The Love of Pizza

Goodbye Lenny’s

The only good thing about my most recent trip to California was the prospect of Lenny’s pizza.

I flew to California to stop a ship from sinking and, not only could I not find the harbor, I wound up wearing the same clothes for four days, buying underwear from Target that is two sizes too small and having to explain to my Dad (78 years old and recovering from open heart surgery) why I am in California, in addition to having to ask him for the car, a place to stay and money to get back home. 

In between all that, I walked out on a bar tab, wrote a poem and explained to some woman that the street was not a parking lot by side-swiping her car.

When I gave him his car keys, my Dad put away the bail money. I called Lenny’s to order a medium sausage, pepperoni and mushroom. My Dad’s and my all-time favorite. I have tried pizza all over the world and I can tell you Lenny’s is the best. Hands down.

I couldn’t believe what the operator was telling me so I made my Dad call.

I couldn’t believe what the operator told my Dad so we drove to Lenny’s.

I couldn’t believe what the sign said so we drove home and ate DiGiorno’s without putting it in the oven.

After all that.

After

All.

Of.

That.

There was no Lenny’s.

THAT was the final insult.