MYSTICAL PIZZA AND PATHOLOGICAL IMAGINATION

Many people like my father.

With most people, he’s agreeable and deferential. He stayed married for 72 years and took great care of my mom in her final years. He’s clean and sober, he provided well for his family with a car factory job, working seven days a week for much of his career, mostly on the night shift. He’s also done me major favors, most notably paying for much of my college and helping me fix up the old house my wife and I bought over thirty-five years ago. I admire him, his many repair skills and what he’s accomplished, having never attended a day of college. He’s a good dancer and, until he was 75 and broke his elbow, he could throw a baseball hard enough to make my hand hurt. Well into adulthood, he also swung a mean bat.

In many ways, my life resembles my father’s. I’ve been married to my first and only wife, whom he thinks is great—he’s right about this—for thirty-nine years. We’ve raised three responsible, respectful kids. I’ve done plenty of blue-collar work and I’m the only one of my siblings who buys the American cars made by the company for which he used to work. I’ve played a lot of sports, as my father did growing up.

Given how much we have in common and much shared DNA, you would think that he and I would have an easy rapport.

But my father gets agitated with me in a way that he doesn’t with any other person. While I’ve often seen him remain quiet when others say stuff with which he clearly does not agree, he’ll disagree with me about any subject at every opportunity. At family gatherings when I tell stories that make everyone around the table laugh, my father doesn’t even smile. And although I have a fifty-year clean driving record, I’m the only one of his kids who’s not allowed to drive his car. Even now.

My three siblings find the decades-long antagonism between us a source of endless amusement. “Remember the time when Dad and Mark…? LOL! That was hilarious! “

My father grew up in a different time and culture. My mother told me about his Depression Era upbringing. His father worked in a coal mine breaking mules’ will by smacking them with 2 x 4s across their faces. If one of his four sons misbehaved, he meted out corporal punishment at home. My father also spent three years in the military and 37 in two large, physically and socially gritty assembly plants. He saw men killed in industrial processes there. One of the co-workers with whom he had been in conflict came to our house in the middle of a Friday summer night and set Dad’s old blue Falcon on fire in our driveway.

So I guess I shouldn’t expect Dad to joke around or go with the flow. Anything unstructured makes him uncomfortable. His favorite expression, which, when he dies should probably be written in caps on his gravestone is, “DON’T MESS AROUND.”

In contrast, I prefer informality, humor and randomness. My father always wears socks and shoes, button shirts and long pants, no matter the setting or weather. I go barefoot and shirtless and wear shorts for much of the year.

I’ve often done unconventional stuff, gone to places that others avoid, pulled pranks and taken calculated risks. An old friend recently told me, “More than anyone I know, you like to do things not knowing how they’ll turn out.” I don’t deny this. Life is more fun and interesting with some surprises. I like to meet new people and to improvise. That’s one reason I don’t carry a cell phone. Somehow, I function.

So, even though my father doesn’t know about much of the stuff I’ve done—and it’s a good thing—he sees me as someone who’s messed around a bit. He’s right.

At least about that.

—

Which reminds me of a pizza.

When our kids were growing up, I commuted to and from work by train nearly every day. I would come home and play with the kids while my wife, Ellen, made dinner. We shared tasty meals and extended table talk. It was a simple, beautiful routine in the best stage of life.

One morning, Ellen told me she and the kids were going to some event, wouldn’t be home until 9 PM and therefore, I should make dinner for myself.

I stayed a little late at work to catch up. On the train home, I was characteristically hungry. After disembarking, I began to walk the mile to my house. The evening was warm and lovely, with a slight breeze. I had to cross a bridge spanning the wide Raritan River, above which a late day sun shone spectacularly.

The bridge has four lanes of 30 mph traffic, plus a sidewalk on each side. As I neared the bridge, there were no other walkers visible. Looking ahead on the sidewalk, I saw something on the sidewalk about thirty yards ahead.

As I approached it, I saw that it was a pizza box. Expecting nothing but air inside, I thought I would carry the box home and recycle it. But as I lifted the box, it felt warm and weighty. I thought, “There can’t be a pizza in here. And if there is, all the cheese will be stuck to the inside of the box’s top.”

But when I opened the box, the pie was flawlessly intact. And it wasn’t just a cheese pie. It had breaded and fried eggplant slices on it, my favorite type. Eggplant-topped pizza would be part of my death row final meal. What an odd custom that is.

I thought someone might be setting me up. But I looked around and saw no one watching or any van that might contain a hidden camera. I scanned further to see if there was a cameras mounted on one of the bridge’s lightposts. The coast seemed clear. Walking the last ten blocks, I twice opened the box to reexamine its contents.

“Wow!” I thought. “Who could have foreseen this?“ I wondered what kindness I might have done to deserve this karmic reward. I failed to come up with an answer and accepted the pizza as a latter-day form of manna from heaven. Unearned grace.

I had three thoughts during that final stretch of the walk: 1) How did this pizza get there? 2) Is someone trying to poison a stranger? but mostly, 3) I can’t wait to eat this!

When I got home, I found the house empty, as expected. I set the pizza on the table and fetched a sweet, icy beverage. Then I sat down and dug in enthusiastically. The pie was just as tasty as I had imagined. Part of this excellent flavor may have been because, as they, “Hunger is the best sauce.” But most of it was the unmistakable, enduring appeal of cheesy salt and the tomato-y tang of the pie, and the chewy, crispy granular texture of the greasy, breaded eggplant, complemented by a sweet, cold drink. It was an outstanding dining experience.

Twelve minutes and six slices later, I thought again that this serendipitous pizza was too good to be true.

Shortly thereafter, I began to feel bloated and light-headed. My pulse accelerated.

“Uh-oh,” I thought, “Maybe this pie was poisoned. Maybe I’ll die because I had shown bad judgment and eaten a pizza of unknown provenance.”

I had messed around. And I thought it might cost me my life. As much as I like eggplant pizza, it wasn’t worth dying for.

I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and wrote a note to Ellen:

“Dear Ellen, I was walking home from the train and I found a pizza on the sidewalk so I ate it. If something bad happens to me, it was probably the pizza. I love you and [the kids’ names] so much!”

I wondered if anyone had ever written a note like this. I briefly imagined my father finding out how I had died and saying, “I told him not to mess around but he never listened!”

I considered going to my next-door neighbor and asking him to take me to the emergency room. But I’m impatient. I’d rather die than wait. Besides, I didn’t want to overreact. I didn’t believe I’d been poisoned; I only thought it was a possibility.

I sat down on the sofa and began to take long, slow breaths. After a minute passed, I remained conscious and my heartbeat slowed. Two minutes later, then three…I wasn’t feeling worse. Six, seven, eight, nine, I felt about the same. Ten minutes, hmmm…maybe a little better than at nine.

And so forth, for about twenty minutes. I came to my senses and told myself, “I’m going to be fine, I just ate too much carb and gluten, too fast, and let my mind mess with me.”

Embarrassed in front of no one, I ripped up the note and threw it in the trash can under our kitchen sink.

Having regained my equilibrium, I realized that I’d gotten carried away. I hadn’t fully trusted the improbable pizza.

I decided to call my sister in Texas and tell her what happened. I thought she’d find it funny. I summarized the walk home, discovering the pizza and looking forward to eating it. And then doing so, feeling bad, writing a farewell note and all that.

Finishing the story, I said, “So, I have two questions for you: If you found the same pizza, would you have eaten it? And if you did, would you tell Dad?”

It sounded as if she dropped the phone on the floor. Knowing of my father’s cumulative disgust with years of my antics, she laughed so hard she started wheezing. It took her thirty seconds to speak.

She surmised that someone had driven to the pizza shop, picked up a pie to bring home, put it on the roof of the car and forgetfully drove away, allowing the pizza to fly off. They either didn’t notice it flying off or couldn’t find a way to easily turn around and retrieve it in that high traffic, limited access setting. She was probably right.

Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson from the pizza incident: I don’t mess around anymore.

Unless I think it might be really fun.

—

As I did about a pizza, hundreds of millions of Americans got carried away about a coronavirus. They uncritically internalized the obvious government and media lie that the worst virus in history had suddenly emerged, against all odds and biological principles.

Irrationally fearing death, they hid from other humans. They drove to their local Covid testing centers and waited in long lines to get nose-swabbed. They ordered delivered groceries and sanitized them. They wore masks, double masks and even face visors. They screamed at those who didn’t. They snitched on neighbors who welcomed guests. Later, they injected an unneeded, experimental substance and vilified those who refused to embrace Needlemania.

Though Covid symptoms were the same as those from any other respiratory virus, and were sometimes psychosomatic to begin with, the vaguely symptomatic thought a runny nose or a scratchy throat portended death. This new legion of hypochondriacs repeatedly retested. Their PCR tests commonly yielded false positives. Even after 35 sample amplification cycles, only 3% of those who tested positive actually hosted any living SARS virus. As samples were often amplified 40x, test results were even less reliable. Further, many who tested positive exhibited no symptoms. Given all this, the link between positive PCR tests and reported Covid deaths was very tenuous.

During Coronamania, most people displayed irrational fear; not just, as in the pizza incident, for ten minutes but, depending on the phobic victim, for months or years. The idea of a virus terrified them, even though they knew no one who was said to be dying from it.

Further, because ostensible viral victims’ families weren’t allowed to stay with the decedents when they were hospitalized, the survivors didn’t know if the ostensible Covid victim died from the virus or, as often occurred, with it and/or from medical mistreatment. They were taking financially incentivized medical staff members’ word for what happened behind the scenes; hospitals received government subsidies for attributing deaths to Covid. If subjected to litigation, official death tolls wouldn’t have withstood even basic cross-examination.

The lack of deaths among people the Covophobes knew should have eased Covid anxiety. But like horror movie watchers, the Coronamanic suspended disbelief, preferring to stay afraid.

During Coronamania, TV and smartphone and computer screens held sway over too many peoples’ minds; including my father’s, who once bugged out when I didn’t wash my hands upon arrival at his condo. As astute Substacker Jeremiah Hosea and I have observed, each using different examples, dozens of red flags should have collapsed the mainstream “Pandemic” narrative. But most people failed to chill, take a few deep breaths and notice these glaring inconsistencies and logical flaws. As when I ate the mysterious pizza, they let their imaginations overrun reason.

Those whose fear triggered a Coronamanic reaction should be permanently humbled by their gullibility. Far worse, those who demanded that others live in fear, forgo human interaction, wear masks and take tests, and inject an experimental substance should be permanently ashamed about the extensive, intensive, lasting harm they caused when they got emotionally carried away.

While going along with the crowd typically advances individual popularity, it can be deeply dysfunctional for societies. Societies need dissenters who Keep Calm and Carry On when those around them lose their heads and stampede with the herd. During the Scamdemic, we critical thinking skeptics were in short supply. And the government and media aggressively censored our protesting voices.