It's somewhere in this fucker.

Eau Claire is known for many things — La Crosse Lager, the mighty Chippewa Falls, UW-Whitewater and the Minnesota Twins, to name just a few.

Okay, so Eau Claire isn’t known for shit… except being annoyingly far away from everywhere else, and Bon Iver’s falsetto occasionally echoing out from the woods.

But, as I found when I paid Eau Claire my innaugral visit recently, Pizza Del Re is pretty alright too.
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Greenville: Pizza Mecca of Earth?

Spectators Sports Bar & Grill (W6165 Greenville Dr., Greenville, WI) is a place I’d driven by numerous times, but never thought I’d have a reason to stop by.

For one, it’s in Greenville, which one usually only happens upon when looking for discount Wasabi Peas, or when given bogus directions to the Fox River Mall. Secondly, the bar looks, from the outside at least, to be the type of place where Jager Bombs are considered “new” and unlicensed T-shirts bashing Brett Favre are routinely sold.

But fate, hunger and a tri-generational meeting of Mario (except not an alias) family males recently brought me to Spectators for the first time. There, I learned 1. Spectators is actually kind of a badass bar, 2. My grandpa is a dirty and hilarious old man, 3. Puerto Rican sluts on the rag are delicious (the shot isn’t bad either), 4. The secluded country bar’s pizza is that of wet dreams.
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Life is a game of give and take.

It’s difficult to recognize pleasure without first experiencing pain. People everywhere (except Michigan) brave the highways each morning to drive to a jobs they hate, just so they can support their lifestyles and provide security for loved ones. Any guy who’s ever seen a Hugh Grant movie probably did it for the Hanj (or better) he assumed may follow said sacrifice.

And in the case of Milwaukee’s newest place of pizza pie purveyance, Crisp Pizzabar & Lounge, one of the area’s better and higher quality wood fire pizzas in Milwaukee comes with the attached toll of being housed within one of the most overtly douchebaggish restaurant concepts ever.
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Kind of badass.

Simply stated, there are just certain places you shouldn’t good to get certain things.

Think about it; when you want sushi, you don’t rush to a mini mall in a town of 5,000. I’d advise against venturing to either Dakota if you’re specifically searching for a hot piece of tail (though I once made out with a cute chick from Fargo). Families don’t, or at least shouldn’t, caravan to Washington D.C. just to see “a good baseball game”–even if they live in the D.C. area. In that same vein, very few people go to gas stations with the sole intention of getting a hot slice of pizza. But regional convenience store chain Kwik Trip (of selling milk in bags fame) not only stocks a myriad of pre-made Cheese Mountain Pizza beneath their heat lamps, they really, really push them on people. 

But somehow, I’d managed to resist the the onslaught of radio ads, TV commercials and in-store advertising that makes Avatar seem under-publicized by comparison. Maybe I wasn’t ready to have my mind blown. Maybe I didn’t feel as if I deserved to try Cheese Mountain Pizza. But probably, it was because they look fucking disgusting.
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Its pizza is much better than its fugly logo.

I like to pay out-of-season visits to places like Lake Geneva.

For some reason, things like saltwater taffy, novelty T-shirts with something pissing on something else, and the presence of water manage to bring in tourists from around Wisconsin, and a plethora of self-important fuckheads from Illinois in summer.

But in winter, the place takes on a whole new persona — like a sleeping city of sorts. Or like Sheboygan with more stuff to do and fewer sexual assaults.

With the aforementioned FIB-influx, Chicago residents — who would probably melt if ever forced to eat a thin crust pizza — have used their loud-mouth influence to bring a bunch of stuffed pizza joints to Lake Geneva. Down panderingly-named routes like “Wrigley Street”, “Curtis Enis Run” and “Honk your Horn Because the Guy Ahead of you Didn’t Run a Red Light, and You’re in a Hurry to Watch the Cubs NOT Win the World Series Again Boulevard”, you’ll see Chicago-based chains like Geno’s East, and various other purveyors of the stuffed pizza shamelessly using the word “Chicago” in their names.

When my pal Vince invited me to his hometown of Lake Geneva to meet him for some stuffed Za at Original Chicago Pizza Co., get drunk, talk about Sons of Anarchy and make fun of Corey Hart at length, I gladly accepted.
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You think you’re beginning to figure out life, until something comes along to totally change your opinion of it. You’re certain you know what true happiness is, until you find love and become a parent. You think you’ve reached the apex of carnal satisfaction, until your lady gives you the green light to take a run at her without a dong bag. You go through life thinking you’ve regularly been eating pizza… until you eat deep dish pizza in Chicago.

At the recommendation of DoZ reader Adam, I found myself pestering my friends to bring me to a downtown Giordano’s location when I was in Chicago last weekend. Like almost everything else in Chicago, the famous pizzeria chain had a line out the ass and the occasional self-important fuckface who threatened everyone’s enjoyment of the experience. But — also like Chicago — Giordano’s Pizza also had enough great and impressive things incorporated to make it well worth the time, excess money and inevitable frustration expended in the process.
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Abu’s has been treating Milwaukee to authentic Middle Eastern cuisine for more than 30 years. Since 1977, the microscopic restaurant’s delicious food has earned it countless local dining awards, and at one point mention among the country’s best Middle Eastern restaurants. As far as I can tell, Abu’s in Milwaukee is the third most notable Abu on Earth, behind that monkey from Aladdin and that prison where Americans took those creepy and disgusting pictures with prisoners.

Last summer, Abu’s ownership changed hands, and immediately updated its menu with everybody’s favorite Mid-East delicacy — weird pizza.
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Exists.

One of the benefits of owning this Web site — apart from remaining out of shape, and having the opportunity to write things that up to 30 people will see — is having the extra incentive to try places I’d never been before. Without this domain being in my possession, I’d probably just eat at Lisa’s a shitload… or drunkenly stumble over to Zayna’s to consume a greasy cheese Za I’d immediately forget eating until I noticed my tits jiggle when I walked to my car the following morning.

Fortunately, Doctors of Za allows me (well, all of us) an outlet to document travels to pizzerias in our new metropolitan homes, honor the provincial pies of our native townships, and even make note of some tucked away gems scattered around the state.

And sometimes I get to write about fledgling, out of the way semi-chains that specialize in BBQ, but still feature pizzas both tasty and fattening enough to kill customers 10 times over via explosions of both the ass and heart. Places like the department store-adjacent Charcoal Grill & Rotisserie in Grafton, WI — one of nine Badger State locations to offer reluctant patrons “your official backyard barbecue” in a log cabin meets sports bar meets Bennington’s abortion gone awry-type setting.
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Love. For many of us, the prospect of love is the reason we wake up in the morning. It’s something we strive for all our lives, and an ideal worth repeatedly running our fragile hearts through the gauntlet of pain and disappointment time and time again in hopes of finding. It’s why we bother trimming our pubes.

But once we’ve been fortunate enough to experience the special sentiments of both feeling love for, and being loved by another, how should it be shown? In all, there’s no single answer to that question. Be it: The occasional sweet note a passionate, work-bound young Turk leaves by the coffee pot as his lover sleeps; the way in which you each align your breaths to make the brisk autumn air billow before you while strolling on a romantic lakeside path; knowing full-well you’d volunteer your life to save hers without a second thought on the matter; simply telling the other “I love you” even half the time the thought comes to mind.

Contingent on the life to which you’ve willingly attached yours, there are infinite methods to display one’s affection for another. However, an easily-sold and wildly uncreative contemporary American society has essentially ritualized the practice of showing love. “Thoughtful” displays of candy, flowers, jewelry, upscale dining and pre-written cards have streamlined this once beautiful and vital process, transforming modern “love” into a largely calloused and deeply impersonal industry.

Yet there is one present practice that conveys all the emotion of a Keats sonnet, all the glimmer of a rare opal, all the scarcity of a prized truffle, and the speciality of spice tirelessly transported direct from The Orient. The motherfucking heart-shaped pizza.
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Sometimes when I’m sitting around, once again bored in the lonely existence that my life’s decisions have brought about, I simply type the word “pizza” into a YouTube search and see what comes up. Now and again — amid the Coldplay fan covers, “epic fails” and clips of that “Snooki” girl getting laid out by some assclown that comprise about 94 percent of YouTube videos — I’ll stumble on to something kind of pizza-related that I feel is worth writing about. It’s one of my more attractive characteristics, I assure you.

In the past, I’ve deconstructed a Jonas Brothers video, and posted a list of decent pizza clips during times when the site’s activity was down … or when I didn’t foresee eating at a new pizza place in the near future. Today is no different. I happened upon this Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles tribute clip that uses the song “Pizza Power” as background music.
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