That's Amore?

"When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's amore!"  Or so it would seem, according to recording legend, Dean Martin.  He goes on crooning about other factors that equate to true love, but he never elaborates on whether it was a professionally-made pizza or a homemade one, crafted by one's mother.  Upon further speculation, I don't know which would be more beneficial to be clobbered in the face with... 🤔  That, however, is not what this blog will be about.  Instead, we're going to meander down the twisted rabbit hole which is the ongoing debate of what is better:  Pizza that is delivered VS a pizza made at home, from scratch.

Every morning I tune in to 96.3 Cruz-FM.  I love listening to the morning show personalities, Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  Their banter is second to none.  If you were to look at me when I'm listening to the show, you'll always see a big smile on my face, if I'm not laughing out loud.  They're a great pair and I hope they're on the air forever.  I also, like them because despite my constant texting into the show to relate to whatever the subject is that day, they're always kind and receptive, except that one time...  Just kidding. 😏

As per the usual, I was listening to the show and, admittedly I don't know how they got onto the subject, but nevertheless, they did, and the subject was PIZZA.  Stacie swears that homemade pizza is far better than delivery.  I can't say for certain that this actually happened, but I swear that I heard half the city exclaim in unison, "WHAT?!?"  If that never actually occurred, then Clayton spoke for all of us when he abruptly responded with "WHAT?!?" 😕  They immediately went into a mock trial where each participant defended their claim and I have to give the victory to Clayton, however, I do see some of Stacie's point.

Iron Chef Bobby Flay schleps pizza.

Stacie has been watching cooking shows and loves watching pizza being prepared at home, from scratch, rather than people always ordering in.  I understand the appeal of these shows, as I also watch them, from time-to-time.  The sound of whirring mixers or sizzling frying pans is a guilty pleasure of mine, which I presume is the case for many people.  It's very rarely, however, that I've ever attempted to replicate anything I've seen on TV.  However, listening to the premise of creating one's own pizza pie at home, is somewhat appealing, however, I always factor in the cost, mess and clean-up versus the reward.

There are billboards all over town, advertising one of the local pizzerias.  They boast this "incredible" deal of two large pizzas (12"), a 2L soda pop, a pound of ribs and a half dozen 2-bite brownies for an astounding price of just $68.99.  Yep!!  With tax, that food is well over seventy bucks.  Suddenly, making pizza at home sounds pretty f**king good.  I know your bank account would thank you.

Cheaper to make, perhaps.  Until you get to the grocer only to discover all the ingredients you desire, also cost an arm and a leg.  Practically need to get a second mortgage on the house just to pay the grocery bill.  Suddenly delivery sounds pretty damned good.  Plus, no mess.  Just a greasy pizza box that gets tossed into the recycling bin.  Your bank account may not like too much, but Mother Earth does.

Just look at this monstrosity from a local eatery.  Over an inch of meat and goodness.  May cost the price of your left arm, but there's no way, even on my best day ever, that I'd ever be able to make a pizza like this.

So which is better?  Difficult to say.  Personally, I have to go with the masses and choose delivery over homemade pizza.  As for which is better to get struck in the face with, I'd go with the homemade pie. 🍕

Dean Martin never specified which type of pie struck him in the eye to learn of the love directed at him, but maybe.  Just maybe.  It was a homemade pie, that fell apart immediately as it left the tosser's hand and only a little tomato sauce got in his eye.  That's amore?  A mother's love, perhaps?  I dunno.  That's a secret that went to the grave of the award-winning singer.

Iraqi Balboa

This past week at work, we began our new work pieces.  Every few months, representatives of the union and transit give new options for transit workers to change the routes of what they were doing to do something new.  Many retain the routes that they were doing previous, some even have been doing the same route for years, while others change shit up every once in awhile to keep things fresh and new.  If it were up to me, I would have continued doing the work I'd been doing since the start of the New Year, but fate would have other plans.  While my work was still there in the morning, by the time it was my turn for sign up, it was gone.  I was forced into something new and while I don't very much enjoy my weekday schedule, my Saturdays are da bomb!  It's only for two months and maybe, on my next sign up, I'll get back to what I was doing before, but if not, hopefully, I can keep this Saturday piece.  It's freakin' awesome, if you didn't already know.

So the latter piece of my Saturday, involves driving routes 44 and 45, which all return downtown as the Number 4.  I did a similar run last year, between October and the end of December, only this time, it's not as hectic and I'm not running an Artic (articulating bus) on the route.

On my second run downtown, returning as the Number 4 bus, I arrived at a stop along College Drive.  Mostly because there was a crowd waiting, but in part because this little Muslim boy stuck his arm out, as if he'd just told the crowd to "Hold on! I've got this!"

He was a very mature little boy of what appeared to be less than 5 years old.  He stepped aboard the bus, arms clasped behind his little body, venturing inward, gesturing like he was inspecting the troops.  As if he were a child-version of General Patton. His parent followed, his proud father with a gigantic smile stretched across his face, his mother behind him, with only a Mona Lisa smile.  They were followed by a cavalcade of people.

One of the side-facing seats were up, because a person with a stroller had been in that spot, earlier.  The young Muslim family sat next to the open spot.  Then no sooner had I continued on the route, that I heard the stop request bell go off.  Not once, like you'd expect, but multiples, like you'd hear from a pinball machine. BING! BING! BING!  BING! BING! BING!  This shit just aggravates me, because it's usually an immature person trying to be funny.

I once had a guy on the bus, who rang the bell for every stop, thinking he was being hilarious.  I told him to stop and he'd deny that he'd rung the bell.  "Sir!" I said sternly, "You're the ONLY person on the bus, besides me!"  The dirty young fella looked around and realized that he couldn't hide his guilt."  He continued to pull the cord, until I booted him off the bus.

This situation was different.  It wasn't an immature delinquent trying to be a funny man.  It was the young Muslim child who'd turned the Handicapped alert bell into his own private boxing gym.  The kid had mad skills, for being so young.  He looked like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.  BING! BING! BING!

I kindly requested that the bell not be pressed unless they were prepared to exit the bus.  The boy's father, his previous huge smile now dissippating turning into a look of embarrassment.  He pulled his son away, while the child's mother lowered to seat to discourage further interaction.

After a couple more stops, I heard that ever-so-familiar BING! BING! BING! BING!  I looked into the rear viewing mirror and saw that the determined young fella was now laying on his back, underneath the now lowered bench seat, hammering on that handi-button, while his panicked parents struggled to pull the stubborn kid out from beneath.

Once we'd arrived downtown, the kid, once more with hands clasped behind his tiny back, strode off the bus, tossing me a glance of approval.