The Pizza Diaries Part 1: Rocky Rococo's, "The Peat Bog of Pizza"

It is easy to like really great pizza. It takes a sensitive palate to find the hidden beauty in even the average urban pizza joint, and a wine cicerone's nose to fairly describe the lowliest pies our city has to offer.

In the true spirit of great culinary adventurers of the twentieth century, my teammate Matt Greene and I delve into the crustiest, cheesiest corners of Spokane's pizzerian underworld.

Our goal is simple: Discover the very worst pizza in Spokane. Let me add that by worst I also mean the best.

And let quickly qualify what I mean by "the worst:" I honestly say worst in a loving way, with a lot of pride, and no small amount of tenderness. Matt and I agree, and you, dear reader, might as well, that there is just something undeniably heartwarming and eternally wonderful about really shitty pizza. How can you deny it? It's just one of those things we don't talk about, I mean, as a country. Kind of like death, or men's pajamas.

So, we begin by braving the Rocky Rococo's, purveyors of greasy Chicago deep-dish pizza.

Located in the heart of downtown, Rocky's is "A Spokane favorite since 1986," at least according to the sandwich sign. And their claim must have some merits if it's been there since 1986.
For years I assumed Rocky's was a local affair, and I'd wondered how in hell it had survived all these years in a city with notorious  restaurant turnover. Independent research done by my research partner uncovered the ugly truth: it's a chain. 
Appropriately enough for a deep-dish venture, Rocky's is based out of the midwest: "Wisconsin, Illinois, Minnesota, and Washington." Wait, and Washington? They don't mean Seattle, either. Spokane is the only other city outside the midewest to host a Rocky's. Odd. Or is it? In a city I've long referred to affectionately as the "midwest of the west," a heartland chain Rocky Rococo's seems wholly appropriate in Spokane. (Still, I am curious as to how they ended up here.)
Recently the building's facade underwent a major modernization after the adjacent restaurant was demolished (the beloved Cyrus O'Leary's, RIP. And it really deserves an tribute unto itself). It looks like it should have a fancy gastropub or high end sushi bar, but peek inside and you will be shocked as I to see the guts of the establishement totally untouched. In fact, stepping inside, we feel as if we've entered some kind of pizzaria time-warp.
When we first walk in we are greeted with a dim-lit scene that is... how else to say it ... grotto-esque. It's part Chuck E. Cheese, part counter-order lunch deli, and the rest a shadowy reproduction of Pizza Due, Chicago's most famous subteranean deep-dish joint.

To the left is a wall-length photo mural of that cliff-side villa in Italy, the place on the cover of Jess Walter's Beautiful Ruins; in the photo tourists are everywhere, milling about in speedos. Staring out to sea it seems like they are gawking at us. Gawking at us gawking at them. I turn and am startled by a lifesize cardboard cutout of Mr. Rococo himself, seeming to mingle among us commoners at the entrance. He is in a grey suit and wears a huge grin, a thick mustache and dark, circular sunglasses that make him look like a hitman in welding goggles, the kind of guy you don't want to piss off (or write a disparaging expose about. Rocky, if you read this, I love your pizza, I really do).

When we reached the front of the line, I remember with horror that I have recently converted to  vegetarianism, and I have a sudden urge to call the whole thing off. I take a deep breath and scan the menu.

I order what seems to be the only vegetable option, the veggie supreme. I am heartened to learn it's available immediately—no waiting around for me! I hand over my $8.50 for the single serve salad bar combo, grab the tray stacked with cardboard box - kind of like a big mac box - Pepsi, and the bowl for the salad bar. I never eat salad, and I spend some time worrying that the greens will affect my judgement about the pizza on its own merits.
I hunt for a table and beeline for the raised seating area. The dais holds maybe six booths and is  shaded with a wood arbor and fake ivy. I am encouraged by a container of sauce on the floor it's lumpy contents spilling out on the maroon tile.
I am further invigorated by the complete lack of any salad at the salad bar. As the minutes tick by the whole place is somewhat terrifying on a gut level. It's like something out of the more epicurian leanings of David Lynch, (who, oddly, spent his formative  years in Spokane). I start getting concerned about Matt when he arrives carting his box of whatever the meat special was, and I hop up to scavenge whats left of the salad bar sans lettuce. He immediately loads his bowl full of entirely mini corn cobs and bacon bits, and I admit this actually looks quite amazing.
We sit back down and unbox the main course. The slices fit snug in their cozy cocoons, as if they had been nesting there since spring. I lifted mine to check for hatchlings, but only found a puddle of cold grease. We dig in.
     "Tangy," Matt says, "soggy and satisfying."
     "It's quite limp," I add. "Limp as an old birthday balloon."
The texture recalls an old kitchen sponge, what I imagine a peat bog to be like.

The off white peat-bog/sponge is lined in a thin shell of translucent cheese - what I surmise is probably not Wisconsin's finest. There is also an antique tomato slice or two, and a scattering of shriveled, somewhat humiliated olives. We chew slowly. As we chew we ponder, cow-like. As my eyes adjust I notice odd shapes emerging from the shadows. A huge wood canoe over the entrance, and on the lofty walls behind us huge wood silhouettes of dancing couples in western garb, each outlined in vivid stripes. Above the salad bar hangs a paper mache taradactyl wearing a Santa hat.

Found poetry? We think yes.

     "What is this place?" I mutter.
     "I think you mean what was this place." 
Somehow Matt has learned we are sitting in what was, pre-1986, a theater.
     "That explains a lot."
As enough pieces of this mystery come together that I am momentarily relieved.
Then as we get up to make our exit we notice a wooden booth, what looks like a glass walled confessional. A sign above the entrance says "kids booth," and inside is an actual kid, seated all alone at his own table. "Hello," I say, in my best kid-voice. He looks up at me and sticks his tongue out, showing off the mashed up glory of his lunch. "I see," say I. I take a quick glance around. The mother or father nowhere in sight, I flick an olive which lands in his hair, and then I turn and dash out the door. Matt is waiting to refill his third cup of sweet tea.
     "What?" Matt says. "It's free refills!"
    
The takeaway:
Matt: There is a refreshing vintage authenticity about Rocky's. I don't think the menu board has been updated since the 80's. As a bonus, it seems they have the original staff still employed as well.
Nick: I think they must live there. We should check out the kitchen, I bet they have cots in the back room. They sleep in deep dish pizza boxes. Really the place is like a time warp. It is refreshing to see a place that doesn't give a damn, and just keeps doing what they've done since day one. And people keep coming.
Matt: Everyone did seem quite happy there.

Some parting words from Rocky himself:

     "If you got a problem, an issue, a question,
     Mr.Rococo will have a suggestion.
     Ya' see, along with being the Master of the Slice, Rocky
     got a degree in GGA, (dat's Given Good Advice),
     Yeah, Presidents and Kings ask everyday,
     They stand in line just to hear, What Da' Rock has to say,
     Hey ask about your love life, or why does ice freeze?
     Just don't ask about his secret recipes."

Damon's Martian Has "Bro" but Lacks Soul

While it was impossible to not be on the edge of my seat the whole time, something about Ridley Scott's new film The Martian disturbed me. There is the obvious "go science!" aspect, which is understandeable as Damon's character, a botanist-astronaut is stuck on mars.

(And give him a soul)

And there was a lot of upbeat positivity bouncing around portraying the struggles he faced in not losing his sanity. It also bounced back to earth in Apollo 13 style to explore the complexities of the rescue mission, and also to the earth-bound Hermes crew.
Through all this hoopla I still think there was a lack of focus on Damon's character. He listens to music a lot, which is great, but what else does he do? He is there a long time, over 500 days!
Surely there were ebooks, and I thought it would have been a nice touch to see him strive to do something creative, perhaps sculpt the martian earth into designs, or draw, or write. Even Tom Hanks in Castaway "painted" a face on volleyball.
I just wanted him to do something besides the video logs which really, is it just me, or is this increasingly standard sci-fi trope (a la Avatar) grows tiresome. Is it supposed to make it seem more real?
After seeing a dozen vlogs, I couldn't help just wanting to see his character, who is utterly convincing by the way, inhabiting the actual scene undistorted or unaffected by "diary-speak."
The whole thing just had a bit too much of a bro-science vibe. The need to dazzle and be constantly moving tended to overwhelm.
There was simply a missed opportunities for more soul searching expected of a marooned voyager.
It was the bravado of Odysseus without the tears and heartache. But this is still big hollywood, so what did I expect. People must be entertained, not enlightened. And Damon's character's creativity was perhaps fully expressed (or subsumed) in his efforts to stay alive. He is a science nerd, not an artist.

Amazing fake Patina make-over on 2014 VW Eurovan!

Amazing fake Patina make-over on 2014 VW Eurovan! (Via BoingBoing.net)





In my ongoing fascination with all things rusty, I ran across this great fake rustbucket sticker-job. Click the link for more photos and info. So, this is one way to get the rusty look without sacraficing the structuraal integrity, and safety, of your wheels. Speaking of wheels, I can't help wonder if they will put some rusty hubcaps on, because the stock aluminum wheels definitely doesn't match the aesthetic.

On Patina, Agedness, & the Effects of TIME

On Patina, Agedness, & the Effects of TIME

       Patina n, 3 : a surface appearance (as a coloring or mellowing) of something grown beautiful esp. with age or use 4 : a finish or coloration derived from association, habit, or established character : the look acquired from long custom or settled use.

"When you see an aging building or a rusted bridge, you are seeing nature and man working together. When you paint over a building, there is no more magic to that building. But if it is allowed to age, then man has built it and nature has added into it." 

-David Lynch

I am not sure exactly why I am so taken with patinas. It is as though the hypnotize me. Anything sporting (spotting?) rust, lichen or any variant of weathering or wear, such as the spot right beneath an old cars door handle where the drivers hand brushing against the little recess in the door panel has worn away the original paint to a expose a little patch of bare steel. Or such as old mopeds, or the blanching of old plastic to a opaque, brittle shell by the sun's ultraviolet rays.

My 1956 JC Higgins Colorflow

I find these so fascinating, and I am compulsively drawn to inspect and observe such discoveries like a biologist studying an endangered species. I think it may have something to do with the human wear being proof of life, proof human interaction- proof of the personal on the permanent - a symbiosis. Here is an object fashioned by people made use of long enough to seem organic or to redefine itself. In terms of used and re-used items, it is that others have aquired and made use of it too, utilized it, for a time.

The cargo area of my 1959 VW SO23 Westy, at Gold King Mine

In 2006 I spent three days in Jerome, Arizona and visited what is likely the most patina-rich place I've ever seen. I drove there in my beatup skyblue, badly rusting 1959 VW Westfalia SO23 camper from Pheonix as a part of a caravan of about 100 other vintage aircooled VW buses. Besides a spectactle that literally stopped traffic and had the other vehicles on the road pulling over and whipping out cameras to snap pictures, and people waving and beaming smiles. I have tons of awesome photos from this trip on my Flickr page HERE.

In Jerome we converged at the old Gold King Mine whose sun blasted acres were home to a vast collection of random vehicles large and small, all at varying stages of agedness. Many were restored to running condition by a talented mechanic, the sole employee of the "mine." The place was a treasure-trove of patina, and I went wild with my camera.

The thought that we ourselves like a timeless boulder or disintegrating barn, or other forgotten shipwrecks endlessly rooting deeper into a host of lost beaches, and yet we are also ebbing and flowing along with these lush tapestries of things, becoming something different with each moment.

So it is this: the symbius of life's progression into decay, into another form, being right there, in every back alley, scattered across every city shadow, just waiting to be meditated upon and celebrated.

Carrie and Lowell: Sufjan Stevens' melancholy masterpiece

"This is not my art project; This is my life"

- Stevens (Pitchfork interview)

            "I don't know where to begin... I've lost my strength completely" Sufjan Stevens sings, the impact of his whispered style given a new and arresting sheen in part thanks to Bon Iver's treatment at his rural Wisconsin recording studio. A slew of other recording locations and engineers is indication Stevens' quest to perfect Carrie and Lowell, what he himself admits is his most personal album in his fifteen year career, (and the first album since 2010's extravagant The Age of Adz).  

            Here the feel is less epic and more personally immersive. His vocal delivery which used to seem reserved and shaky or at times whiny and has grown ever stronger and more assertive in recent releases is now quiet again, but still sounds confident. I challenge anyone to find fault in his vocals, thought the layering helps smooth it out a bit, its clear he is still in control and has grown tremendously as a singer in his own right. Carrie and Lowell is a quiet soundscape with some echoes of Seven Swans (2004). This ambient landscape rolls along in quiet contemplation, swelling with the cleansing yet relentless rhythm of spring rain showers. The more I listen the more I am moved and the more I see that he is not playing for sympathy but to express himself in the best way he can. I have further realized that the effects of such a poignant album go beyond the artist and now play a significant role in comforting listeners and assauging, or giving voice or identification with the loss of loved ones. The album stands out as much for the sum of its parts as for each finely honed line. It is a wonder to discover again Stevens' mastery.

            We have been accustomed to Stevens tradition of storytelling backed by resounding, epic, atonal arrangements - a la Phillip Glass modernism; momentous "art," or themed albums, (Illinoise, Michigan, The Age of Adz) in which were nestled quieter tracks that drove straight to the heart, such as "John Wayne Gacy, Jr.". Here sufjan has given us a seamless album of such quiet gems. There is his trademark banjo plucking, careful keys, yet a distinct lack of the percussion and soaring orchestrations and nearly spastic electronic noise we have come to expect from his big-sound, rock-opera-esque forays. All has been washed in a reverb-dust that thankfully somehow never grows old. 

"It is a wonder to discover anew Stevens' mastery of songwriting."

            Though all of his albums include elements of auto-biography, personal details mixed with local history and zoomed-out reflection, this is his most purely Sufjan-centric narrative to date. Its packed with the heart-piercing sorrow (bring kleenex), and a grace drawn from the well of life. Ultimately it is a testament to the eternal mystery of death when it comes knocking on our loved-one's door. In 2012 Steven's mother - Carrie, of the album's title - died suddenly from stomach cancer. This tragedy is the source for much of the stages-of-grief apparent throughout. In "Drawn to the Blood" Stevens grasps "How did this happen, how, how did this happen?"

            True to form, a plenitude of historical, mythological and biblical references are included, from Oregon's "Tillamook Burn" - a spate early 20th-century wildfires, the NW coast Sea Lion Caves ( he spent summers in Oregon with his mother), to childhood swimming lessons, and "slain Medusa". A few song titles seem to be twists on traditional Christian hymns, making clear the tumultuous nature of Stevens' faith (No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross, John my Beloved, Drawn to the Blood), or twists on modern pop songs (All of Me Wants All of You). There is a current of muddy confusion, desperation even, running throughout, as in Blue Bucket of Gold, "Once the myth has been told, the lens deforms it as lighting/ raise your right hand/ tell me you want me in your life/ Or raise your red flag, just when I want you in my life." Or shockingly abrupt, "You checked your texts while I masturbated ... now I feel so used" (All of Me). While such lines are deeply personal they are also universal.

            Harmonies are reminiscent of Simon and Garfunkel abound, particularly in "Eugene," and a few merciful doses of humor too: his childhood swimming teacher "could not quite pronounce my first name/ he called me Subaru." And transitions to the more melancholic in the next stanza, "Whats the point of singing songs if they'll never even hear you?" We hear you Sufjan,  and we grieve along with you, for as he chants in "The Fourth of July," the albums centerpiece, "We're all gonna die, we're all gonna die, we're all gonna die."

            Death may even seem a bit easier to contemplate thanks to Stevens' sonic elegy, his most unified and intimate album to date, perhaps even a masterpiece, though only time will tell.

            HERE.Buy it here!

Is Tolkien turning in his grave?

I finally found time to watch The Hobbit movies this past week and found them unbelievable in a mix of astonishing fx and pitiously laughable action sequences. I'm glad to find I wasn't alone in my confusion. In a December 19th article on Wired, Ethan Gilsdorf writes:

     "The attention to detail ... is unparalleled. Middle-earth feels real. But in these Hobbit movies, the  more important thing to get right is situational realism: How the plot turns, what the characters do, if they move through space in a believable way. All this is thrown out the door. The sincerity of Thorin and Bilbo’s struggles is completely undermined by the story’s blanket disregard for physics, logic, and credibility. Gone into the ether is Tolkien’s gentle, thoughtful, and more plausible children’s tale." (LINK TO WIRED ARTICLE)
While I am not as irate than Gilsdorf - perhaps I am still under Jackson's unrivaled world-building spell - he certainly brings up some worrisome points. Has Jackson gone off the deep end? Has he damaged Tolkien's beloved childrens classic? Has he pillaged it and created his own disney-world phantasia version? If so, why? What was his purpose? Simple lack of constraint cannot explain it, as Gilsdorf asserts. It must be about the money. Beside lining his pockets, turning a one movie book into three nearly three-hour films allowed Jackson and Company the elbow room  to get overly creative - to get carried away with their artistic license.

Post Live-Aboard Fog Horn Blues

In the fall of 2004 - thats ten years and three months ago - at the adventurous age of twenty-three, I threw caution to the wind and with all of $700 in my pocket moved from my homecity of Spokane 300 miles due west to Seattle and the big Emerald city that had beckoned me like a siren, and which I would call home for the better part of the next seven years. My first winter in Seattle ( a winter of record cold, no less) was spent living aboard a derelict old wooden boat that I bought for $150 (in two monthly installments!). I kept my belongings in Rubbermaid bins in case of a sinking - a realistic concern if you'd seen my boat - the photo below gives you an idea, the back wall was Plexiglass (this is the only photograph I have from those days). I had visualized, or at least had hoped, to have enough time to grab the two huge bins and fling them onto the dock if she started going under. 

In my "house-boat," a 1965 Chris-Craft Sea-Skiff. Sept. 2004.

The thrill of cheap living and romance of misty mornings and the chime of the drawbridge quickly faded. In my dreams I was often drifting away down the ship canal or coming home to find just the antenna sticking out of the dark oily water. After 7 months of nightmares (and day-mares!) I sold the boat (for a $300 profit!) and fled to the relative stability of dry land. A year later I returned to see if it was afloat and discovered that it had just sunk two days earlier. The lady who bought it had her belongings - mostly clothes and books, as I recall - spread out all over the dock drying in the weak April sunshine. I felt bad, but was glad I had gotten away while I still could.