Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta

Dear God,

I don't know what I said. Maybe it was something I did. But whatever it was that I did to deserve this weekend, holy shit (sorry), I am penitent. Remorseful. Guilty. Balls-on terrified of your wrath. Because, holy shit (sorry), this weekend could only have been a punishment. I don't know whether it was Jessie puking all over my bed, the homeless man I got arrested for peeing on the tree next to my car, or the fact that the Steelers lost a game they were so close to winning, but Jesus testicles in a Kitchen Aid, this was a horrible, horrible weekend.

It started well enough.

Jess and I had a cute dinner at home, and decided to make a date out of the evening and go to a movie. There are about 11 amazing movies out right now - it's the first time in a long time (maybe ever) that I felt like I wanted to see 90% of the movies that are out. We chose "Charlie Wilson's War" which, if you haven't seen it, shame on you. It. Is. Amazing. I had forgotten what good dialog sounded like. This movie was so funny, so well-paced, so brilliantly acted, and so incredibly damning that it is easily a Top 3 movie experience of the past two years. The combination of Mike Nichols and Aaron Sorkin is something I will now seek out - Sorkin's writing, what he perfected on "West Wing," is pitch-perfect, hilarious, never contrived, and always sharp. Add to that Tom Hanks (amazing), Julia Roberts (likable enough), and, oh my God one of my favorite actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman (who managed, somehow, to steal a movie from Tom Hanks), and you know it has to be good.

And it was. I loved it. I would see it again. I want to own it. Genius. Go. Now.

The night ended with me battling Bowser's minions in "Mario Galaxy" on the FRIGGING WII THAT JESSIE GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS. Talk about amazing gifts '07 - here, unbeknownst to me, she researched all the different gaming systems, decided that the Wii would be the one we could both enjoy, realized it was impossible to find and so went on craigslist and found a guy selling one for a not-as-insane price whom she then met after school in the library of the Beatley Library, handed a wad of $20s, and surprised me with the damn thing on the way home to Pittsburgh. The thing is amazing, and I'll reflect on it further at a future point (preferably after I've become a "Pro" in Wii Tennis).

Saturday started with mind-boggling nookie - what could be better?!? - and then, oh dear, dear Reader, the weekend took a horrible, horrible turn.

Or rather U-Turn, of destiny, to the most horrible place in Alexandria: Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

First, let me state unequivocally that this was not my idea.

After years spent eating out instead of cooking for my damn self, I have developed a finely-tuned sense about restaurants. I almost instinctually know if it's going to be a good meal or a bad one within the first three minutes. I see it as the payment for the horrible toll that eating out has taken on the physical age of my body which, at last count, was sharing a birthday with dirt. And I had a bad feeling about Generous George.

I don't know whether it was the matching 15-foot nutcrackers at its entrance or the fact that the building was painted a Pepto-Bismol pink, but whatever early warning system I have flashed from yellow to red, and I, like a good American, ignored the crap out of it. We were ushered into a restaurant full of families with small children. On the wall, a placard hung ominously that read, "Reader's Choice: Most Kid Friendly Restaurant 2003," which, I later came to believe, was when they had made the dough of the pizza we ate. Oh. My God. Who hates me.

This place looked like a dilapidated Chuck E.Cheese. Grotesque wooden animals stolen from abandoned county fairs hung lifeless from the pink steel-beamed ceiling, their faces, a mixture of regret and permanent shock, staring bleakly at the massive bronze clock that stood watch over the pink restaurant with the pink chairs. Between the animals were rusted cars and three-wheeled wagons which dangled like corpses between pink steel teeth. On the wall were massive portraits - a girl, dressed in white, sitting in front of a massive grand piano; a Rockwellian-styled boy and his wagon; one of those old black-and-white photos of a wrestler that you always see in Greek or Italian-styled restaurants. Wait... what? And what are all these old newspapers doing on the wall? It looked like Chuck E. Cheese had gotten drunk and run over the Olive Garden. Horrific.

We ordered the antipasti salad (which was a mistake, as the pillows on my bed would later come to learn) and a pizza, both of which were disgusting, dry, tasteless and, as we found out today, covered in the germs of someone's butt. And which cost nearly $40. This is the first restaurant I've ever been to that was so bad, I am motivated to write a letter.

Flash forward to Saturday night. We have a great time over at my cousin Laura's. She lives over by U-Street, which is this sort of revitalized cultural district that has giant murals of Duke Ellington and other black jazz greats on the sides of buildings. We watched the Steeler's game which, as many of you know, ended with frustration, annoyance, and ultimate acceptance that we just didn't deserve to win with all those turnovers. It was fun to put on my Steelers jersey and root for them, though. They showed us one hell of a game in the second half.

Then came Sunday.

It was the fact that the homeless man had stared me straight in the eye as he pissed next to my car that made me call the police on him.

When he was sleeping on the stoop, I passed him and felt a loud note of pity and concern. I fantasized about going up to him and being able to, I don't know, say something or do something that would magically transform him. I thought of him as I carried the groceries upstairs, because I live in a nice part of town. I mean, NICE. He was a reminder of how fragile all this financial stability really is. Without my family and Jess, I thought, I would be like him.

But then he woke up, and as I was unloading the last groceries from my car - this is King Street, mind you, the place with the French restaurants and the boutique shops - he stood up, came over to the tree by my car, opened his pants, and pissed. For like 15 seconds. Just pulled out his dick and pissed. Two girls walked by behind him, their faces unreadable. I look over at him long enough to confirm that yes, oh my God, he is pissing. I then register that he is pissing right next to my car. Not on my car, mind you, but there is some splashing going on. And he is staring straight at me, his eyes unblinking as he relieves himself as if to say, "I see you, and I piss on everything you are." We locked eyes for, what, 1 second? And that is when I resolved to call the police.

You are on my street. Your piss is splashing on my tire. It is fucking broad daylight, families are walking around, I'm trying to unload groceries, and you are pissing in front of all of us. Isn't there somewhere else you should be?

Of course I was horribly conflicted about what to do. Something about the fact that he'd stared right at me the whole time made me angry, though, the kind of white-boy anger that I never have, and I realized that in that moment I wasn't angry at just him; I was angry at Damascus man. I was angry at the guys with the speakers in the white van, angry at every poor-looking jackass who'd gotten one over on me, who'd played me for a fool. And now you're looking me in the eyes as you piss in front of me? Ooh, it got my goat.

Of course, being an idiot and not being able to find the non-emergency number, I called 911, who promptly explained to me in no uncertain terms that by dialing 411 on my phone, I could have gotten the correct number. Hopefully nothing burned down while I extracted that valuable information. I called Alexandria police and explained that there was a man on my block who pissed next to my car.

"Is he a homeless guy?" the officer asked.
"I think so."
"Black, white, hispanic?"
"Black."
"What is he wearing?"
"A dark blue coat, a hat, dark pants."
"What color pants?"
"I don't know."
"Was he urinating on your car, sir?"
"No, no, he didn't actually urinate on the car, it was next to the car."
"Oh. That's good. Do you want to leave a name?"

I was grateful in that moment that I could call someone and make it their problem, that I could put the onus on them to get the pissing homeless black man off of my block. After I got off the phone I, honest to God, sat with Jessie in our apartment and ate fresh cherries. I ate fucking cherries as the sirens blared, and spit out pits as the mentally unwell black man got arrested for peeing in front of me. It'd be a great scene for a movie, only in it I'm the bad guy. I told myself that maybe they can get him some help, you know? Get him to a shelter, or at least give him some damn food. But mostly I just didn't want him peeing on my street. I felt territorial. Challenged. And dammit, man, there are people walking all around you. At least go in the alley in the back.

I think that might have been when God sent the plague, because it wasn't long after that that Jessie went into my bedroom to lay down. She hadn't been feeling well all day - cramps and the like. I was watching the replay of the presidential debates when I heard this wretching sound from my bedroom. Jessie screamed, "Martin! Help!" and, sensing there was actually something wrong, arrived just in time to watch her explode purple, chunky vomit all over herself, wave after wave of it all over the bed, the comforter, the pillows, her shirt. Between heaves she asked for a bowl and I ran to get it. She couldn't sit up, and just kept puking all over herself. I thought she was going to choke on it and die. I grabbed her hand, pulled her upright, and she wretched into one of our mixing bowls, the bed, her shirt, her hair - everything covered in spew.

Five minutes later we were laughing, but I don't think I'll ever be the same. Here she'd gotten food poisoning from Generous George. He was generous alright, but not, apparently, with the soap in the bathroom, because someone touched their butt and got Jessie sick. I, on the other hand, am inexplicably fine (though talking about it makes me feel like I have to puke). I can actually say I held someone's hair as they puked. You really know, in that moment, just how much you love someone, because if there was ever a time when you DIDN'T want to love someone, it's when they're puking all over your bed.

Poor Jess. It seems like she's always sick. Hopefully she feels better soon. I'm trying to be a good caretaker. I spent the night watching the Republicans and the Democrats debate and occasionally emptying the "barf bowl" (this seemed strangely appropriate somehow). The barf bowl is apparently a grand tradition in Jessie's family - I was taught to, you know, puke in the toilet, but to each their own.

I am terrified at how fragile it all is, how one moment you have a bed to sleep in, and the next minute it's full of puke. It is terrifying to know how close we all are to pissing on the sidewalk, how many things have had to happen that were out of our control to keep us out of that situation. I said a prayer for the homeless man with the half-eaten sandwich. Words echoed in my head, words that I always liked but secretly feared: "Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me."

Sorry I got you arrested, Jesus. Please make Jess feel better soon.

And, holy shit (sorry), close down Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

Your,
Martin