I received a sudden up-tick in hits overnight. Upon further investigation, I found that Slice, a blog about pizza, linked to my post about the best slice in town. These guys are serious about pizza. Fanatically so. They titled the link, “You Are Incorrect, Sir.” It’s all so subjective! Who’s to say which is best? I’m sure their best slice is something elegant that’s pretty to look at. Well, I find The Famous Ray’s (11th Street version) to be delightful and will stand by it. Satisfaction guaranteed or see me for a refund.

A recent post about the best sneaker store in Brooklyn begat the question: “Where is the best pizza in town?” After an exhaustive, two-decade study, whereby hundreds of slices were consumed, I can affirm with unequivocal certainty that this…

…is the best pizza parlor in the city. It’s a tiny runt of a joint. Typically, the four or five tables are all occupied and you have to stand at the counter. But standing with a slice of Ray’s pizza beats the living hell out of sitting in any other parlor.

It’s on 11th Street and 6th Avenue in Greenwich Village. I’ve been going there since I arrived in New York as a young punk circa 1980. The fact that it’s still there and has stood the test of time should tell you something. And I don’t want to hear any smack from anny a you fuggin’ goombahs in Bay Ridge.

There are dozens of pizza parlors who all claim to be the “Original” Ray’s or the “Famous” Ray’s. The urban legend I’ve always heard kicked around is that “Ray” is a derivative of the Italian Re for king. Hence, the King of Pizzas. Whatever. I can’t be certain this is, indeed, the “Famous” Ray’s, nor do I care. The fact is that there’s something about the cheese they use in concert with the texture of the crust that makes this:

There’s a somewhat famous Pizza joint on Bleecker Street called John’s. It’s in all the guide books. The pizza is decent and worth a visit if you’re in the neighborhood. Many years ago, legend had it that it was frequented by Woody Allen. Once, I was standing at the urinal in the men’s room and saw that someone had written “HI WOODY” on the wall at eye level. I thought of poor Woody Allen reading that while taking a piss and it made me laugh.

On another visit to John’s, Lou Reed and his then wife, Susan, came in and sat in the booth behind me.

I included a pic of David Mamet to make it appear as though he’s reading this post. Tee-hee.

The fall theater season is starting to take shape and if you like the acerbic wit of David Mamet (who doesn’t?), you’re in luck. There are no fewer than THREE Mamet productions being mounted. His, some claim, woman-hating play Oleanna, will get a Broadway revival staring Julia Stiles and Bill Pullman. It’s Stiles’ Broadway debut. Good luck, cupcake. I saw this play years ago in the East Village with William H. Macy and Rebecca Pidgeon (Mamet’s wife). A college professor stands accused of sexual harassment. Did he do it? That depends on who you ask. Men tend to say he was falsely accused. Women tend to be wrong.

Mamet’s new play, Race, is also getting a run on Broadway. Mamet’s new productions are shrouded in secrecy. I think it’s more of a marketing ploy than anything else. Race will star James Spader and Richard Thomas.

Finally, The Atlantic Theater Company, one of my favorite venues in the city, will host a pair of Mamet one act plays. One-acts are great because if the first one stinks, you needn’t suffer for very long. An entirely new play will start after the interval. After the Mamet one-acts, the Atlantic is mounting a Sam Sheppard play. Those guys really have their shit together.

My old pal and wedding party alumni bobzyeruncle was in town from London last week. Bob carries an aura about him. He sprinkles pixie dust on the evening. When he was living in the city and I would get together with him, I would always end up meeting someone new or doing something I hadn’t done before or seeing someone I haven’t seen in a long time. He has a way of drawing people together. He can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile.

To report what we did isn’t all that impressive on paper. We met for drinks. That’s it. It was a small group and I had such a nice time. Mrs. Wife and I visited London in September and I hadn’t seen him since then so we caught up on news and views. He has a new fancy hair-doo. Nurse H was there, as was a friend of his who I know just slightly and someone else whom I had never met. The chemistry was nice and the conversation was easy.

That’s the way it’s always been with Bobzeruncle. If it weren’t for him I never would have started a blog (which has become my favorite hobby of all time). So you can blame him for this pit of grammatical mishaps. I doubt Mrs. Wife and I would ever have attended a drag show (and we’ve seen more than one!). We never would have met L, who I like quite a lot. They’ve been together for 17 years and can teach the “sanctity of marriage” crowd a thing or two about longevity. L is about to run for the sake of gorillas and would appreciate your support. We wouldn’t have traveled to London on those few occasions. If you’ve got a Bobzyeruncle in your life, then you’re one of the lucky ones.

This, believe it or not, is a section of the Berlin wall planted right in the heart of midtown Manhattan:

It was shipped over and mounted in a courtyard on 55th Street just off of Madison Avenue (I believe. Check me on that). You can eat your lunch and people watch just below a symbol of Eastern European oppression.

I remember when the Berlin wall fell. There were opportunists down on Wall Street selling pieces of rock that were suppose to be from the wall as paperweights. A lot of people bought them, despite the fact that their authenticity could not be verified.

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I had a brutal workout this morning at the gym and was running late. I came out of the shower and took the corner a little too tight and a little too fast and smacked right into a guy walking in. He had a HUGE cock! And it was flaccid! I’m still pretty upset about the whole thing.