And now to blast through this at the end of the workday. I did end up coming to work uncertain that not going to work would even be a useful form of protest or even one that would be noticed as such. My friend Doug is meeting me down at Rocky Sullivan's so we can get some games of Scrabble in before trivia night and I'd promised sometime between 6 & 6:30, and it doesn't look like I'm going to make it on time. Bad boy. I'll slap my own hand when I'm done here.

So anyway, today I was surprised by that unexpected guest of the office world: leftover pizza. Not left over from someone else's dinner, but left over from a meeting or some other such lunchtime gathering. Our creative director Jane brought a box down from some such meeting and shortly after I was informed I decided that I'd get in on the free lunch that everyone keeps telling me doesn't exist.

At 1:35 or so I'd not taken lunch yet, and although there were only five slices left I briefly hesitated but decided to take two slices anyway. (How many people reading this now believe that I'm an enormous man with bad skin?) Pepperoni. I can't even say where it was from, although I'm certain that it's from some place in a two block radius of here (59th-58th/5th-Madison).

It may be hard to complain about a free lunch, but it's not impossible as I will here demonstrate. Sadly the pizza seems to have come from what is probably the upper echelon of Pizzerias in the neighborhood and it's still only okay. Heated it up in the convection toaster oven here for a couple of minutes which seemed to get it up to the right temperature. The cheese: thick; the sauce: tomato; the crust: not really worth discussing. The aspect of the pizza that stood out above the others was the obvious greasiness of both slices. The pizza had been heated (in the pizzeria presumably) and then reheated here, and the damn thing was still too greasy, with the pepperoni slices not quite acting like little grease cups as I've seen all too often, but still bearing a thin and shiny coating of grease that could have been better. Okay, I didn't have to pat the slices down with napkins, but I sure did need a few while I was eating the slices. Oh, yeah I did eat both of them. But let's never let that be any sort of measure of quality in these writings. If I write that I didn't finish a slice though, I highly recommend that someone push the place over with one of those giant bulldozers (why is the damn thing called a bulldozer?), or just hire a wrecking ball under an assumed name and show up in the pre-dawn hours and put New York out of its misery. Wear a dirty jumpsuit and carry a swath of incomprehensible paperwork covered with blurred stamps and signatures in case anybody questions you. So long as you can get out of there before the owner shows up though (let's hope he doesn't live in the building) nobody's going to question you. You've got a wrecking ball. I'd do it myself but there'd be too much risk that the whole thing would be tied back to me once I've put these words onto the web. And as much as I'd really like to go head to head with John Ashcroft in front of a secret military tribunal…

Scrabble awaits.

I don't even want to make this entry tonight having returned home to discover that Bush has begun his bombing of Iraq. "Shock and Awe" will drop between 600-800 cruise missiles on Baghdad during the first three days, I believe. One U.S. general has been reported as saying "There will be no safe place in Baghdad" I'm sure the civilian residents were happy to hear that. "Prepare for U.S. casualties," the White House has said. They might as well have said "Ignore Iraqi casualties."

I am torn about going to work in the morning. I know that there is a ton of work that I have sitting on my desk but I don't know how I can go to work in the face of this. How can I sit at a desk and work on cosmetics knowing that my salary is being taxed and that money is paying for murder. Of course, this has always been the case. I am tempted to go to the subway station and hand out flyers that say "Remember that while you are doing whatever you are doing people are being bombed and that those bombs were paid for with money from taken from your salary."

While I am writing this bombs are being dropped on Iraq and murdering people.

I went to a reading tonight at the Poetry Project. I went to hear Jack Kimball read, having heard him read only once before, if that. (My memory isn't serving me so well right now as exhausted as I am.) Jack has been quite friendly to me and supportive of my work and I wanted to go to his reading and do the same. Here is a picture I took of Jack at the reading. It didn't come out so good unfortunately. Camera battery was dying.

As I was exhausted and being that much of the work that Jack read wasn't directly narrative I don't want to say that I completely followed the poems. Although I'm not sure that following them (through time, through plot) would have been what I would have done were I fully rested. Intelligence, strong wordplay, consciousness of the poem's boundaries and what is arranged therein all came through to me. Somehow now I am thinking of a bunch of grapes. This thought came to me just as I was thinking that I wanted to write that I wanted to read the poems, although Jack's ebullience, the clear joy displayed in his reading of these poems contributed to the transference of/my perceiving the qualities listed above. Sometimes after having heard somebody read their work aloud I'm able to better read their work as it's written down. I am hopeful that this will be the case with Jack's work.

Also at the reading were Miles Champion and Marcella Durand. I had to leave the reading early so I could come home being that I wasn't sure I'd be able to stay awake for the rest of the evening. Yet here I am, writing this out.

I was going to try to hold off on eating pizza since my camera was dead and so I couldn't photograph the place, but I couldn't think of where else I would be able to get some food that I could eat on the way to the subway (and on the subway it turned out). I had wanted to get a burrito earlier, but I remembered that I had to run over to University Pl. to pick up a roll of film that I was having developed and so I didn't have the time to get a burrito as I'd planned. On the way to University I took this photo on 4th Ave., which will have to stand in for my pizzeria photo tonight.

I grabbed a slice at St. Mark's Pizza (23 3rd Ave.) which is actually on 3rd Ave. just up from St. Mark's Pl. It shouldn't be confused with that Ray's on the corner of St. Mark's and 3rd which was good years ago and has since gone to pot. You can't sell bagels and pizza.

Looking over the slices available I couldn't see just a plain pie and I didn't want to risk getting some old crappy slice like the one Kate had the other night at whatever that place is on 7th Ave. in Brooklyn closest to Flatbush. Their advertising claims "Best Pizza on 7th Ave" which I doubt, being that they've been there for all of a year and there are at least five other pizzerias between their and Ninth St. that I can think of. Plus their pizza didn't look so good and they had some cheesy (sorry, there really isn't a better way to describe it) poster up advertising the brand of cheese that they use (presumably mozzarella) with something like "The Best Italian Cheese Money Can Buy" on it. A lot of bests in that place it seems. But I doubt that money can't find a better cheese than is displayed on their poster. So much for truth in advertising.

But let me get back to St. Mark's Pizza. (I wonder if Saint Mark really ever ate pizza? What is he the patron saint of?) I ended up ordering a mushroom slice, because that, and most of the other varieties of slices looked above fair (except the sicilian) and I thought that one slice of mushroom might fill me up. The guy threw it in the oven and I waited.

I'm curious whether the pizzeria is under new management, because it has certainly had a makeover. It may just have been renovated, but it looks different than it did the last time I was in there. The look is more streamlined, and there's a tidier look to the place. No signed Eric Estrada "To the Guys at St. Mark's Pizza…" photos or pictures of the owners shaking hands with Ronald Reagan or anything, and no posters about cheese. After a couple of minutes I tell the guy that I don't need it too hot and shortly thereafter he takes the slice out and asks me if I want it to go or to stay. "Just put it on a plate," I tell him. He does so and asks "Is this warm enough for you?" Can I tell just by looking at it? No. So I pick it up and it seems fine. I pay the $2.75 (maybe a little steep) and head out.

Crossing 3rd Avenue I'm thinking "Bombs may be falling on Iraq and I'm eating pizza." But I'm really not sure what I should be doing. No pizza until world peace is achieved? No. There's nothing wrong with my eating pizza right then, there's something wrong with bombs falling on Iraq.

I hustle over to the Astor Place Station (if I'd had my camera working I could have taken a picture of the beavers in the subway station) quickfooting it so the cars that just got the light don't hit me as I cross that crazy intersection from Lafayette to the Cube. By this time I've also noticed that the pizza really wasn't hot enough. The guy had asked me if I'd wanted a little extra cheese on top of the mushrooms (is that why it was $2.75? was I hoodwinked into paying for the extra cheese?) and it had melted when he took it out so I was going by that and a warm feeling on my hand held under the paper plate. But in fact the pizza's a little on the cold side. It probably didn't help things that the door to the pizzeria was open and it's in the 30's tonight (35ê as of this writing). Whatever. The pizza's good enough that I'm happy eating it regardless.

Okay, let's get down to specifics. We're not talking any great shakes here although I also feel as though it's a little unfair for me to render a complete judgment due to the fact that the pizza was cold. If I knew that I wasn't charged extra for the extra cheese then I could say that the guy behind the counter was polite (he was) and generous (I'll get back to you). The pizza held together well, the cheese was good, the sauce was good the crust was good. Not a thick or thin crust, not burned, foldable. Although, now that I think of it, when I folded the slice the front of the slice was tending to drop down a bit, which may have been attributable to the mushrooms on the slice (generous but not overwhelming) but a good crust should have been firm enough at least to compensate for the additional weight of the mushrooms. Other than that, we're talking about a standard New York (not Midtown or Wall St.) slice here. No one flavor standing out over the others. Except for the mushrooms, which were clearly canned. Not that I generally mind that so much, but there was something about them that was just a little too sour, almost vinegary. And that's not good. It competes and perhaps even spoils the rounded flavors of the cheese. Maybe if the whole thing had cooked for a little longer that wouldn't have been a problem. Again, I'm going to have to return, preferably with my camera and a fresh battery.

I had to finally break down this evening and have another slice. Although this is my first real entry in the pizza diaries, I've been taking photographs and making mental notes about the pizza that I've eaten and the circumstances surrounding such consumption. But since I'd collected I think now four photos of pizzerias without one real entry, I thought that I should try to hold off on eating further pizza until I'd begun committing the damn entries to paper, so to speak.

Also, it had been something of a food-free day, which is not unusual for me, and since I'm beginning to display some of the symptoms of the new W.H.O. pneumonia, I thought that I should probably get something in my belly. Feed a fever…, that sort of thing.

But let's examine the events that led up to my weakened state and my weakened will to avoid pizza. I'd not eaten much today, having only breakfast to log as a complete meal, and that at around 10 o'clock I believe. Kate was treating me because I'd made the trip out to Williamsburg with her to look at a futon frame and mattress that I thought she was going to buy. Turns out it was too close to the floor. This mystified me because I don't know that I've ever seen a futon frame that isn't close to the ground, but a couple of conversations with other people have confirmed that yes, in fact there are futon frames that are higher off of the ground. Okay. Fine with me. So I had pancakes and sausage. Actually filled myself up pretty good. Member of the clean plate club I am.

And then I went home and there wasn't much to eat in the house, an orange, a few spoonfuls of ice cream, and later a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not long after the sandwich I was dashing out the door (we're at about 6 pm now) so I could make it to a candlelight vigil in Washington Square Park. The vigil was being held around the world by people like myself who have done everything in their power to stop this goddamn war, but have gone unheeded. Actually, I don't think that calling it a war is really all that accurate. It's going to be more of a massacre. Murder. So I was there with a number of people 300? standing around with lit candles. The occasion wasn't even suitably solemn now that I think about it. People were singing, at one point, "Purple Rain." Which I couldn't figure as a political song. ("I never wanted to be your weekend bomber?")

I ran from the vigil to a reading nearby by Kish Song Bear and Arielle Guy. Kish had been on for about five minutes when I arrived but I caught the rest of her reading. She read some funny dream-record poems and then some poems about creatures in the deep sea, such as the vampire squid from hell (also called vampyroteuthis infernalis I learn while checking that this is in fact a real animal). Arielle wasn't feeling well enough to read, and a few other people read her poems, including this guy. Now, I can't say that I particularly understand this because it's not as though he doesn't already get enough time behind the mike, now someone has to put him up there to do breathy renditions of poems he's never even seen before? Ah whatever. And furthermore, I can't say that I can really understand this whole business of being well enough to leave your apartment and make it out to a reading, but not well enough to sit in a chair and give the reading. Well, I hope that I never find myself in a conditions such that I come to understand this better.

Okay, but enough on all that. The sad thing here is that I 'd already gotten well into the pizza part of this entry, but then my computer crashed and that entire part had been lost. I went on a brief diatribe about my deep resentment of Ben's Pizza of SoHo in earlier days, and how I'd come to like their pizza when I worked in the neighborhood in the early nineties. Oh well. I'll come back to that another time.

Right, so Ben's Pizza of SoHo. Which is right on the corner of Spring & Thompson (177 Spring St). I decided following the reading that I would head down to my old post-Zinc-bar-reading-I'm-hungry-and-there's-nothing-at-home-that-I'm-going-to-want-to-eat standby.

As I was approaching Ben's, walking south on Thompson, I could see that they had one of those plastic/ceramic pizza guys out in front, and I was kind of pleased. Because he was out on the corner facing all of Spring St., I could only see him from the back as I approached, and boy was I disappointed. He had on the big poofy white hat and all, but he was really more like B-list pizza guy material. For one thing, his facial expression was more creepy than charming, but then he had his left hand raised up in the air also, where it used to be holding up some sort of sign or something but now there's nothing there. So he's got this kind of palsied left hand floating up there, and he's got his right hand held out in front making the "thumbs up" sign as though everything is really going to be alright anyway, just trust him. But on top of all that, there are these weirdo criss-cross blue stripes on what should be, it seems to me, an all-white chef's smock so he end's up looking like he's still wearing the uniform of some kind of swiss penitentiary inmate.

But I snap his picture in front of the big open pick-up window. The weather has been blessedly pleasant today and Ben's has got this window and their front door propped open cause it's still pretty cool at 9 o'clock.

I go in and the first guy I encounter is pretty friendly, and he asks me what I want and then someone else asks me what I want cause I guess he's counting out one of the register drawers or something. So I tell him let me get two slices. And he asks me anything to drink with that? So I say, anh, just a cup of water. We don't got no cups of water, comes the reply. You don't got tap water. No, he says with kind of a sheepish grin but also with a chuckle cause he knows what I'm thinking already, we got bottled water. Let me get a ginger ale.

But by this time I'm already kind of making a mental note about that one. Cause what he and I both know and what he knew I was thinking was that this is bullshit. And Ben's is already charging I think two dollars a slice, and yeah, I'm sure the rent's high and everything, but the place has been there since before SoHo was SoHo was any kind of Ho, So or No, and so I would imagine that their rent couldn't be so bad, that is, if they don't own the place outright.

Who's stuff is this? someone behind the counter wants to know. I'd left my book on the counter, and the guy had taken out the can of ginger ale and put it at the back end of the counter so he could give it to me when he gives me the pizza and I pay. Oh, that's my book(Pom Pom #3), I say, and reach over and take it in hand. But that leaves the can of soda still there. So this guy lets out a small huff and moves the can off to the side, lifting it and clacking it slightly on the counter.

And that's one of the things about Ben's. I'm generally pretty happy with their pizza, which I'll discuss in greater depth in a moment, but for as long as I can remember there's been a little bit too much attitude behind that counter, and for what reason I don't know. I imagine that because of their location they've got to deal with a lot of crap, but if I'm in there just placing my order and setting down my money what do I need with the "don't like it then get the fuck out" attitude? I can read the No Outside Food signs, I'm not leaving a huge pile of napkins and garbage on the table when I leave, and the words "and make it snappy" have never come out of my mouth.

But to be fair, aside from this one guy, the other two people were friendly enough. Although that no tap water thing is still bullshit.

So the pizza. Ben's pizza can be counted on and has a good taste. A nice crust, definitely not too burnt. If you're the sort that wants your pizza on the burned side, I recommend that you make that clear, cos I think that Ben's pizza relies a little more on the good sauce and mozzarella. The crust is of a nice, somewhat light consistency, firm and not too soggy or hard. The edge crust was slightly softer and not crunchy. When I got to the end of the two slices that I had I tore the crust more than I broke it. And I think that that's one of the things that's going on with the pizza there. There's something of a softer quality to their pizza. The crust is, as I've said, on the light, airy side, but the mozzarella is also not overwhelming to the taste, but goes well with the sauce. It's good mozzarella, don't get me wrong here, but it's not like I'm like holy samson that's the best mozzarella I've ever tasted! The dominant flavor is the sauce, and if you're one who prefers your sauce on the more acidic side, more garlicky, this may not be the pizza for you. There is a sweet quality to Ben's sauce, and that quality and perhaps basil or oregano are the flavors that round it out. It's not as sweet as a Stromboli sauce, but I still felt like cutting the taste somewhat since I was going to be eating it with my already sweet enough ginger ale, so I put some salt on the slices. In general, I think that probably most pizzerias have stopped using as much salt in either their cheese or their sauce as was used in the pizzas I grew up with.

I ate both slices gladly. The consistency of their slices is also good for a slice of that thickness. There's some movement of the ingredients on top of the slice, but not so much that you're going to bite into the slice and end up with all the cheese hanging out of your mouth. Not unless the slice is piping hot maybe.

So I left Ben's and headed home, glad to be walking down a mostly empty Spring St. at 9:30 on a Sunday, with my jacket open and no hat on.