As a kid growing up in Cleveland during the 1970s I dreamed of two things happening. One, the Cleveland Indians would make it to the World Series, and two, at the very least, my favorite player would make the highlight reel of "This Week in Baseball."
Well, the Indians never made it to the World Series, but one of the club's most popular players, a slap-hitting second-baseman named Duane Kuiper, was featured on "This Week in Baseball" more than once. "Another caper by Duane Kuiper," is what they used to say, referring to his diving plays, backhanded stops, and running catches that foiled base hits and sent potential base runners crawling back to the pine.
Kuiper wasn't a shabby hitter either. He once hit two bases-loaded triples in a single game and spoiled three potential no-hitters by Ron Guidry, Andy Hassler, and the great Nolan Ryan. And if it weren't for that ONE home run he hit on August 29th, 1977, he'd have a perfect record of no home runs in 3,379 major league at bats.
I often wonder if that one home run jinxed Duane Kuiper and has prevented him from making the Hall of Fame as the only player in major league history to go homerless in 3,379 at bats. Baseball has seen some of its greatest players fall victim to gambling and cheating, making it virtually impossible for them to get inducted into the Hall. But keeping Duane Kuiper out because he made one stinking line drive travel just a little too far one night is both a travesty and an insult to Duane Kuiper and the city of Cleveland.
Alright, perhaps I am being a tad bit extreme. Kuiper himself would never take an induction into the Hall of Fame seriously. He still jokes to this day that he stopped hitting home runs after the first one because he didn't want fans to expect them all of the time. But I will continue to lobby for his induction because with that single home run, he is officially (be it at the bottom) on the all-time home run list - more than 700 away from the likes of Hank Aaron and Babe Ruth.
Without that home run, he would be at the top of a unique list of players with no round trippers in a career's worth of plate appearances. Perhaps we can induct Kuiper into the Hall with an asterisk? He can have a special category: the only player to almost never hit a home run in 3,379 at bats and would be a shoe-in for the Hall if it weren't for the wind blowing like crazy at his back one night.
Now I've done some thinking lately. Maybe his not being in the Hall of Fame runs deeper than his "tainted" record. For example, did anyone ever check his bat to see if he corked it on August 29th, 1977? Does anyone have any surveillance of Kuiper (or members of his posse) sneaking into the ballpark before the game and physically moving the wall closer to home plate? Was there a second baseball? These are tough questions, but nonetheless worthy of consideration.
What's the big deal surrounding Duane Eugene Kuiper you ask? Kuiper played in Cleveland at a time when the community needed a hero it could identify with. The city was in default, its river had the annoying habit of catching fire, and the home team was the butt of jokes everywhere. Kuiper, the unlikely hero, was small and powerless, but capable of handling whatever pitch was thrown at him. A drag bunt here, a bloop single there, a triple in the right field gap. He was scrappy, much like the city he represented. A city in decline, but trying to get on base.
He hailed from Racine, Wisconsin. Born June 19th, 1950, he graduated as a Saluki from Southern Illinois University. He was drafted in 1972 in the first round (21st pick) by the Cleveland Indians. He made his big league debut wearing #18 on his back near the end of the 1974 season. He clubbed 11 hits in 22 at bats for a .500 average. Indians fans (I for one) said, move over Ted Williams, a pure hitter is destined to unleash his wrath on all of your records one day.
Well, he ended up his 12-year career (8 with the Indians) with a .271 batting average, a far cry from the modern single season batting record of .408 set by Ted Williams. Numerous at bats will do that to a hitter's batting average. Kuiper had one season of 610 at bats, the same year he was named the Indians "Man of the Year" with a sizzling .277 average, 50 runs batted in, and 8 triples. Like I said, he was scrappy.
Other teams may have had George Brett, Rod Carew, and Steve Garvey - a worthy collection of .330 hitters. The Indians had Kuiper. There was a special place for him in the hearts and minds of Clevelanders. Aside from riding the Big Dipper at Geauga Lake, nothing made a young fan's heart pound faster with excitement than witnessing one of those diving catches or clutch singles by Duane Kuiper down at Municipal Stadium.
So go ahead and not induct him into the Hall of Fame you select group of baseball writers who spend your days scouring record books in search of profound statistics and lifelong accomplishments. But just remember there is a full grown adult here with enough money in his wallet to buy two...make that one...admission ticket to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. I am taking this money out and putting it into a 6-month CD, and will keep rolling it into more CDs as terms expire until Duane Kuiper is inducted. Then I will see you in Cooperstown.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
2008 Marks the 10th Anniversary of Yankovic's Passing
From the shores of Lake Erie to the church halls of Garfield Heights and Parma, thousands of Clevelanders love to get down and polka. Cleveland-style Polka, that is!
Cleveland-style Polka, or Slovenian-style Polka as it is also known, is deeply rooted in the folk music of Slovenia. So how did it get way over here? Grab a plate of pierogies and sit back in your chair as I try to explain at least one reason why Cleveland is considered the Polka capitol of the world.
Cleveland is a land of many ethnic enclaves, each of which has etched their own mark on the culture and history of Cleveland. Slovenian immigrants, for example, settled into their neighborhoods, worked in the factories, and instilled in their children the importance of maintaining the traditions of the old country. Who would have thought their children would grow up and take the Slovenian folk music they learned as kids and mold it into something new and original. The formula: translate the old songs from Slovenian to English, add your beloved accordions and throw in an electric guitar, saxophone, banjo, bass guitar, and some fast-kicking drums.
After deciding which instruments sounded good together, the younger Slovenians had to find people who knew how to play them. That was easy. The ethnic clubs and dance halls were loaded with plenty of talent. One such artist was Frankie Yankovic, undoubtedly the most popular Cleveland-style Polka artist to amass commercial success and help make Cleveland the Polka capitol of the world.
According to Frank Smodic, Jr., in his 1990 book "Through the Years," Yankovic grew up in Cleveland, having moved here from Davis, West Virginia in the early 1920s as a young boy. Thanks to Prohibition and his father not being West Virginia's most discreet bootlegger, Frankie and his family fled the Mountaineer state and headed north to our city. They settled in the central Collinwood neighborhood, a community where many Slovenians lived and worked.
Smodic writes in his book that Frankie's father worked as a crane operator and dabbled in the hardware business. Both of his parents also opened their home to as many as seven or eight Slovenian boarders at a time. One of them was a guy named Max Zelodec who played an instrument called the button box (aka cheese box) accordion. The button box has a smaller footprint than a piano accordion and is generally less expensive. With Max on the button box and the other boarders singing old Slovenian songs, dinners at the Yankovic house were about more than just food and drink.
Frankie was fascinated with Zelodec and the way the other boarders flocked to his lead. He asked him for some lessons and Zelodec obliged. Soon, nine-year old Frankie was entertaining his family and all of the boarders with his own brand of button box music. His interest in Slovenian folk music grew, and by his teens Frankie was entertaining people in the lodges around town.
By 1938, Yankovic was a hit in Cleveland but wanted to branch out nationally by getting a major record deal. He approached Columbia Records, and after they said no, he produced a couple of records on his own. His records were selling like crazy but he wasn't making any money because he was putting it all back into making more records.
Digging into his own pockets to cut albums was wearing thin on Yankovic. His immigrant parents had always taught him that you have to provide for your family first. Part-time jobs like accordion teacher did not get him ahead financially.
Yankovic, always a risk-taker, saw an opportunity to invest in something he felt strongly about. Since Prohibition ended in 1933, he decided to open a tavern. It was legal and it offered some extra security. I'm just guessing that it also gave him an outlet to rack up some fresh new lyrics, since Polka music and beer go together like the "chicken dance" at weddings.
So at the age of 26 Yankovic opened the doors to his tavern. It just so happened to be on December 6th, 1941 - the day before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. For over a year, Yankovic would run his tavern and build his music career. All along he kept asking himself why hasn't the draft board contacted him yet?
Even though he was married with children he wanted to fulfill his duty. He enlisted in the Army in the spring of 1943 and off he went to the battlefields in Europe, making sure to bring along his accordion. Just like Max Zelodec had done for him years before, Yankovic entertained the men in his barracks. He brought a little Slovenian all the way from Cleveland, if only to help his comrades make it through another night. Years later, Yankovic was quoted as saying, "Polkas make you forget your troubles...it's the happiest music this side of heaven."
The harsh, cruel reality of war did silence the music for Yankovic briefly. During the Battle of the Bulge he suffered severe frostbite to his hands and feet. Doctors had discussed amputating them, but Yankovic being the survivor he is, insisted they do whatever it takes to stop the spread of gangrene and save his hands. Polka fans, or at the very least, thirsty patrons at Yankovic Tavern needed all of him back home and soon!
When the war ended, Yankovic and all ten fingers and toes came back to Cleveland. Yankovic Tavern was pulling in some great business while he was away. This enabled him to dive right back into his band. He marched back to Columbia Records and demanded they let him record the Sheldon Brothers song, "Just Because." When they refused, Yankovic offered to buy the first 10,000 records himself. His refusal to take no for an answer resulted in his first popular hit and put him on the road to becoming America's Polka King. The undisputed leader of Cleveland-style Polka had gone national!
Thus began a career that would span five decades with numerous hits and appearances. His unique sound that meshed traditional Slovenian melodies with pop and swing created mass appeal. Even in his later years, following health setbacks which made it hard for him to move around like he used to, he never disappointed his fans. One such "fan" from New York City named Johnny Koenig got to play on stage with a near 80-year old Yankovic when he was just a 7-year old Polka phenom. Now in his twenties, nationally-acclaimed Polka star Johnny Koenig recently left the Big Apple to settle in Cleveland so he can be close to the roots of Slovenian-style Polka and continue his career from the city by the lake.
Because of Frankie Yankovic, people of all ethnic backgrounds share a music they can embrace and maybe even dance to like a happy, drunken fool at weddings. For this partially Slovenian, partially Polish guy from Cleveland, I listen to Polka music because it makes me wonder what my father's childhood was like. I picture Grandpa Felix (the Slovenian) and Grandma Jolenta (the Pole) arguing with each other in their native tongues when all of a sudden someone bursts out, "hey, let's Polka!" And just like that, everything is better. Until someone steals the kishka.
Cleveland-style Polka, or Slovenian-style Polka as it is also known, is deeply rooted in the folk music of Slovenia. So how did it get way over here? Grab a plate of pierogies and sit back in your chair as I try to explain at least one reason why Cleveland is considered the Polka capitol of the world.
Cleveland is a land of many ethnic enclaves, each of which has etched their own mark on the culture and history of Cleveland. Slovenian immigrants, for example, settled into their neighborhoods, worked in the factories, and instilled in their children the importance of maintaining the traditions of the old country. Who would have thought their children would grow up and take the Slovenian folk music they learned as kids and mold it into something new and original. The formula: translate the old songs from Slovenian to English, add your beloved accordions and throw in an electric guitar, saxophone, banjo, bass guitar, and some fast-kicking drums.
After deciding which instruments sounded good together, the younger Slovenians had to find people who knew how to play them. That was easy. The ethnic clubs and dance halls were loaded with plenty of talent. One such artist was Frankie Yankovic, undoubtedly the most popular Cleveland-style Polka artist to amass commercial success and help make Cleveland the Polka capitol of the world.
According to Frank Smodic, Jr., in his 1990 book "Through the Years," Yankovic grew up in Cleveland, having moved here from Davis, West Virginia in the early 1920s as a young boy. Thanks to Prohibition and his father not being West Virginia's most discreet bootlegger, Frankie and his family fled the Mountaineer state and headed north to our city. They settled in the central Collinwood neighborhood, a community where many Slovenians lived and worked.
Smodic writes in his book that Frankie's father worked as a crane operator and dabbled in the hardware business. Both of his parents also opened their home to as many as seven or eight Slovenian boarders at a time. One of them was a guy named Max Zelodec who played an instrument called the button box (aka cheese box) accordion. The button box has a smaller footprint than a piano accordion and is generally less expensive. With Max on the button box and the other boarders singing old Slovenian songs, dinners at the Yankovic house were about more than just food and drink.
Frankie was fascinated with Zelodec and the way the other boarders flocked to his lead. He asked him for some lessons and Zelodec obliged. Soon, nine-year old Frankie was entertaining his family and all of the boarders with his own brand of button box music. His interest in Slovenian folk music grew, and by his teens Frankie was entertaining people in the lodges around town.
By 1938, Yankovic was a hit in Cleveland but wanted to branch out nationally by getting a major record deal. He approached Columbia Records, and after they said no, he produced a couple of records on his own. His records were selling like crazy but he wasn't making any money because he was putting it all back into making more records.
Digging into his own pockets to cut albums was wearing thin on Yankovic. His immigrant parents had always taught him that you have to provide for your family first. Part-time jobs like accordion teacher did not get him ahead financially.
Yankovic, always a risk-taker, saw an opportunity to invest in something he felt strongly about. Since Prohibition ended in 1933, he decided to open a tavern. It was legal and it offered some extra security. I'm just guessing that it also gave him an outlet to rack up some fresh new lyrics, since Polka music and beer go together like the "chicken dance" at weddings.
So at the age of 26 Yankovic opened the doors to his tavern. It just so happened to be on December 6th, 1941 - the day before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. For over a year, Yankovic would run his tavern and build his music career. All along he kept asking himself why hasn't the draft board contacted him yet?
Even though he was married with children he wanted to fulfill his duty. He enlisted in the Army in the spring of 1943 and off he went to the battlefields in Europe, making sure to bring along his accordion. Just like Max Zelodec had done for him years before, Yankovic entertained the men in his barracks. He brought a little Slovenian all the way from Cleveland, if only to help his comrades make it through another night. Years later, Yankovic was quoted as saying, "Polkas make you forget your troubles...it's the happiest music this side of heaven."
The harsh, cruel reality of war did silence the music for Yankovic briefly. During the Battle of the Bulge he suffered severe frostbite to his hands and feet. Doctors had discussed amputating them, but Yankovic being the survivor he is, insisted they do whatever it takes to stop the spread of gangrene and save his hands. Polka fans, or at the very least, thirsty patrons at Yankovic Tavern needed all of him back home and soon!
When the war ended, Yankovic and all ten fingers and toes came back to Cleveland. Yankovic Tavern was pulling in some great business while he was away. This enabled him to dive right back into his band. He marched back to Columbia Records and demanded they let him record the Sheldon Brothers song, "Just Because." When they refused, Yankovic offered to buy the first 10,000 records himself. His refusal to take no for an answer resulted in his first popular hit and put him on the road to becoming America's Polka King. The undisputed leader of Cleveland-style Polka had gone national!
Thus began a career that would span five decades with numerous hits and appearances. His unique sound that meshed traditional Slovenian melodies with pop and swing created mass appeal. Even in his later years, following health setbacks which made it hard for him to move around like he used to, he never disappointed his fans. One such "fan" from New York City named Johnny Koenig got to play on stage with a near 80-year old Yankovic when he was just a 7-year old Polka phenom. Now in his twenties, nationally-acclaimed Polka star Johnny Koenig recently left the Big Apple to settle in Cleveland so he can be close to the roots of Slovenian-style Polka and continue his career from the city by the lake.
Because of Frankie Yankovic, people of all ethnic backgrounds share a music they can embrace and maybe even dance to like a happy, drunken fool at weddings. For this partially Slovenian, partially Polish guy from Cleveland, I listen to Polka music because it makes me wonder what my father's childhood was like. I picture Grandpa Felix (the Slovenian) and Grandma Jolenta (the Pole) arguing with each other in their native tongues when all of a sudden someone bursts out, "hey, let's Polka!" And just like that, everything is better. Until someone steals the kishka.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Memoir of a Rascal House Pizza Junkie
I started on the easy stuff - a slice of pepperoni pizza to go, please. Within days I was ordering the goods - two slices of pepperoni, a heaping cup of fries, and a lemonade. This is the story of a man and his 22-year love affair with Rascal House Pizza. This is my story.
It all began in the fall of 1986. The aroma of pizza sauce wafted through the foyer and smacked me in the face as I entered the establishment on Euclid and East 21st, across the street from "The Cage" at Cleveland State. I had a good feeling about this place.
In those days there were only 4 places to grab a bite on the campus of CSU: The Shire, Fat Glenn's, the cafeteria, and the Rascal House. The Shire was located in the basement of The Cage and seemed like a nice place. Fat Glenn's was near Mather Mansion but looked like a speakeasy, at least from the outside. The cafeteria was on the third floor of The Cage overlooking a deep vertical drop down to the wide open floor below. Not a good situation for someone who possessed a fear of heights and a craving for hearty meals like bacon & eggs. The Rascal House seemed innocent enough. I'll just grab a quick slice and be on my way.
I had heard good things about the Rascal House long before my first visit. "Pizzavores" migrated there from the suburbs for food, drink, and festivities during Cleveland State's magical NCAA Sweet 16 run just months before. It was a place where you could hang out in front with friends eating pizza, or head out back to drink and dance to INXS and Echo & The Bunnymen.
The Rascal House opened its doors for business in 1980. Downtown would be its flagship store. The recipe, student atmosphere, and reasonable price caught on quickly. The Plain Dealer dubbed Rascal House Pizza "Cleveland's Best Pizza" by the mid-eighties.
But for many years if you wanted Rascal House pizza you had two choices. Go downtown or go hungry. By popular demand in 1994, Rascal House opened a second store, in Euclid, then added another one near John Carroll University. Soon, Rascal House Pizzas were popping up like dough in 600-degree ovens. Franchise owners brought the great taste once reserved for CSU to friendly neighborhoods near you. There are now restaurants in University Circle, Seven Hills, and Maple Heights.
Even though Rascal House Pizza grew and grew, making the world a better place, I still eat Rascal House Pizza the way it was meant to be enjoyed - downtown at CSU. And even though I am now grown up and married, I bring my wife and kids to the Rascal House every time we visit campus for basketball, soccer, and volleyball games. We ask for the Belly Buster loaded with pepperoni and three cups of fries. I order small fountain drinks but end up with cups the size of 10-gallon hats. Not wanting to offend, I indulge in the unlimited refills like a child who's just swallowed an entire bag of giant pretzels. More pizza means more pop and more pop means more pizza. It's an endless cycle.
I pass the time waiting for our number to be called by sharing with my family an appetizing collection of personal Rascal House stories. Like the time I bumped into Hall of Fame football player Larry Csonka (literally) as I exited the men's room on the morning of the 1987 Cleveland Revco 10K. I told him I was sorry. He said no problem and gave me a stiff pat on the back that nearly sent me through the wall and into the kitchen.
The Rascal House was my destination for lunch practically every day of college. It felt good being a regular ordering my usual. Then off to a booth I went to read the lastest issue of The Cauldron and gulp down my food before heading back to class. Later that evening there was a good chance I'd be back in that booth with teammates from the cross country team, or to re-write my notes from history class. I once had a stockpile of yellow legal pads coated with pizza stains and greasy fingerprints, courtesy of the Rascal House and my compulsive need to brush up on the teachings of Professor Campbell, Cary, and Drimmer while eating a late meal.
Soon graduation came, and with my departure from downtown Cleveland came a brief hiatus from Rascal House Pizza. Every now and then I would come back and see some of the changes taking place at my favorite hangout. Like sand volleyball in the alley next door. And pick-up basketball on a make-shift court in the bar. I think I even saw a Rolling Stones concert, previously taped, at the Rascal House. But that was it for a while. From what I heard changes took place often at the Rascal House over the years, not so much at the restaurant, but inside the bar.
Then I started watching college basketball a couple of years ago with my brother who was bed-ridden for a time. I started wondering how Cleveland State was doing. I woke up one weekend and told my wife I wanted to go downtown to CSU to see what's new. We could take the kids and grab lunch at the Rascal House.
When we got downtown the Euclid Corridor project was transforming Euclid Avenue right before our eyes. Cleveland State was in the early stages of its campus expansion. Lucky for me the Rascal House was right where I left it. What would it be like after all these years? Would they even remember me? And would I still like their food?
They had me back at "can I help the next person in line." We immediately placed our order and found a familiar booth nearby. A song by A Flock of Seagulls was playing in the background, making it all the more easy for stories from the 1980s to gush out for my family's amusement while we waited for our pizza.
Thus began my new era of enjoying Rascal House Pizza, this time with my hungry family right there with me. A major difference this time around is that I am surrounded by so many young customers. I'm betting these young people will be back in 22 years with their families. I wonder where I'll be eating pizza 22 years from now?
It all began in the fall of 1986. The aroma of pizza sauce wafted through the foyer and smacked me in the face as I entered the establishment on Euclid and East 21st, across the street from "The Cage" at Cleveland State. I had a good feeling about this place.
In those days there were only 4 places to grab a bite on the campus of CSU: The Shire, Fat Glenn's, the cafeteria, and the Rascal House. The Shire was located in the basement of The Cage and seemed like a nice place. Fat Glenn's was near Mather Mansion but looked like a speakeasy, at least from the outside. The cafeteria was on the third floor of The Cage overlooking a deep vertical drop down to the wide open floor below. Not a good situation for someone who possessed a fear of heights and a craving for hearty meals like bacon & eggs. The Rascal House seemed innocent enough. I'll just grab a quick slice and be on my way.
I had heard good things about the Rascal House long before my first visit. "Pizzavores" migrated there from the suburbs for food, drink, and festivities during Cleveland State's magical NCAA Sweet 16 run just months before. It was a place where you could hang out in front with friends eating pizza, or head out back to drink and dance to INXS and Echo & The Bunnymen.
The Rascal House opened its doors for business in 1980. Downtown would be its flagship store. The recipe, student atmosphere, and reasonable price caught on quickly. The Plain Dealer dubbed Rascal House Pizza "Cleveland's Best Pizza" by the mid-eighties.
But for many years if you wanted Rascal House pizza you had two choices. Go downtown or go hungry. By popular demand in 1994, Rascal House opened a second store, in Euclid, then added another one near John Carroll University. Soon, Rascal House Pizzas were popping up like dough in 600-degree ovens. Franchise owners brought the great taste once reserved for CSU to friendly neighborhoods near you. There are now restaurants in University Circle, Seven Hills, and Maple Heights.
Even though Rascal House Pizza grew and grew, making the world a better place, I still eat Rascal House Pizza the way it was meant to be enjoyed - downtown at CSU. And even though I am now grown up and married, I bring my wife and kids to the Rascal House every time we visit campus for basketball, soccer, and volleyball games. We ask for the Belly Buster loaded with pepperoni and three cups of fries. I order small fountain drinks but end up with cups the size of 10-gallon hats. Not wanting to offend, I indulge in the unlimited refills like a child who's just swallowed an entire bag of giant pretzels. More pizza means more pop and more pop means more pizza. It's an endless cycle.
I pass the time waiting for our number to be called by sharing with my family an appetizing collection of personal Rascal House stories. Like the time I bumped into Hall of Fame football player Larry Csonka (literally) as I exited the men's room on the morning of the 1987 Cleveland Revco 10K. I told him I was sorry. He said no problem and gave me a stiff pat on the back that nearly sent me through the wall and into the kitchen.
The Rascal House was my destination for lunch practically every day of college. It felt good being a regular ordering my usual. Then off to a booth I went to read the lastest issue of The Cauldron and gulp down my food before heading back to class. Later that evening there was a good chance I'd be back in that booth with teammates from the cross country team, or to re-write my notes from history class. I once had a stockpile of yellow legal pads coated with pizza stains and greasy fingerprints, courtesy of the Rascal House and my compulsive need to brush up on the teachings of Professor Campbell, Cary, and Drimmer while eating a late meal.
Soon graduation came, and with my departure from downtown Cleveland came a brief hiatus from Rascal House Pizza. Every now and then I would come back and see some of the changes taking place at my favorite hangout. Like sand volleyball in the alley next door. And pick-up basketball on a make-shift court in the bar. I think I even saw a Rolling Stones concert, previously taped, at the Rascal House. But that was it for a while. From what I heard changes took place often at the Rascal House over the years, not so much at the restaurant, but inside the bar.
Then I started watching college basketball a couple of years ago with my brother who was bed-ridden for a time. I started wondering how Cleveland State was doing. I woke up one weekend and told my wife I wanted to go downtown to CSU to see what's new. We could take the kids and grab lunch at the Rascal House.
When we got downtown the Euclid Corridor project was transforming Euclid Avenue right before our eyes. Cleveland State was in the early stages of its campus expansion. Lucky for me the Rascal House was right where I left it. What would it be like after all these years? Would they even remember me? And would I still like their food?
They had me back at "can I help the next person in line." We immediately placed our order and found a familiar booth nearby. A song by A Flock of Seagulls was playing in the background, making it all the more easy for stories from the 1980s to gush out for my family's amusement while we waited for our pizza.
Thus began my new era of enjoying Rascal House Pizza, this time with my hungry family right there with me. A major difference this time around is that I am surrounded by so many young customers. I'm betting these young people will be back in 22 years with their families. I wonder where I'll be eating pizza 22 years from now?
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