I don’t like to brag (I love to brag), but when I’m not checking in with  hardly edited and cuss-filled pizza reviews from a city most people in  Wisconsin openly hate (Madison), I’m writing mildly edited  dispatches about the very bad British band Yuck and children rappists  (or rappers, if you prefer). I’m what STD doctors call a “music  blogger” and in that capacity, I recently went to SXSW in Austin, TX.  Are you aware of it? It is a long line of people in Austin, TX, that  somehow involves music, in some capacity. I guess bands play there,  and I went to see many of them (I saw 50 shows in four days). Do you  have an opinion on Dom? I do, since I saw him twice in 48 hours.  Were you at the show that Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All  played where they told Billboard to go fuck itself? I was. Read more »

I ... I hate you.

As one of the most renowned streets in the best city in the greatest state in one of the top 50 countries in the most inhabitable planet that I’m personally aware of, Brady Street has a little something for everyone.

Lovers of decadent hot dogs, shitty taverns that refuse to adhere to the state’s workplace smoking ordinance, homeless people, and juggling emporiums with rhyming names alike can bide their time in this wonderful 9-block Milwaukee oasis. But fatass drunk assholes with an outside interest in unicycle purchase such as myself aren’t the only ones who can get something from Brady Street. Dirty hippies, too, can imbibe in this Eastside jewel on Milwaukee’s shimmering crown.
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Booooo!!!

Pizza and blow jobs are a lot alike. So long as nobody is biting your dick, you’re going to enjoy receiving even the worst of either thing.

The former is proved accurate by Marco’s Pizza (111 E. Forest Hill Ave., Oak Creek). A while back, I gave a pie from the T. Mario’s work-adjacent pizzeria a try. The experience can be summed up by placing one’s palms tightly against one’s lips and making a drawn out sound reminiscent of a wet fart. But since I can’t effectively execute this noise in text, and I know dick about making mp3s, I’ll do the next best thing and write about why Marco’s isn’t very good.
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Lame logo for lame pizza.

Sorry I haven’t contributed here lately. I’ve been up to other things, like writing a musical based on the life of Andre the Giant, writing shit about plays that are about dogs and fucking, and generally doing important shit like ruining the days of 12-year-olds on Halo Reach. But it’s not like I haven’t eaten pizza; my doctor, who I recently saw for the first time in like five years assured me that I am indeed still obese, a pizza lover, and headed to a heart-attack filled grave. When I asked him how he knew I love pizza, he looked at me, and said, “Because of that pepperoni on your chin.”

The problem is, I haven’t eaten much new pizza. I’ve balled down on plenty of Rossi’s, eaten at Roman Candle, (not) mourned the loss of Gumby’s, and eaten (roughly) 100 frozen pizzas. The only new place I’ve tried was Rosati’s, a place so thoroughly inoffensive and unmemorable, that I forgot I ate there when I discussed not writing pizza reviews much any more with my roommate. “I don’t eat at places we haven’t ate anymore,” I said. “Yes you do. We ate at that one place before Social Network,” he said. “I hate you so much,” I said.   Read more »

The pizza is as adventurous as the exterior.

The concept of South Milwaukee is an odd one. When first hired to write for a South Milwaukee-based company, I was under the impression South Milwaukee was located in the Southern portion of Milwaukee. I could not have been more wrong.

Past Milwaukee, through portions of two additional cities (Cudahy and Oak Creek) and approximately one world away, sits … well, more slouches … the City of South Milwaukee. Here, pasty gangstas and juggalos roam the streets unimpeded. Here, establishments like “Buck & Cherryl’s” and “Snarley’s” prove preferred locales to blow one’s disability check on gambling machines and NASCAR brackets. I’ve never seen a pretty girl in South Milwaukee, save for some butterfaced mom who couldn’t of been more than 17. And even that was a reach.
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I don't give a fuck if it's upside down.

Golden Eagle Pizza is a restaurant in Townsend, WI.

It’s pretty good, I guess. A tad overrated, if you ask me. I don’t know. But if you find yourself in the Wisconsin Northwoods and don’t want to settle for frozen pizza, but rather, restaurant-priced pizza with the same texture and consistency of frozen pizza… well, this is the place for you.

Go there if you want. Whatever.

RATING: No rating.

In addition to being a prophet of pizza, I also fancy myself a bit of a beer connoisseur. And you should too!

For starters, I used to be a paid (when they felt like it) contributor for Alcoholmanac — one of the Greater Milwaukee Area’s premier bi-monthly, 20-page-long, totally shitty, free publications of which you’ve undoubtedly never heard.

Secondly, I drink constantly. And that habitual hitting of the sauce has resulted in numerous actions and decisions that run the gamut of self-destructive, dangerous, unsavoury, and altogether regrettable in nature. Of the voluminous listing of unfortunate alcohol-based choices I’ve made, I would hoist ingesting Mamma Mia’s Pizza Beer somewhere between drunk driving home after being cut off at the Cactus Club, and inducing vomit into a campfire whilst shirtless alongside three other (also shirtless) dudes as an apparent rite of passage. It’s that bad.
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“Sink the Ship” is a decadent college drinking game in which two teams gather in a circle, teaming up with every other person in the group so that each player has a rival on both sides, and take turns pouring droplets of beer into a cup floating in the middle of the pitcher. The unfortunate soul who pours the droplet(s) responsible for capsizing the cup, i.e. sinking the ship, must chug the contents of the pitcher along with their teammates. The pitcher must be passed to a teammate once the binge-drinker’s lips leave the spout of the glass pitcher. What this means is that the anchor of the team, depending on your teammates’ penchant for consuming hops, may be forced to drink up to half a pitcher of beer in one mighty, debauchery-fueled chugging frenzy.

I used to play “Sink the Ship” on a biweekly basis when I was a junior in college. It is astounding, scary, and whimsical, the damage we have the liberty to inflict on our livers without consequence of severe hangover, when we are 20 years old.

Before Doc Za contributor T. Mario ever adopted his alias, we went to college together. Shortly after he came of drinking age, he arranged a tag-team case race at his house in which members of the college newspaper staff (Jimbo Slice included) paired up and competed against each other. My partner and I got off to a strong start but wavered after an hour or so. We didn’t end up winning the contest. But afterward, I was drunk enough to (accidentally) gulp a shot of 409 cleaning spray. I have long debated which is more puzzling: 1.) Why someone would fill a shot glass at a party with a liquid that, to the inebriated eye, could pass for a cherry bomb, or 2.) why I decided it was prudent to send the mystery shot down the hatch in the first place. Thankfully, I didn’t need to have my stomach pumped at the hospital. 20 minutes later my gag reflex, in tandem with a rejective stomach and a recoiling esophagus, evacuated all the nefarious chemicals in my system with a raging deluge of vomit. After being told that I had just swallowed 409 spray, I promptly walked two blocks to the editor’s house and upchucked in his bathroom. It is testament to my respect for T. Mario that I had the discipline not to throw up in his toilet.

All this is to say that I have partied, for good or ill. But long before the accounts of booze-induced debauchery that I have just described, my first memories of parties prominently showcased pizza. In first grade, for example, the only type of party that could make my pink crayon tingle was one of the pizza variety. I could not say the two words, “Pizza Party!” without exclaiming them as I pumped my fist with salivating anticipation.
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After learning that a pizza place was to open on Milwaukee’s vastly underutilized Downer Avenue and that it was affiliated with crosstown ‘za czars Transfer, I was struck with an excitement unparalleled by any previous pizza venue’s opening I can personally remember.

The weeks that followed were agonizing — like waiting to open a potato gun-shaped Christmas present from that awesome uncle you have who works with PVC pipe at his job (potato farmer is also an applicable occupation for this analogy). But somehow, much in thanks to fantasy baseball, Internet pornography and drinking to the point of blackout, I managed to stave off an impatience-based hari kari and live to see the beautiful day that Via Downer opened for business.
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