Yesterday Byron and I had pizza from the “New York Pizza” place on my block.  I’d often bragged about how this place made the best pizza ever.  Well, something must have happened, because I was wrong.  This was not the best pizza ever.  It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.  The sauce was bland and lacking.  The crust was soft and sweet (which is good) but not at all crisped/blackened like one would expect.  Also, whereas over a year ago when I’d ordered it with my parents there was a preponderance of grease, there was no orangy runny grease anywhere.  That absence of grease is good health-wise I’m sure, but bad flavor wise.  My model for this grease level will always be the high school cafeteria pizza that had an underneath crust with zero exposed dry area, the entire bottom was greased with… grease.

After eating pizza Byron presented me with a birthday gift:

After our pizza we invited Yaw to join us for a trip to Yamashiro.  Apparently Monday is 90s night up there.  And not the good kind of 90s either.  Byron and I tried to have a serious discussion about our artwork to the Night at the Roxbury soundtrack.  It didn’t happen.