Maybe you heard that it snowed over 26 inches here yesterday. This was true. There wasn't much to do but sit inside and read about pizza, although I also rewatched all of Master of None, plus a movie about the legit origin of General Tso's chicken (spoiler: Taiwan) and another movie about an Iranian skateboarding vampire. Some days are longer than you think they'll be.
The pizza book was a delicious (heh) diversion but reinforced once again the difficulty I have absorbing anything that I read on a Kindle. I appreciate the low-low-LOW-LOW price points on that digital typemanship but man oh man nothing sinks in. I would like someone (not me) to fund a study on why this is, because I read a lot of other words on my iPad and manage to retain them just fine. Is it the action of "flipping" a page rather than scrolling? How the hell could something that stupid possibly matter? I'll admit that I have trouble grounding myself in a digital document that lacks a useful indicator: I'm missing an anchor. I have no concept of what "33% finished" means or what "1 hour 20 minutes left" tells me in the context of reading. Do I need to hurry up? Am I competing with someone? Fuck off! I'm done wondering about this so here we are, finally accepting reality. No more e-books for this hot dog.
Anyway, I liked but did not love this book, is my Goodreads-level assessment, or ❄ ❄ ❄ out of ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄. As with most "memoirs" that started as blogs, it's a patched-up collection that relies on voice rather than a smooth progression of narrative thoughts. In that respect the narrative is kind of a mess—I still have no idea how he mapped out the stops or exactly which pizzas he preferred—so you're left with nothing but voice, which I accepted and then moved on. In the end Hagendorf seemed like a fun guy to walk the streets and eat pizza with, which is probably all you need since he's not running for president or anything, although my favorite parts were less about finding the perfect slice than learning to appreciate the whole pie (heh):
But I still go to Rosedale at least once a year to visit my best friend's mother, Mrs. Watson, who came to New York thirty or forty years ago. As I observed to the Pizza-Line Bozo about Richmond Hill, Rosedale seems predominantly Caribbean these days—mostly Jamaican and Haitian, I think. When I visit with Mrs. Watson, instead of knishes and black cherry soda we eat beef patties and drink sorrel punch, but the feelings of love are the same. The kvetching is the same, though in a different dialect. The sense of pride in being able to own a home in a nice neighborhood is the same.