cross traffic?" I managed to dodge the first couple of cars that streamed past. The third car I nailed squarely on its right rear wheel, sending it down the road like a poorly thrown frisbee. I remember a tremendous bang and a shower of sparks as the Geo spun itself out, fully half a block from the point of impact.
 
I lurched out of the Merc and immediately went into full Al Pacino mode, wild-eyed and paranoid. It had really become a Sidney Lumet movie at this point: on every corner, dozens of gawkers had materialized from nowhere, no doubt attracted by the concussive racket and the prospect of gore. "There's no red light!" I screamed as I pointed toward the traffic signal. By this time, "my" light had actually turned green. We all watched silently, expectantly, as it changed to yellow .  . . and then went blank.

No charges were filed.
 
(Name withheld for Rock 'n' Roll reasons)


-- -- -- -- -- -- -


Got a story from the Streets of Pizza?
Send it in:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 17, 2005 8:08 AM

 

Google: The Pizzaman's crystal ball?

Filed under: Imported

I was just checking the Streets of Pizza referer stats and
I noticed that I've gotten 20+ hits today from the
Jay Farrar bulletin board. I've always been a fan of Farrar and
his bands Uncle Tupelo and Son Volt. It's good to see Farrar fans
are also friends of the Pizzaman. Although I have no proof, I
have a hunch (Pizzaman's intuition?) that Mr Farrar himself
has the SoP bookmarked.
 
I also got two hits (pardon the pun) from someone who Googled
"stoned to the bejesus belt"

Last week, someone got to the site by Googling
"driving on busted CV joints"... then my CV joints went to
Hell.
With any luck, this week, I'll be "stoned to the bejesus belt"


Damn, I wish someone would get to the Streets of Pizza
by Googling "Pizzaman wins lottery".

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 15, 2005 12:03 PM

 

Minnesota Nice

Filed under: Imported

Everybody talks about the so-called "Minnesota Nice", but every day on the Streets of Pizza I encounter some Minnesotans that aren't very "nice". Now, most of my pizza-loving customers are fine folk, they say "Please" and "Thank you", they make the transaction at the door, they go on with their lives. But some people... well, often they're "nice" to your face, but once you somehow dis their "niceness" (even in the slightest way) or once they get behind closed doors, it's a whole different story:

I was on my way to my first delivery the other day when I came upon the dreaded "Minnesota Traffic Jam". I pulled up to an intersection, a four way stop. There was a Camry across the intersection, facing me and a Saturn to my right. The two occupants were engaged in the classic "Minnesota Traffic Jam", which is where two people sit at a stop sign and tell the other to go first. They wave and motion to each other.
"No, you go."
"No, you go."
"No, you."
Now, I could see these two cars engaged in this thoroughly midwestern activity about a half of a block away.
So I pulled up to the intersection and waited.
"No, you go."
"No, you go."
"No, you."
I sat there and counted to ten.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi..."
I was thinking to myself "I'm going to wait this one out".
They just sat there.
"No, you go."
"No, you go."
"No, you."
Finally, I was tired of waiting for these two farmers.
"Fuck it, I'm going"
I started across the intersection.
I turned to my right and looked at the guy in the Saturn.
He gave me the finger.
Oh, how Minnesotan, so nice of you, buddy... thanks.
I looked over at the Camry.
There was a 50ish woman who was scowling at me and shaking her head.
Oh, you too, lady.
I continued without guilt.


Later on that day, I'm delivering a greasy wheel to an apartment at  XXXX Passive/Aggressive Avenue. I ring the bell and this guy comes out from his apartment, which is right next to the entryway and answers the door. He's in his early-30's, I'd guess, he's skinny and wearing some cycling gear.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"It'll be $15.20, please."
He hands me a check and an I.D..
I'm thinking that this transaction will be easy, he's got all his shit together.

He hands me the check and the I.D..
I take a look.
The check has a girl's name on it.
I look at the I.D..
It's got a picture of a sturdily built, blond-haired woman on it and the same name as the check.
"I can't accept this check."
"Why not?"
"Because you're obviously not (the woman's name)"
"Whaddya mean?"
"I mean, this isn't you. If (she) writes a check, I have to see (her)."
"What? Fffppt. Whatever...  I'll get her."
He stomps back into the apartment.
I hear him say "Hey, he needs to see you... I dunno..."
Then a hear a woman's voice, she going apeshit.
"WHAT?! HE WANTS MY I.D.?
I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS SHIT!
WHAT THE FUCK?! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"
Great. Just fucking great. My heart drops. I get that special sense of dread that one gets before they must encounter the deranged.
Now, I realize this must suck. Seriously, if I was lying on the couch, ordering pizza,
I wouldn't want to get up if I didn't have to. But, on the other hand, I wouldn't write a check.
And if I did, I'd know enough to actually present myself if it was my check.
I mean, c'mon, really, you expect me to accept a check from some guy with a woman's I.D.?
Shit, he very well could have stolen your purse, baby. (Stolen checks are something I encounter quite frequently on the Streets of Pizza) After a few moments, skinny, dirty-blond woman comes to the door. She looks like her warranty expired many miles ago.
"Look" I say, "I'm sorry you had to come out. I just..."
"Oh, that's OK!" she chirps, "No problem".
She smiles.
"I just..."
"No really, no problem at all".
She shows me her I.D., I nod, she takes the pizza and without a word, slams the door. I linger in the entryway for a few seconds. "I DON'T KNOW WHAT HIS DEAL WAS." I hear the woman say, safely back in her apartment. "WHAT A LITTLE ASSHOLE". Hold on a second, honey. Asshole?
Yeah, I'll admit to being an asshole in my personal life, but not on the Streets of Pizza and I was certainly not an asshole to you. I was polite, apologetic and sweet as a peach.
Asshole?
Thanks. Thanks a fucking lot.

Minnesota Nice?
Kiss my ass.

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 14, 2005 2:08 PM

 

SoP Mailbag: Don't Fuck With Hillbilly Dave

Filed under: Imported

Although technically not a Pizzaman, this dude
writes in with the tale of "Dave The Pizzaman":


Dear Pizzaman,

 I was in the pizza game for about 12 years, I was an Inside man. Later I was management, but how I longingly would watch the D-Men plot their circuitous routes and cash them in at the end of the night, jealous of their flight from the phones at 5:15 on a Friday night and the cash in their pockets at the end of the shift.

 My favorite driver was probably the most unintentionally funny person I have ever known. For my purposes here I will call him Dave. Dave was a hulking brute of a man, about 6'7" and easily 300 pounds. Dave was a member of the steadily shrinking redneck contingent of our delivery area. He was functionally illiterate, had poor hygiene and smoked so much dope that he would honestly forget where he was going and have to call the store to be reminded that the address was on the pizza. I liked Dave from the moment I met him and hired him without an interview.

 Dave drove Plymouth Horizons. I can distinctly remember about 4 of them in the three years he worked for me. I can still remember the noise that his last blue Horizon made when Dave would step out of it. In removing his 300 pound load the car make a very happy squeak with a distinct high note at the very end. I imagine that car would also shutter when it saw Dave coming. He was so familiar with the mechanisms of the Horizon that he could, and did, readily fix any problem at all in about a half hour. The guys at AutoZone knew him by name.

 My favorite Dave story is when some poor misguided fool tried to rob Dave on a Motel 6 delivery. I was first aware of trouble when I got a call from the Manager of Motel 6, which was almost right across the street, saying that my driver had assaulted one of his guests. I wouldn't put anything past Dave, he had a certain "country sensibility" that made ideas and circumstance which I would consider NUCKING FUTZ almost pedestrian. However, he did not have a mean bone in his body. While I had once watched him deliberately jump a curb in his Horizon to watch people at a bus stop scatter in terror, the idea of a deliberate assault seemed too unfunny to be the entire story.

I had the Assistant Manager watch the store and I walked to the Motel 6, and there, with a 6 inch gash in his head gushing copious amounts of blood onto his Def Leppard bandanna, was an amazingly calm Dave.

In a bloody twitching heap in the parking lot was a cracked-out would be thief who got much more than he had bargained for. Seems that when Dave rounded a corner to go to the room, this guy had hit Dave in the head with a 4 foot long 2x4 with A NAIL IN IT. The nail actually pierced Dave's skull right between the eyes to a depth of 1/4 an inch. As the Paramedics and Police started to arrive, I asked Dave to tell me again what happened. With diction, clarity, vocabulary and tempo I had never heard from Dave before, he relayed the same story again with the Police listening, blood still flooding from the jagged edges of the wound right in the middle of his head. I asked him what happened next, and Dave said "That's when I got pissed!"  Seems Dave took care to set is deliver bag down very nicely on the sidewalk and proceeded to beat the crap out of (and later I found out, rob) this junkie who inadvertently picked the worst man in the world to hit with a 2x4. Before I got there, Dave had managed to STILL DELIVER THE PIZZAS!!

 I did the only thing I could, I gave Dave Employee of the Month and a fifth of Wild Turkey, the only thing he would drink. Dave later quit when I had to start hassling him about being late all the time. I don't think he ever knew how genuinely fond of him I was. I wonder where he is in this world, and I hope that he finds a women and a new Horizon now and then.

 
Sincerely,

(name withheld for political reasons)

--

Thanks to all the Pizzamen who've been sending in
stories from the mean Streets of Pizza.
I'll be posting more readers' stories in the near future.


Got a whack story from the Streets of Pizza?
Send 'em in:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 8, 2005 1:25 PM

 

Bad Day... on second thought, not so bad

Filed under: Imported

I thought I was having a bad day, until I saw this unfortunate Pizzaman.
Then I didn't feel too bad.


...but is it fake, or is it real?

Any guesses?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

--

Update: Fake.

According to this, the clip
was produced by the Victorian Traffic
Accident Commission in Australia.

Also, an ex-Pizzaman wrote in with
a vote for fake, reasoning that,
"When people are struck by cars and
sent airborne, their shoes fly off. Sometimes
farther than the poor bastard in that video."

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 5, 2005 5:34 PM

 

One Toke Over the Line, Sweet Jesus

Filed under: Imported

Some nights on the Streets of Pizza you notice things, then you notice them again and again at different
houses on the same night. For instance, last week I had a night where I saw no less than 5 Ansel Adams
prints on customers walls. Last fall, I had a night where I delivered to 6 different lava-lamp owners.
Odd coincidences, weird observations.

Last night, I noticed an inordinate amount of drug stashes and paraphernalia in the homes of Pizzalovers. It seemed every other delivery I made was to some stoner who left their drug kit in plain sight. Now, I deliver to stoned people every night and usually they will make an attempt to hide their dirty paraphernalia, they'll shove it behind a mug or under their coffee table, but the blatant display of paraphernalia last night was quite remarkable.

There were a couple guys with a bubbler, a girl with a "Hello Kitty" sticker on her glass pipe, some dude with a giant bong sitting right on his end table and several people with dugouts and/or pinchies.
One dude kept his pipe and a film canister in a small tupperware container.
Another had several One-Hitters (the faux cigarette, the classic brass and
a mini blue-aluminum job) neatly placed in a check box lined with green felt.
I even saw the 'ol toilet paper roll with the tin foil bowl.
Most of these people were slackers in their twenties, but several were very average, middle-class, middle-aged people who apparently enjoy smoking a little MJ after work. I noticed the middle-classers seem to have nicer, neater drug boxes and paraphernalia than the slackers and they usually try not to let one on that they're under the influence of the Sweet Leaf. There's this guy that I deliver to quite often who always comes to the door in an untucked white shirt and black slacks with an ID badge hanging from his neck. He always orders around 6:30. He always seems tired. He's 40ish, a little paunchy, usually grumpy. I would guess that he works in some white collar capacity. He tips exactly $2. But about every 10th delivery he comes to the door with heavy lids and red eyes. He always puts on his best "I'm not baked" act for me. But there's no foolin' The Pizzaman, dude. I know, I see it every night. The funny thing is, he always tips me $4 when he's stoned.
I think he's trying to buy my silence.

Generally, the slackers deal with the pizza transaction better than the middle-classers. However, last night, one high-ass could not get his shit together. He didn't hear the doorbell, he couldn't figure out how to unlock his door, couldn't find his wallet.
It was a total drag.
Finally, he found his wallet and came to the door. I told him his total ($14.90) and he pulled a 20 from
his wallet... then handed me his wallet.
I looked at him.
"I think you want to give me the 20, right?"
"Oh, yeah." he said, switching hands, giving me the 20. "Sorry dude. Um, here. Keep it. Thanks."
That guy bought himself $5.10 worth of forgiveness.

But basically the same scene repeated itself over and over, all night: the customer would come to the door,
eyes at half-mast, hand me some money, give me that "I'm baked" grin and thank me repeatedly.
At one stop, I asked a stoned-out group of guys;
"So what are you boys up to tonight?"
"Just workin' up an appetite." the guy on the couch replied, taking a hit.
God Bless you boys.

And so it went.
Another night on the Streets of Pizza.
Thanks Stoner Dudes.
You tipped me, on average, 22.67% more than other customers.

-- The Pizzaman


Do you have a drug box?
Pull it out of your underwear drawer,
take a picture of it and send it to me:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Posted by The Pizza Man at March 3, 2005 3:00 AM

 

Rollin' In My 1.6: The Pizzacar

Filed under: Imported

Like a lot of things in my life, (Don Henley, Mexican food, my job, myself) I have a love/hate relationship with my car.
I love the trusty little jalopy when it runs and hate it when it unexpectedly craps out on me. The Catch-22 of pizza delivery is that when your car breaks down, you're pretty much fucked. Since Pizzamen aren't exactly known for having large bank accounts, (most of us are usually just scraping by, doing the end-of-the-month shuck and jive to cover our asses) so when our rides shit out, we're screwed. No money to get the car fixed, no way to earn money to get the car fixed.
No car = no cash.
I can't tell you how many times a nights tips have been erased by some auto malfunction.
One time I was near the end of my shift on a cold winter's night when the tie-rod on this  '88 Accord I was driving at the time, completely busted. BANG! The car started to list to the left,  screeching and grinding. I was only a block or so from my apartment, so I decided to power that mother home. The screeching and grinding increased. I had to hold onto the wheel with all my might to keep the thing going straight. A smell, the smell of hot metal (the smell of welding) wafted to my nostrils and a sense of "This ain't good" sank my heart. I arrived at my apartment to find my two roommates standing out on the back porch, laughing. Apparently, they could hear the noise emanating from my car a block away.
"We thought a dumptruck broke down. That sound was just awful."
I didn't have time to talk, I still had to deliver the last pizza... on foot. I ran the two block to the customers house, made the transaction, returned to my apartment and called Triple A to tow my sorry-assed car to the mechanic. (Bill: $600)
Another time, I was downtown on LaSalle when my CV joint completely broke. After pulling over,
(which, again was a struggle) I called Triple A only to find that my membership had expired.
Luckily, my (at-the-time) girlfriend's Mom drove down to the scene, called Triple A, claimed SHE was
driving my piece of shit, and used her AAA card to have it towed. (thanks again KM)
I could go on and on with stories like this, but, like Shakespeare said:
"It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing"

Also, Pizzamen help each other out. Many times I've loaned or been loaned cars. I've delivered countless greasy frisbees in cars loaned to me by my Brothers of the Road. (not to mention girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, non-driver fellow employees and neighbors) Not only do the Pizzamen help each other out when it comes to delivering but we also keep an eye out to save our Brothers any hassle by "the man". Once a Brother left town to visit his parents in Syracuse. His car was broken down and parked on the street in front of my house.
Then a snowstorm hit.
A foot of snow fell and a snow emergency was called, his car would have to be moved to avoid being towed. A few other Pizzamen were called and the four of us pushed that lifeless hunk of Detroit steel around the corner to a safe parking spot. It wouldn't have been so bad, but the car was a 1974 Mercury that was as big as a whale... and there was foot of snow on the ground...and all four of us were stoned to the bejesus belt.

But Pizzamen adapt, we've learned to do our own repairs. Last summer I spotted a Brother from a competing pizzeria broken down in the parking lot of BigShot Pizza. He asked if he could use some of my tools and to my amazement, did a brake job right then and there in about 45 minutes.

Currrently, I'm driving a pretty reliable car. (knock wood) I paid $400 for it last May and have only (only!) had to put $1000 into it, which isn't bad for a pizza car. Right now, I do believe that it's running on denial, my denial. My denial that anything's is wrong with it. It's a japanese compact with shocks that were worn out thirty thousand miles ago, noisy CV joints and a tranny that's starting to slip. It rides like a chuckwagon and has been known to makes noises akin to a washing machine being thrown down a mountain, but it goes down the road, it gets the job done.
The jalopitous state of most pizza cars is our calling car. I've had regulars comment that they recognized the sound of my beater, signaling the arrival of their dinner. While my current car is in relatively good shape, I've had some real junkers in the past. Cars that no normal citizen would dare drive. There's been times in my pizza career where I feel like I'm taking my life in my hands when getting behind the wheel, like I'm rolling the dice, taking a gamble with my life. There have been times when I feel like I should be strapping on the 'ol red, white and blue Evel Knievel suit every time I get behind the wheel, like ABC's "Wide World of Sports" should have a camera trained on me, like it's an attempt to jump Snake Canyon every time I deliver a pie.
Pizzaman=Stuntman.

Once a pizzaman roommate of mine whose Dodge Omni had seen better days, decided it was time to turn it into an Art Car. He painted the panels of the car different colors to create a subcompact version of the Partridge Family bus.
It was pretty sweet.
But the crowning touch was the poem he printed on the hood:



Your Pizzacar "Done Broke Down"?
Tell me about it:
Pizzaman@citypages.com

Until next time...

Use your turn signal, jackass.

--The Pizzaman

Posted by The Pizza Man at February 26, 2005 7:20 PM

 

Rollin' In My 1.6

Filed under: Imported

Like a lot of things in my life, I have a love/hate relationship with my car.
I love the trusty little jalopy when it runs and hate it when it unexpectedly craps out on me. The Catch-22 of pizza delivery is that when your car breaks down, you're pretty much fucked. Since Pizzamen aren't exactly known for having large bank accounts, (most of us are usually just scraping by, doing the end-of-the-month shuck and jive to cover our bills) so when our rides shit out, we're screwed. No money to get the car fixed, no way to earn money to get the car fixed.
No car = no cash.
I can't tell you how many times a nights tips have been erased by some auto malfunction.
One time I was near the end of my shift on a cold winter's night when the tie-rod on this  '88 Accord I was driving at the time, completely busted. BANG! The car started to list to the left,  screeching and grinding. I was only a block or so from my apartment, so I decided to power that mother home. The screeching and grinding increased. I had to hold onto the wheel with all my might to keep the thing going straight. A smell, the smell of hot metal (the smell of welding) wafted to my nostrils and a sense of "This ain't good" sank my heart. I arrived at my apartment to find my two roommates standing out on the back porch, laughing. Apparently, they could hear the noise emanating from my car a block away.
"We thought a dumptruck broke down. That sound was just awful."
I didn't have time to talk, I still had to deliver the last pizza... on foot. I ran the two block to the customers house, made the transaction, returned to my apartment and called Triple A to tow my sorry-assed car to the mechanic.
Another time, I was downtown on LaSalle when my CV joint completely broke. After pulling over,
(which, again was a struggle) I called Triple A only to find that my membership had expired.
Luckily, my (at-the-time) girlfriend's Mom drove down to the scene, called Triple A, claimed SHE was driving my piece of shit, and used her AAA card to have it towed. (thanks again KM)
I could go on and on with stories like this, but, it's like Shakespeare said:
"It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing"

Also, Pizzamen help each other out. Many times I've loaned or been loaned cars. I've delivered countless greasy frisbees in cars loaned to me by my Brothers of the Road. (not to mention girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, non-driver fellow employees and neighbors)
Not only do the Pizzamen help each other out when it comes to delivering but we also keep an eye out to save our Brothers any hassle by "the man". Once a Brother left town to visit his parents in Syracuse. His car was broken down and parked on the street in front of my house.
Then a snowstorm hit.
A foot of snow fell and a snow emergency was called, his car would have to be moved to avoid being towed. A few other Pizzamen were called and the four of us pushed that lifeless hunk of Detroit steel around the corner to a safe parking spot. It wouldn't have been so bad, but the car was a 1974 Mercury that was as big as a whale... and there was foot of snow on the ground...and all four of us were stoned to the bejesus belt.

But Pizzamen adapt, we've learned to do our own repairs. Last summer I spotted a Brother from a competing pizzeria broken down in the parking lot of BigShot Pizza. He asked if he could use some of my tools and to my amazement, did a brake job right then and there in about 45 minutes.

Currrently, I'm driving a pretty reliable car. (knock wood) I paid $400 for it last May and have only (only!) had to put $1000 into it, which isn't bad for a pizza car. Right now, I do believe that it's running on denial, my denial. My denial that anything's is wrong with it. Now, it's no luxury car, it's a japanese compact with shocks that were worn out thirty thousand miles ago, noisy CV joints and a tranny that's starting to slip. It rides like a chuckwagon and has been known to sound like a washing machine being thrown down a mountain, but it goes down the road, it gets the job done.
The jalopitous state of most pizza cars is our calling car. I've had regulars comment that they recognized the sound of my beater, signaling the arrival of their dinner. While my current car
is in relatively good shape, I've had some real junkers in the past. Cars that no normal citizen would dare drive. There's been times in my pizza career where I feel like I'm taking my life in my hands when getting behind the wheel, like I'm rolling the dice, taking a gamble with my life. There have been times when I feel like I should be strapping on the 'ol red, white and blue Evel Knievel suit every time I get behind the wheel, like ABC's "Wide World of Sports" should
have a camera trained on me, like it's an attempt to jump Snake Canyon every time I deliver a pie.
Pizzaman=Stuntman.

Once a pizzaman roommate of mine whose Plymouth Horizon had seen better days, decided it was time to turn it into an Art Car. He painted the panels of the car different colors to create a subcompact version of the Partridge Family bus. It was pretty sweet.
But the crowning touch was the poem he printed on the hood:

Posted by The Pizza Man at February 26, 2005 6:33 PM

 

Anonymous/Unanimous!

Filed under: Imported

Another thing I'd like to inform you of, is the fact that we're are going to be anonymous around here. You, me, and all the pizzalovers that I deliver to. I'm not going to be naming names... or naming locations. For example: let's say I'm taking a double-pie order to Kevin Garnett and he farts during the transaction. Instead of telling yall "I took a double-pie to Kevin Garnett at 600 1st Avenue North and he farted during the transaction", I'll be saying "I took a double-disker to Johhny Hoop at XXX Z Avenue and he ripped a major fart" or perhaps "I took a couple of grease wheels to Mr. High-Roller at XXX Richguy Boulevard and he farted so loudly, I thought he'd shit his pants". This way, (hopefully) nobody will sue me, City Pages won't have to get the lawyers involved, and KG won't kick my ass the next he sees me. The name of my employer shall also remain anonymous. I work for a great restaurant in MPLS and I don't want to cause them any embarrassment. The people that I work with are some of the best people I've come across on this planet and well... their Mothers might be reading. Moms don't want to hear about their pizza-cook sons or daughters smoking pot in their cars on their break. You know what I'm saying here people? So with our Mothers in mind, I'll be referring to my place of employment as "Big Shot Pizza" or alternately "BS Pizza" or "BSP". This not only serves to save a few Moms, customers and my co-workers some embarrassment, but, hopefully it will keep my manager from firing my ass. If all goes well, this anonymousness will keep us out of court, out of the unemployment line and off the phone with Mom.

However, I will tell you this much:
-I'm an Italian Food Transportation Specialist. (Pizza driver)
-I'm in my thirties.
-My turf is the fine, fine city of MPLS.
-I have almost given up hope.
-I enjoy most any song featuring the banjo.
-I resemble Benjamin McKenzie. (OK, maybe that last one is a stretch)

-And...I love you.

Keep 'er between the ditches...

-The Pizzaman

Posted by The Pizza Man at February 23, 2005 1:00 PM

 

About The pizzaman

Filed under: Imported

-I'm an Italian Food Transportation Specialist. (Pizza driver)

-I'm in my thirties.

-My turf is the fine, fine city of MPLS.

-I have almost given up hope.

-I enjoy almost any song featuring the banjo.

-I'm a joker.

-I'm a smoker.

-I'm a midnight toker .

-I resemble Benjamin McKenzie. (OK, maybe that last one is a bit of a stretch)


-Years on job: 4 years
-Pizzas Delivered (est): 20,000+
-Turn-ons: Big tips, good driving, satin sheets, long walks on the beach.
-Turn-offs: Cheapskates, inattentive people, no shows.

Posted by The Pizza Man at February 17, 2005 2:05 PM

 

Hello there, ladies and gentlemen. Hello there, ladies and gents.

Filed under: Imported

For some reason, City Pages has decided it needs to go after the pizza demographic. First Mike Mosedale's excellent piece on MPLS's finest pizzamen and now, this blog. Heaven knows why, but here I am on your cyber-doorstep. Fresh and hot. The Streets of Pizza.

The idea of a delivery blog seemed like a good one, but what exactly would one put in such a thing? A diary? Stats? Debauched stories? Well, as it turns out, it's going to be all of these things. I'll be reporting on all the naked people, the drunks, the sweet old ladies, the sweet young ladies, the drugs, the bad drivers, the street-level chicanery, all the stuff that I know and love from the Streets of Pizza. But I cannot do this alone, for after all, I'm only one man, The Pizzaman. So if you're a Brother or Sister of the Road, if you've delivered pizza or subs or liquor (especially liquor) send me your stories. If a naked girl answers the door, The Streets of Pizza wants to know. If a coked-up businessman asks you in "for a drink" (wink, wink) the Streets of Pizza wants to know. Send stories, comments, complaints and love letters to: pizzaman@citypages.com

C'mon, let me into your hearts as well as your front door.

-The Pizzaman

Posted by The Pizza Man at February 17, 2005 2:05 PM