I'm peeved by this talk of the Disneyfication of societies around the world. I'm tired of hearing that the various regions of the country and the world are becoming increasingly homogenous. From where I sit, that kind of talk looks like nothing but bullshit.

Wanna know why?

Pizza.

(Here's where I'm supposed to supply the resolution to the rhythm the two previous paragraphs, in all their precious "hey, look at me!" brevity . . . "That's right, pizza." Or, perhaps, "Yes, pizza." But I'm not going to give you the pleasure.)

I've lived in New York. I've been uptown, I've been downtown. East Side, West Side. (Hah! Got you! You were ready for me to say, ". . . all around the town"!) I've been to Ben's Pizza and St. Mark's Pizza, and Ray's and Famous Ray's and Famous Original Ray's Pizzas. To Two Boots, and to Arturo's and Stromboli's.

No one makes a pizza like that. At least not anywhere else, that is. And believe me, I've been looking. In Boston and Los Angeles and New Hampshire and San Francisco. Everywhere I've lived, everywhere I've traveled. Like a dog in heat, I've followed the scent (of pizza, in this case), hairs at the back of my neck standing on end, the glands in my mouth jumping in anticipation. Tangy juice, tangy juice.

Eric Wilinski

Updated March 20, 2002