Pizzacato

It is always a delight to rediscover lost pornography.

The tall rubberized recycle bin was parked in my family room, filling rapidly. Years of unpacked boxes and baskets were being sorted across the floor. Old bills. Old letters. Receipts that should have been claimed on our 2003 taxes.

I popped open the sticking latch of a dilapidated brief case. I still knew the combination. I had a suspicion about its contents, and sure enough, volume after volume of glossy egregious smut spilled out over my feet.

All the old magazines, which, in pre-internet days, had been so handy... all the old faces were familiar, the lay outs... the poses...

I sorted listlessly through the pile, reminiscing over edgier titles like Barely Legal and the more mundane like Penthouse. One of the Penthouse copies was an anniversary edition, and I flipped nostalgically through the pages.

One of the layouts was a re-run from a much earlier time. It featured a bright eyed (coked-up) slightly chubby blond girl and a relatively-haggard looking black man with a fat 12-incher, both walking around a deserted beach. Their given mag-names were something like Bunny and Ted.

There was an implied story and more than the mere suggestion of sex. I suppose it played on perceived taboos of the time.

I always found the layout to be odd, and my impression wasn't any different all these years later. I tossed the magazine, along with most of the others into the recycle bin (my own little gift to the recycling sorters at the transfer station.)

I only bring this up, because, I stopped and grabbed pizza for lunch today...



It was a busy day, and I worked on finalizing a dead-line-burdened motion way past my regular lunch hour. I was starving and my blood sugar was low.

I wandered out into the bright busy afternoon sidewalk and stumbled around looking for quick calories. Fortunately, I wandered across a Pizzacato around the corner from my office, and slunk in.

I was greeted by sensible Northwesty wood grain and muted tones. Low key jazz bee-bopped its way around the other ambient noise. Giant metal spatulas scraped the insides of the wood-burning pizza ovens. The whole place smelled of garlic. And cheese. And baking dough.

The joint was filled, also, from wall to wall, with beautiful people. A few dudes, to be sure, with their casual office-chic dress code, poofy lips, straight noses, and tussled hair.

More importantly, however, were the women. Tight skirts and smart blouses. Legs. Hair. It was an epicenter of provacatively sexy office attire. This is where all of the local sassy-elite seem to meet.

There was a hushed murmur, indicative of a high-stakes repressed meat market deal making. Side-long glances and subtle twitches of lips told the story.

Being the socially retarded dork with bad hair that I am, I was able to wander and observe with virtual invisibility, like Frodo with the ring or Harry under his cloak...

And as I wandered, I observed a very curious couple standing in line nearby.

He was probably her professor. He was tall and distinguished, probably 40, with dark African skin. His hair was WELL conditioned. Not "Geri Curl" conditioned, but still well-hydrated. The curls of his slightly graying head were loose, like a poodle (and I don't mean that in any sort of insulting way...)

His sideburns were long. 60's-radical long. His high-neck sport coat was made of some unusual finely-brushed buff velvet, and well-tailored to his frame. His expensive Italian jeans were just faded enough, and they fell around smart brown loafers.

He could have just walked off the set of the Mod Squad. The old one. This one:



Anyway, he was a bit of an anachronism. What was odder yet, though, was his lunch partner. She was probably 20, but dressed and looked like she was 15. Distinctively Swedish, with her copper blond hair woven in tight braids above her brow, she could have been named Helga, Gretchen or Heidie...

Her thin pale shapeless legs poured out of her tight-fitting daisy dukes. Her snugly flirtatious blouse was gingham.

They were involved in a hushed conversation.

Together, they appeared to be character models from the glossy pages of some fashion-forward conceptual publication. And that is why, perhaps, they reminded so much of Bunny and Ted.

In the end, the pizza proved to be good, if not a little oily, I now know where to go for local eye candy in the commercial neighborhood, and I was able to take a small break from my day to contemplate vintage porn. All in all, a good day.