Tags: Italian | pasta | pizza

Like Superman with Kryptonite dentures, I can bare the burden no longer.

It is not without a great deal of hesitation that I relinquish this last great secret of mine. The fear. The apprehension. Possibile futures unleashed by my imagination unfold before me like the lyrics of some new Kelly Family album.

The terror is overwhelming.

Rides me like a dog. Will the whole sh*thouse go up in flames? Will they start using paper placemats? What am I doing? The doubt looming. The expectant regret enticing me forward with an icy, wretched digit.Pizza and Indians.

How could I ever have missed the connection? What void in my soul draws me to this place of places? This place of faces. Gluttony? Some sorry contrived belonging in a world that doesn't stop for me and my self-pity? Contact with some root I wish existed? Who knows?

Anyhoo, there is, along the the path of the otherwise useless #11 tram, a doorway leading into a pizza place called Baretta Pizza & Pasta. But it isn't just any regular Czech pizza joint. No, no. Here they make decent pies and name them after important deceased Native Americans.

I usually opt for the 'Spotted Bear' with garlic and some vaguely oceanic sardine mush. Delicious. Prices are low and they have a swell summer zahrada. They even deliver on a spiffy new scooter within forty-five minutes. They're still working on the draught beer.

Pizza, an American invention born of poverty and tomatoes. Baretta, an Italian pistol. Native America, a tragic saga I have no right to talk about, being swept under the carpet. The more I think about it, the more I want to cry or laugh. The irony is almost comical. It's okay to have dark skin as long as you got it from the sun or some street corner solarium. But, alas, where do I get off?

Just who the hell do I think I am?