Before I made my sojourn to the land of sunburn, pretty great bands that will never be big someday, and reams of 20-year-old girls who remind me I’m at the point where I can’t even relate to someone five years younger than me, I had a brief G-Chat conversation with Doctors of Za capo T. Mario where he implored me to write about Austin pizza. Like I had a choice: When you’re at SXSW, you eat all of your meals standing up, on a curb, over a paper plate, before later expelling that food in a watery mist into a dirty club toilet six hours later (or was that just me?), and pizza is easily the most paper-plate/curb friendly food on earth. Add the facts that I generally don’t like barbecue sauce, and that I eat pizza for about every meal when I’m NOT at a music festival with pizza as the cheapest food option, and even T. Mario had to know I was going to be eating a shit ton of za.

So here’s a survey of the four different places I ate pizza at. Where they any good? Not really. Were they better than Iron Works, the barbecue place I ate at, where Diddy and Cassie and their entourages cut in line in front of me (seriously)? No. But they had cheese. And other pizza-related things! Which is what this website is all about!

Roppolo’s: I ate this pizza my first night in Austin, when I was experiencing some serious crotch chafing and some asshole sweat problems I’ll refer only to as “legendary.” Did Roppolo’s assuage these problems? Nope. It was just serviceable pizza with spicy pepperoni. I ate two slices and took a shower afterward. Neither one felt good. I would bet that the lines I saw at Roppolo’s all week had less to do with the quality of pizza, and more to do with it being on the main drag of SXSW, right in the perfect place to capitalize on people expecting nothing but empty calories and vaguely shitty pizza.

Pizzeria Paparazzi: I passed this place multiple times before actually venturing in: It was across the street from my hotel, and, thanks to its blaring soundtrack of ‘80s hits, was like a antidote to the stream of terrible “alt”-country bands that populated the streets during the fest. However, it was, without question, the worst food I ate all festival, and that includes a monumentally shitty BBQ sandwich at Stubb’s. Imagine your high school cafeteria workers banding together to start a pizza place, and then deciding to just get materials from the same distributors that provided the food for hot lunch. And then, when they were making the pizza, they decided to take it out before it was completely cooked, and use cheese that is only cheese in name. And Pizzeria Paparazzi was just like that. I heard my best food related banter afterwards though: A dude said, “They call that New York pizza? Fuck that!” when he was leaving. I don’t want to get libelous, but I’m sure this pizza is what caused me to have knee weakening stomach problems during my publication’s official showcase.

The Onion: This was a place called the Onion, and it had a newsstand for copies of The Onion, and the pizza was pretty good. I honestly don’t remember that much about it, beyond those facts. Also, I know it went well with Stella Artois. But I wasn’t that drunk: My days sort of became a haze in there. In a midst of dumb haircuts, James Blake and meeting more people in 12 hours than I have in four years, I forgot about what the pizza was like.

Ironically, the best pizza I had all fest wasn’t from Austin at all: It was from Roberta’s, a Brooklyn pizza place that set up a stall at the Fader Fort throughout the Fort’s run. For those not in the know, or without VIP passes (not bragging), Fader magazine has a mini-festival every year, and it is the tits. They book whoever they want, and the music is tops. Fader Fort also isn’t a slave to the overwhelming shittiness of Austin pizza either: Roberta’s was the second best meal I had all week, and I ate a cheese pizza on a giant pillow in a blogger’s lounge, which is about the douchiest combination of pizza type, location, and seating equipment you can imagine in Mad Gabs. But still! The Neapolitan pizza I ate in that blogger’s lounge was just the 100% best. Too bad it was my first pizza of the trip, and everything else pizza-related didn’t stack up. Not even seeing that Cassie is as hot in person as she is in my dreams (she eats pizza with me in my dreams, is what I’m saying).

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.

At least two (maybe more, but I don’t have time to really think about it) Brady Street cafes cater to lovers of caffeine and laid back atmosphere. One of them, Roshambo, sucks babydicks — not so much their fault, but once, some annoying assfart named “Bix” flapped his stupid face forever while I was trying to play Scrabble like a year ago and I never went back. The other is called “Brewed” and it’s pretty OK in my book.

Brewed is a lot like most non-chain coffee shops in this big, round and unforgiving blue ball we call a planet. A menagerie of wobbly tables and mismatched chairs are crammed in the too-small space. Local art and fliers are tacked to the walls. There are weird nooks and raised areas, hinting that it–the lower level of an old house–probably shouldn’t be legally permitted to exist. And, of course, their are hippies and hipsters and old persons of varying hip health stationed throughout the cafe, pontificating hipply. But that’s fine. Overall, coffee shops are alright. In fact, when I was in high school, I used to hang out all the time at a coffee shop in Neenah that was a lot like Brewed called The Blue Moon. That was also when I planned to wait until marriage before boning anyone. Overall, I was pretty lame, but had the best intentions.

But one thing that The Blue Moon never had that Brewed does is amazing food (and the absence of spider webs/being a front for drug dealing). Included on the tiny cafe’s surprisingly sizable menu are flatbread pizzas ranging between $6.29 and $7.59 — six in all. 400 words since I started this, I’ll now get to the part where I talk about one I had, The Mexican Garden.

THE GOOD: Unlike the traditional “Mexican Garden” (a woman of Latin descent who has a huge bush), this Mexican Garden seem immediately appetizing to me. Have you ever drooled on your boner while shitting yourself based solely on something you were reading? Beyond a specific passage about the knuckleball in “Ball Four” — DON’T JUDGE ME!!! (cries) — this is the only time I can personally remember doing so. Read for yourself…

“A flatbread crust covered with our own black bean spread, cheddar cheese, onion, black olive, jalapeno and our own homemade kitchen salsa.”

The ‘za itself did not fail to mirror the text in its erotic beauty. It was outstanding, lead brilliantly by the generous smattering of black bean spread. The salsa was rich in organic and locally-grown ingredients. And the bitter cheese was countered with the slight zip of jalapeno. It was the perfect melding of components to forge a flawless product… the Mr. 3000 of flatbread pizzas. Oh God. I need to go back.

THE BAD: Being the pathetic creature I am, I tend to be sad when something great is about to end — the abrupt conclusion of Caddy Shack, the moment before my sexual partner’s eighth and final orgasm of our torrid fuck sesh, and the final bites of this pizza. I began the pizza unwilling to acknowledge its eventual end. This loss is the way I imagine a parent feels when giving birth to a severely premature baby. Only worse.

Also, for $6.99, the portions — even when factoring the fact that they’re organic — were a tad light.

TRY: Not hearing a Modest Mouse song in your time there. It’ll be tough to pull off, but you’ll be glad you did. Also, try a flatbread pizza. Duh.

RATING: I got one hand in my pocket (squeezing off while thinking about the pizza I just wrote about) and the other one is givin’ a peace sign. Timely!

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.

Marco’s, which is too shitty to even think about having a website, sticks out like a penis at an Ani DiFranco concert amongst all the mini malls, the big box superstores and other national franchises dotting the Oak Creek cityscape. Its building looks semi-abandoned, which is always a good feature for a business that produces things that people ingest. But, throwing caution and the fate of our anuses to the wind, Sto Cazzo and I ordered anyway.

THE GOOD: Despite severely bending the term, the circular cheese, pepperoni, sausage and canned mushroom pile we received from Marco’s was, in fact, pizza. And having consumed pizza from gas stations, my public elementary school and The Seymour Fair in my past, I can attest that even things barely qualifying as pizza are still pretty awesome.

Away from the pizza, Marco’s — in desperate attempt to lend its crackerass location more Italian authenticity — employs “De” instead of “the” in its menu, including in their hilariously terrible slogans: “De Best Ingredients Makes De Best Pizza” (which is not even grammatically correct), “For Get De Rest Get De Best” (De Best at not realizing “forget” is one word, that a comma should come after “rest” and that each first letter shouldn’t be capitalized?) and “We May Not Be De Fastest – Just De Best” (There isn’t enough time nor letters in the alphabet for me to appropriately make fun of this one). In all, Marco’s has more slogans (three, funny and stupid) than its pizza has taste (one, bland).

THE BAD: The last slogan didn’t lie. It took forever (or “For Ever” in Marco’s-speak) for our pizza to come. Despite our warning against doing so, they came to the wrong door and I had to walk around our massive building to meet the sonofabitch. Not quite worth the unheard of $2.50 delivery charge, if you ask me. Delivery retardation aside, the overabundance of cheese on this ‘Za-bomination almost certainly added to our hour wait. 

In terms of the pizza itself, the inside pieces were sloppy as fuck. After eating just one gooey center slice, I felt like I seriously needed to use one of those hazmat showering stations that are in high school chemistry labs. It was dreadful. Even less appealing was the sodium level Marco’s brought to an already NaCl-rich foodstuff. Between the Olympic-sized pools of grease, the salt-lick sausage and canned mushrooms (gross), it was an altogether abrasive and messy ordeal… like having to help gut a deer that you, yourself, didn’t shoot. Except you feel fat and like you want to commit suicide after.

TRY: A full pan of lasagna. At $87.95 and with 5 hours of notice needed (pencil in an extra 5 hours for delivery), it’ll have you wondering “Why Didn’t I Make De Lasagna My Self?”

RATING: You’ll regret ordering it, loathe yourself while eating it… but, like me, finish it in your car on the drive home from work. You’ll cry as you polish off the leftovers. But the next day, you’ll awake finding that surviving the experience has somehow strengthened your belief in good pizza and, just maybe, in life as a whole. That said… let’s give it a 3.

I stole the above photo from a more favorable Web review of Marco’s.

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.  The Good: You should know Rosati’s in Madison (at least the one on the west side) isn’t directly affiliated with the Rosati’s Chicago-style pizza chain. It has the same menu and everything, but it’s not affiliated with the chain that has operated for 50 years in Chicago, or the one on the east side that is basically in Sun Prairie (which I’m told sucks dong). But enough with the background on pizza chain affiliates and onto the ‘za.

The pizza comes in three different types, basically a pan style, a super huge pan style, and a fucking enormous pan style that promises to be an obelisk of bread and cheese. My roommates and I went with the middle option, and it was pretty okay. Unlike Brett Favre’s penis, the pizza was thick, it was stiff, it could please a woman, and it didn’t wear Crocs. But…

The Bad: It was huge and bland. It was like taking five one-pound bags of shredded cheese from the grocery store and cooking it on top of a pile of pepperoni and a loaf of bread. It entirely gets wrong the original spirit of Chicago style pizza: It’s not about how high you can make the crust, it’s about how good you can make your sauce. Think about it; that well of crust allows pizza makers to show off their sauce in a way that New York pizza doesn’t allow. Instead, chains like Uno’s and Rosati’s pile on the crust and the cheese, leaving very little sauce. Which in Rosati’s case, might be a good thing, since their sauce also tasted like it was store-bought. I mean, my mom makes pizza just like this, and I don’t have to pay $18 for a medium that takes 30 minutes to cook. Also, mom, if you’re reading this (I hope not), that Brett Favre penis joke was for you. Happy birthday? And Christmas too?

Try: One of my roommates had a gnarly looking Chicago-style hot dog that looked pretty rad, as Rosati’s offers more than just za. Other than that, just try finding a Rocky’s instead.

Rating: Like Ben Roethlisberger in a bar, the pizza comes on strong but…I have no joke for this.

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.

Also here, places like Papa Luigi’s II serve this unappealing cast of poorly-drawn characters pizza that’s perfectly fitting of the surrounding.

One night, my boss took our office out for dinner. We went to the nearby building, and expecting something way shitty (being in South Milwaukee after all), I was surprised when my dining experience wasn’t entirely gross and terrible… but, instead, a mixture of confusing, overtly formal, and kind of a let down — in addition to being gross and terrible. Upon entering, the owner introduced himself to us, then proceeded to ask each of us our goddamn life stories before seating us. Lame.

THE GOOD: Even for being in the confines of Shit Milwaukee (see what I did there? I substituted the word “Shit” instead of “South” just now. Because it’s a rather unsavory place.), you can’t fault Papa Luigi’s II or its talkative-ass owner for trying to be awesome. They totally try. The restaurant has a pretty tits game room with air hockey, billiards and even that Cruisin’ USA game. There’s a bowling alley upstairs, a full bar, a basketball court, and a banquet hall that’s rented out for retarded local MMA events and probably receptions for shotgun weddings between expecting tweens. In a different city, in a different world, at a different time or with a lower level of self respect for yours truly, this place would have all the ingredients of not absolutely sucking liquid shit through a crazy straw with its lameness. Even so, I have no doubt this is the single coolest place in Milwaukee (where meth isn’t being made).

THE BAD: Somehow, with all the accoutrements of a poor man’s Shakey’s and being the type of joint that would’ve probably caused the 12-year-old T. Mario to skeet his Lee Pipes jorts, Papa Luigi’s II still managed to fucking huff a bindle (that’s the bag on a stick thing that old fashioned hobos used to carry) of HPV-infected cocks. Like South Milwaukee compared to Cool Milwaukee (also sometimes referred to as “Milwaukee”), Papa Luigi’s II just seemed a bit off. Out of order games, douche bags running amok and getting in my way everywhere, and the echo of basketballs being dribbled on the court (inexplicably placed on the upper level) each played a part in ruining a good concept.

Getting to the ‘za: It was your basic pizza, except it was bland as shit and served on crust that seemed like wet cardboard. But for being free pizza, it did the job. And the big shot owner even sprung for a free order of fried zucchini sticks, which was almost worth an eight the cost of hearing about his renovations of the business. The sticks were also blah.

TRY: Have you ever played cutthroat? It’s pool for three people. While you’re waiting for your soggy and forgettable pizza between Lord of the Rings-length owner tales of how old the wood in the back room is, play some cutthroat. It’s totally badass. 

RATING: Milwaukee = 2.7, South Milwaukee = The best place ever.

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.

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.

My first exposure to Mamma Mia’s came at the peak of inebriation, while “passing the Dutchie” (the ritualistic bonfire-adjacent sharing of random gross beer and abandoned wine coolers, popular in Northern Wisconsin) at a friend’s house. Even then, I knew something was amiss with this brew.

But I just couldn’t get past the realization that the combination of pizza and beer — two of my favorite things — would result in one terrible thing. It’s like saying blowjobs aren’t awesome on snow days; baseball is worse now that the color barrier was broken; and rock ‘n’ roll wouldn’t be as badass if played by dinosaurs. So I, burly and brave Doctor as I am, sacked up and decided to give Mamma Mia a second, more sober, try.

THE GOOD: There is alcohol in Mamma Mia Pizza Beer. Factoring that in, I suppose one could successfully achieve intoxication if they consume enough of it. That said, there are countless non-pizza beer options that can get someone just as blotto, while incurring less suffering. Of them: Generic mouthwash, chewing gum, “Non-Alcoholic” beer, the urine of a really drunk person, gasoline. Even Mike’s Hard Lemonade is a tie. 

THE BAD: It tastes nothing like pizza. Even the worst pizza I can conjure in my annuals of pizza-scarfing apriori does little to resemble this. It’s almost as if those asshats at Mamma Mia came to the (completely false) conclusion that putting basil into something magically transformed it into pizza. It doesn’t. Remember those Doritos that were “flavored like” pizza? They have nothing to do with Mamma Mia Pizza beer, but those were super shitty too. 

Obviously, beer aficionado websites are raving about this swill. Why wouldn’t they? It’s nary a surprise to see that a guild of white, yuppie, beer-snob fatfucks (who appoint themselves to be experts) love something that 103 percent of the galaxy either hates or has never heard of.

“But aren’t you guys just doing the same thing with pizza?” No! We’re WAY different, imaginary reader. Most of us aren’t fat. So, eat shit. Or if you prefer a beverage instead, drink Mamma Mia Pizza Beer.

TRY: An expired can of Mountain Creek + a disgusting amount of basil. You’ll save $2.50.

RATING: The world’s worst “Yo’ Mamma” joke is apparently a microbrew.

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.

This brings us to yet another reason why pizza is the greatest food on the planet, and the topic of this essay, as well. Because pizza parties mark the genesis of our remembered party experiences, it is the catalyst for all the rowdy and wanton half-barrel bashes I was a part of in college. If you trace the dominoes of party antics from gulping a shot of 409 spray all the way back to the origin, the instigating domino was inhaling a triple-decker of Shakey’s pepperoni pizza because my friend Al dared me to do it.

Now, before I progress any further, it’s important to dismiss cake as the REAL catalyst of our partying instincts. Although it’s true that, mostly because it’s easier to chew, we are fed cake by our parents for our birthday parties before we mature to the pizza party stage. The reasons why I’m not writing this essay about cake are as follows.

First, we can rarely remember the birthdays before our teeth became firm and sharp enough to eat pizza. The cake-boasting birthdays of toddler-hood are not a part of our conscious memory. Sure, we recall eating cake at parties in grade school, but not until AFTER we scarfed down pizza for our main course. The relationship of pizza to cake has long been as paradoxical as, say, a concert in 1975 that featured Led Zeppelin opening up for the Guess Who. In spite of the order in which they are experienced, no one is dumb enough to debate who the real headliner is.

Secondly, cake parties were about bonding with our parents, spending memorable time with them, offering them jovial moments for the family photo album. The drive behind a pizza party in grade school, however, was to distance yourself from your parents, a trend that was followed vociferously in high school, and with reduced intensity, college and thereafter. Pizza parties prompted our desire to carouse with friends rather than our parents in social gatherings. At pizza parties, our parents were embarrassing yet essential appendages responsible for providing us presents and quarters to plug into ticket-dispensing games like ski ball and Whack-a-mole, not to mention four-player arcade masterpieces such as “The Simpsons” and “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

Finally, at age 27, as a Wisconsinite with a generational penchant for brewed ale, beer has become for me an intrinsic component of a party. The tastes of beer and cake are incompatible. When the two are combined, masochistically, the beer seems too bitter, while the cake tastes too sweet. But beer mingles exquisitely with greasy and salty food like pizza. The absence of beer at a “party” has an awfully enervating effect on the event. More likely than a party, if they’re not serving beer at the gathering, you’re at a PTA meeting. Or worse, a Christian Rock concert. Cake doesn’t follow through on the trajectory of the evolution of the party in its most authentic state.

Fuck cake. You’re reading this because we love pizza.

The problem with the third dismissal of cake that I cited, that no beer = lame party, is that one could argue it makes me seem like a drunkard elitist, that I’ve been corrupted by intoxicants. Maybe it’s just that I have a chemical predilection for pizza and beer and the parties that accompany them both.

Pizza is not by definition an intoxicant, but in a way, it’s the first gateway drug we experience. Despite its wholesome reputation, the first little stumble on the slippery slope of partying is the pizza party. We’re encouraged to consume not in moderation but in excess. If you scarf down five slices while your friend is still gnawing tentatively on his second, you become cooler than your friend. We learn that gluttony gives us reason to boast. Just as we brag about crushing six New Castles and three Irish car-bombs before sundown, when we are young we puff our chest out and solicit high-fives from our buddies for devouring four pizza slices in less than ten minutes.

When I think back to the pizza party thrown to celebrate my 12^th birthday party, held at Shakey’s restaurant and buffet, it comes as no surprise that three-quarters of my buddies in attendance began indulging in booze and marijuana the next year, when we entered junior high school. I was not among the 13-year-old drug-dabblers. Back then I lacked audacity and recklessness; I was sheepish and feared upsetting my parents. I did not advance on the path of party decadence until my senior year of high school. Consequently, I was mocked and then promptly dismissed from that core group of friends.

From age five until twelve, I derided any kid my age who wanted nothing to do with pizza parties. These kids were fun-hating freaks to me, dour and emotionless bores whose overbearing parents forbade video games, soft drinks, and greasy foods. But at age 13, when puberty hit, when popularity became a cutthroat proving ground, from the perspectives of my former friends, I had become like those excessively protected geeks who shunned pizza parties. I had been left behind because I didn’t advance on the path of party decadence.

And it’s not that my rebellious ex-friends outgrew the appeal offered by pizza parties; they just preferred—no, demanded–to rip a joint of dirt weed and/ or pound a couple shots from an absent parent’s liquor cabinet before riding their bikes to Shakey’s buffet to gorge on pizza and get their stoned minds blown playing “Mortal Kombat II.” Pizza still delivered satisfaction…but it was no longer enough to quell their partying impulses. They needed more. More risk, more excitement, a more substantial buzz. It was no longer cool to merely boast about one’s pizza intake; the stakes were raised the day the snarky hellions discovered sprouts of hair on their balls.

I can no longer get by merely on pizza parties, as I could when I was 13. Nowadays I prefer to wash down slices of ‘za with hearty sips of Miller Lite as opposed to Pepsi, and 25% of the time I consume ‘za, it’s while I’m stoned on the reefer. It’s inevitable for the vast majority of adults to periodically seek intoxication, and I wonder if those years I spent shunning drugs represented not a noble battle for sobriety amidst temptation but rather a protracted case of arrested development. I was already hooked on partying; those exuberant birthday bashes at Shakey’s provided proof of that. It just took me longer to ascend to the next level of fun-loving decadence.

Sometimes I think my insights tend to tarnish everything. If that’s the case, then I’m grateful to be wrong now and then. Regardless, the next time I’m invited to a pizza party for children –and this is a rare occasion because I generally dislike spending time with rowdy kids—I will know of the dark undertones lurking beneath the surface of an ostensibly innocent and joyful festivity. I will envision all the youngsters as burnout adolescents, sneering impishly by the band-saw as they carve a rudimentary bong out of oak in shop class. I will envision beer in place of the cola in their cups as they chug with reckless thirst to alleviate their tongue burns. In place of their arcade tokens will be quarters, which will one day inevitably get bounced off the hard surface of the table into a foamy glass of Milwaukee’s Best. My imagination will distort and subvert the seemingly wholesome event; everything will be different, transformed.

Except for the pizza. It will remain constant. Pizza is not by definition a mind-altering substance, but it alters our mind’s perception of how to party: with parent-leery friends, in a calamitous setting, with insatiable greed that obliges us to boast.

The party started with pizza; we just didn’t realize it.

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.

Those familiar with Transfer will be glad to know that, like the sister pizzeria, Via Downer also uses a wood fire oven, prides itself on using primarily locally-grown organic ingredients, features all 23 of Transfer’s pizzas and is fucking awesome.

THE GOOD: In addition to the above, Via itself is a gorgeous, newly-renovated restaurant in a quiet and underrated neighborhood. In terms of interior, think of a larger Transfer meets Comet (minus the thousands of people waiting to be seated). 

Speaking for the food, where do I begin? My pizza, the “Da Vinci” was a fluffy 12-inch diameter slice of heaven… the Muslim heaven with all the hot snatch. A blend of juicy organic tomatoes, tangy red sauce, the welcomed domination of pesto all sitting atop a warm bed of both feta and asiago cheese — sweet baby Christ, this was a pizza to which one could set his or her watch. I swear on Paul Newman’s grave that if this pizza had a vagina and low enough self esteem to let me, I’d fuck it.

THE BAD: It’s hard to take such a delectable pizza to task, but I have to say that the Da Vinci Ronnie and I had at Transfer months earlier was better. For one, it was bigger, more rigid in the center and had more tomatoes and feta per bite. I chalk some of that up to Via being scantly a fortnight in age, but being aware that it gets better left me feeling a bit disappointed.

Also, the servers, host and manager all stopped to ask me how my pizza was. Even worse, they all timed the question perfectly to when I had just taken a huge bite. I was faced with either mumbling, “hfhutu_mkdlsnn6@lx73nhg76n” with a mouthful of pizza and nodding happily or simply giving a thumbs up. I did both these things. I felt like an asshole. Besides, it should’ve been obvious I loved the fucker by how hard I was going Wolfenstein on the thing.

Lastly, Via’s beer selection is far from impressive and it is fairly expensive. Uhhh… $3.50 for a High Life. Cut-it-out!

TRY: Personally, I can only vouch for the Da Vinci, but the Thai Chicken is on my short list for one to try on my next visit. Overall, I’m sure anything they have is capable of engorging your private parts in a gender appropriate way. Just make sure to get pizza. Otherwise it’s like going to Greece to play mini golf or South Dakota to have an abortion. It just doesn’t make sense.

RATING: More like Via UPPER! (pats self on back).