Beer And Pizza Quotes

Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza.

Trash can!” Pritkin cursed and grabbed one, just about the time everything I’d eaten that night paid a repeat visit. Whiskey, pizza, milk shake, beer-and a lone, half-dissolved gummy bear, which was a surprise, since I couldn’t actually recall having eaten any. Fun times.

Our purpose is to consciously, deliberately evolve toward a wiser, more liberated and luminous state of being; to return to Eden, make friends with the snake, and set up our computers among the wild apple trees. Deep down, all of us are probably aware that some kind of mystical evolution - a melding into the godhead, into love - is our true task. Yet we suppress the notion with considerable force because to admit it is to acknowledge that most of our political gyrations, religious dogmas, social ambitions and financial ploys are not merely counterproductive but trivial. Our mission is to jettison those pointless preoccupations and take on once again the primordial cargo of inexhaustible ecstasy. Or, barring that, to turn out a good thin-crust pizza and a strong glass of beer.

I have never heard of the Wife Project. But I’m about to. In detail.’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But we should time-share it with pizza-consumption and beer-drinking.’ ‘Of course,’ said Rosie

Jeff’s office looks like a cross between the overnight camping trip of a preternaturally rambunctious Boy Scout troop and an X-rated pajama party for a sect of animals for which there is no genus. What it smells like is more easily recognizable – dried-out pizza, stale beer and sweat.

Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Hatsumi sank back into the corner of the seat. Her small gold earrings caught the light as the taxi swayed. Her midnight blue dress seemed to have been made to match the darkness of the cab. Every now and then her thinly daubed, beautifully formed lips would quiver slightly as if she had caught herself on the verge of talking to herself. Watching her, I could see why Nagasawa had chosen her as his special companion. There were any number of women more beautiful than Hatsumi, and Nagasawa could have made any of them his. But Hatsumi had some quality that could send a tremor through your heart. It was nothing forceful. The power she exerted was a subtle thing, but it called forth deep resonances. I watched her all the way to Shibuya, and wondered, without ever finding an answer, what this emotional reverberation that I was feeling could be. It finally hit me some dozen or so years later. I had come to Santa Fe to interview a painter and was sitting in a local pizza parlor, drinking beer and eating pizza and watching a miraculously beautiful sunset. Everything was soaked in brilliant red—my hand, the plate, the table, the world—as if some special kind of fruit juice had splashed down on everything. In the midst of this overwhelming sunset, the image of Hatsumi flashed into my mind, and in that moment I understood what that tremor of the heart had been. It was a kind of childhood longing that had always remained—and would forever remain—unfulfilled. I had forgotten the existence of such innocent, all-but-seared-in longing: forgotten for years to remember what such feelings had ever existed inside of me. What Hatsumi had stirred in me was a part of my very self that had long lain dormant. And when the realization struck me, it aroused such sorrow I almost burst into tears. She had been an absolutely special woman. Someone should have done something—anything—to save her. But neither Nagasawa nor I could have managed that. As so many of those I knew had done, Hatsumi reached a certain stage in her life and decided—almost on the spur of the moment—to end it. Two years after Nagasawa left for Germany, she married, and two years after that she slashed her wrists with a razor blade. It was Nagasawa, of course, who told me what had happened. His letter from Bonn said this: “Hatsumi’s death has extinguished something. This is unbearably sad and painful, even to me.” I ripped his letter to shreds and threw it away. I never wrote to him again.

That was the thing with the off-worlders. Sometimes they came off as so ancient and knowledgeable, and the next they were ordering pizza and a beer.

On that note, you can leave now. I have a margarita to drink and four episodes of Fling or Forever to catch up on.” “Cool. Wanna order a pizza? I’ll grab some beer from my apartment.” I stare at him. “I didn’t invite you.” “Oh, I invited myself. Was that not clear?

And Casey said, “We could go get a pizza and a beer, maybe? If you wanted to.” And this. This was on the list. Gus was prepared for this. And before he could think it through, Gus said, “Hey, bro, I have a better idea. Let’s go try that heart-healthy vegan restaurant that just opened over on Main Street. I hear their crispy kale and tofu salad is the bomb.” Lottie dropped the smoothie she was making. It exploded as soon as it hit the ground, berry juice spraying all over her. “Sorry,” she exclaimed. “So sorry! It just slipped!” Gus didn’t pay much attention because he was in the throes of realizing two things at once: first, no new heart-healthy vegan restaurant has opened in Abby, much less on Main Street. And two, being normal was a lot harder than it looked because what the hell had he just done?

There was something unquestioning about her roommates’ lives, an assumption of certainty that fascinated her, so that they often said, “Let’s go get some,” about whatever it was they needed—more beer, pizza, buffalo wings, liquor—as though this getting was not an act that required money.

Did you have any trouble with Olivia?" she asked.... "Not at all. We had pizza and beer every night and stayed up until midnight watching mixed martial arts in your bedroom. She can really hold her liquor." He slid a sideways glance at Cass, taking his eyes off the road for a fraction of a second. "Yet another way in which she takes after her mother.

After fighting a brush fire at the base of Cedar Ridge for ten straight hours, Aidan Kincaid had only three things on his mind: sex, pizza, and beer. Given the way the day had gone, he’d gladly take them in any order he could get them.

If you turn left at the next logging road, he said, and walk a quarter of a mile, you come to a dock on a lake, with an air horn hanging off it. You honk the air horn, and someone comes and picks you up in a boat, and they take you to this place where there's pizza and showers and cold beer!

We all know that if we consume too much beer and cake and pizza and cheeseburgers and all the other things that make life frankly worth living, we will add pounds to our bodies because we have taken in too many calories. But what exactly are these little numerical oddments that are so keen to make us round and wobbly?

entire restaurant was a large, open room with a kitchen at the back. There were five booths against the wall and next to them were five large tables, each covered with checkered red and white vinyl tablecloths. Dwight Yokum’s version of ‘Little Sister’ played over the jukebox, and the smell of pizza and beer filled the air.

I thought Sundays were supposed to be relaxing. As a male citizen of America, I’m entitled on Sundays to watch athletic men in tight uniforms ritualistically invade one another’s territory, and while they’re resting I get to be bombarded with commercials about trucks, pizza, beer, and financial services. That’s how it’s supposed to be; that’s the American dream.

The trick, apparently, is to not even attempt to resist behaviours that you want to change. Instead, notice the urge, and then put a different behaviour there in response to it. Perhaps when you have a crummy day at your job, your urge for pleasure and escapism leads to spending big on beer and pizza and watching inane TV all evening. If you’d like to change this habit, try acknowledging the urge and what cued it, but then invent a response that satisfies that urge in a way that you feel better about. Perhaps eating soup and buttery toast while re-reading a favourite book in bed all evening. Or putting punk rock on your headphones and going for a frenzied walk to a hill you like to watch the sunset from. Invent these substitutions in times when you’re feeling potent and inspired, and once you’ve experienced a pleasure rush from them enough times, they become new habits, and you’ll go to them gladly even when you’re feeling wilted-of-will.

Colby Lane and Pierce Hutton had the manager of Tate’s apartment building open his door for them. They knew that Tate had come back from Tennessee, and that he’d saved Cecily from Gabrini, but nobody had seen him for almost a week. His answering machine was left on permanently. He didn’t answer knocks at the door. It was such odd behavior that his colleague and his boss became actually concerned. They were more concerned when they saw him passed out on the couch in a forest of beer cans and discarded pizza boxes. He hadn’t shaved or, apparently, bathed since his return. “Good God,” Pierce said gruffly. “That’s a familiar sight,” Colby murmured. “He’s turned into me.” Pierce glared at him. “Don’t be insulting.” He moved to the sofa and shook Tate. “Wake up!” he snapped. Tate didn’t open his eyes. He shifted, groaning. “She won’t come back,” he mumbled. “Won’t come. Hates me…” He drifted off again. Pierce and Colby exchanged knowing glances. Without a word, they rolled up their sleeves and set to work, first on the apartment, and then on Tate.

Jeff: Nothing ever changes, man. Fifty years from now we're all gonna be dead. And there will be another group of people standing here drinking beer, eating pizza, bitching about the price of Oreos and they'll have no idea we were ever here and fifty years after those suckers will be dust and bones and there'll be all these generations of suckers, all trying to figure out what the fuck they're doing on this fucking planet and it'll all be full of shit. It's all so fucking futile. Tim: If it's all so fucking futile, what the fuck are you so fucking upset about, fuckhead?

Tate was sprawled across the bed in his robe early the next morning when the sound of the front door opening penetrated his mind. There was an unholy commotion out there and his head was still throbbing, despite a bath, several cups of coffee and a handful of aspirin that had been forced on him the day before by two men he’d thought were his friends. He didn’t want to sober up. He only wanted to forget that Cecily didn’t want him anymore. He dragged himself off the bed and went into the living room, just in time to hear the door close. Cecily and her suitcase were standing with mutual rigidity just inside the front door. She was wearing a dress and boots and a coat and hat, red-faced and muttering words Tate had never heard her use before. He scowled. “How did you get here?” he asked. “Your boss brought me!” she raged. “He and that turncoat Colby Lane and two bodyguards, one of whom was the female counterpart of Ivan the Terrible! They forcibly dressed me and packed me and flew me up here on Mr. Hutton’s Learjet! When I refused to get out of the car, the male bodyguard swept me up and carried me here! I am going to kill people as soon as I get my breath and my wits back, and I am starting with you!” He leaned against the wall, still bleary-eyed and only half awake. She was beautiful with her body gently swollen and her lips pouting and her green eye sin their big-lensed frames glittering at him. She registered after a minute that he wasn’t himself. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked abruptly. He didn’t answer. He put a hand to his head. “You’re drunk!” she exclaimed in shock. “I have been,” he replied in a subdued tone. “For about a week, I think. Pierce and Colby got my landlord to let them in yesterday.” She smiled dimly. “I’d made some threats about what I’d do if he ever let anybody else into my apartment, after he let Audrey in the last time. I guess he believed them, because Colby had to flash his company ID to get in.” He chuckled weakly. “Nothing intimidates the masses like a CIA badge, even if it isn’t current.” “You’ve been drunk?” She moved a little closer into the apartment. “But, Tate, you don’t…you don’t drink,” she said. “I do now. The mother of my child won’t marry me,” he said simply. “I said you could have access…” His black eyes slid over her body like caressing hands. He’d missed her unbearably. Just the sight of her was calming now. “So you did.” Why did the feel guilty, for God’s sake, she wondered. She tried to recapture her former outrage. “I’ve been kidnapped!” “Apparently. Don’t look at me. Until today, I was too stoned to lift my head.” He looked around. “I guess they threw out the beer cans and the pizza boxes,” he murmured. “Pity. I think there was a slice of pizza left.” He sighed. “I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” “Yesterday!

What do you typically like to do on a first date with a woman?" "That answer depends on the woman, since you're not all the same. Some women actually would enjoy beer and pool on a Friday night"---he stopped to give her a raised brow to emphasize his statement---"while others would want to have dinner at a nice restaurant. Some might want to hang out at home, order pizza and watch a movie just so we could talk and get to know each other. Another woman might be more interested in going to see a basketball game. Or maybe go to a museum." "And you'd be interested in doing any of those things." He shrugged. "I'm interested in doing a lot of different things. I'm not just a rancher. I like to get out of my element and learn something new." She stared at him. Dammit. She loved that answer. He really thought about what a woman might want to do. And he was open to new experiences. A lot of guys just did their own thing, expecting the woman to fall in line. "That's...very nice.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off. “Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.” “I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!” “What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.” “Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks. “Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.” Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same. “You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth. “Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.” She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened. “You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!” “Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.” “Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it. “Next time,” I say. “And soda, too,” she says. “No soda,” Kennedy chimes in. Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.” “I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say. “It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.” “That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says. “Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!” Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.” “So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!” ... “You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.” “ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?” “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.

ჩვენ წმინდანები გვჭირდება ანაფორებისა და თავსაფრების გარეშე - ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები ჯინსებსა და კედებში. ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები, რომლებიც დადიან კინოში და უსმენენ მუსიკას, რომლებიც დასდევენ საკუთარ მეგობრებს (…) ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები, რომლებიც სვამენ კოკა-კოლას, ჭამენ ჰოთ-დოგებს, მოგზაურობენ ინტერნეტში და უსმენენ მუსიკას აიპოდებში. ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები რომელთაც უყვართ ევქარისტია, რომლებსაც არც ეშინიათ და არც რცხვენიათ ჭამონ პიცა, ანაც დალიონ ლუდი მათ მეგობრებთან ერთად. ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები ვისაც უყვართ ფილმები, ცეკვა, სპორტი, თეატრი. ჩვენ გვჭირდება წმინდანები, ვინც არიან გახსნილები, სოციალურები, ნორმალურები, მხიარული კომპანიონები. ჩვენ გვჭიდება წმინდანები ვინც არიან ამ სამყაროში და იციან, როგორ ისიამოვნონ ყველაზე უკეთ უგულობისა და მიწიურობის გარეშე. ჩვენ წმინდანები გვჭირდება”. რომის პაპი ფრანჩისკე, ახალგაზრდების მსოფლიო დღე 2013 "We need saints without cassocks, without veils - we need saints with jeans and tennis shoes. We need saints that go to the movies that listen to music, that hang out with their friends (...) We need saints that drink Coca-Cola, that eat hot dogs, that surf the internet and that listen to their iPods. We need saints that love the Eucharist, that are not afraid or embarrassed to eat a pizza or drink a beer with their friends. We need saints who love the movies, dance, sports, theatre. We need saints that are open, sociable, normal, happy companions. We need saints who are in this world and who know how to enjoy the best in this world without being callous or mundane. We need saints”. Pope Francis, 2013

Palermo is dotted everywhere with frittura shacks- street carts and storefronts specializing in fried foods of all shapes and cardiac impacts. On the fringes of the Ballarò market are bars serving pane e panelle, fried wedges of mashed chickpeas combined with potato fritters and stuffed into a roll the size of a catcher's mitt. This is how the vendors start their days; this is how you should start yours, too. If fried chickpea sandwiches don't register as breakfast food, consider an early evening at Friggitoria Chiluzzo, posted on a plastic stool with a pack of locals, knocking back beers with plates of fried artichokes and arancini, glorious balls of saffron-stained rice stuffed with ragù and fried golden- another delicious ode to Africa. Indeed, frying food is one of the favorite pastimes of the palermitani, and they do it- as all great frying should be done- with a mix of skill and reckless abandon. Ganci is among the city's most beloved oil baths, a sliver of a store offering more calories per square foot than anywhere I've ever eaten. You can smell the mischief a block before you hit the front door: pizza topped with french fries and fried eggplant, fried rice balls stuffed with ham and cubes of mozzarella, and a ghastly concoction called spiedino that involves a brick of béchamel and meat sauce coated in bread crumbs and fried until you could break someone's window with it.

Okay, Chace,” she whispered immediately. “Good,” he kept growling, “we got that down. Now we’ll get this straight and not mixed. You know my shit’s f**ked up. I’m workin’ on that. You popped up with bad timing once and surprised me another time. I didn’t handle either of those well. The shit I’m workin’ through, I cannot promise I’ll do any better. What I can promise is I like the way you dress. I like the sound of your voice. I like the way you smell. I like that your hair feels the way it looks, like silk. I like the way you taste. I like that you got a backbone. I like it when you get scared of me. I like it when you stand up to me. I like it that you care as much as you do for a kid you don’t know jack about. I like it that you have no clue how to kiss but still, the two kisses I’ve shared with you are the best I’ve ever had. By far. I like all of that more than is healthy for me but especially for you. But I like it so much, I’m gonna ignore that and hope like f**k this doesn’t get jacked like everything else in my life has a tendency to do. I like it so much I’m willin’ to take that risk. I like it so much that I’ve decided you’re gonna take that risk with me. And I’ll make that straight too. I’m not asking you to take that risk, I’m tellin’ you you’re doin’ it. That means I’ll be at your place at seven with pizza, beer, a sleeping bag and food for our kid.

The caterpillars are coming. They’re coming. As they passed a blunt rolled with marijuana shake around the bonfire, filled plastic cups with beer from a keg in the back of John Anderson’s Bronco, snuck cigarettes at the red doors that led to the make-out woods behind school. As they waited on line at the cafeteria for pizza and Tater Tots, warmed up during choral practice, and changed for gym in the locker room. Until Maddie felt something titanic rushing toward the island, gathering steam like a nor’easter barreling toward shore, and the waiting filled with a tingling urgency she knew they all felt. She felt it. Car engines revved harder, highs soared higher, buzzes and crushes burned brighter. “Look.” She lifted her palm as the insect inched across. The two lines of blue and red dots on its back glimmered like spots of blood rising after a pinprick. “They’re here.

So I march into this pizzeria, and smell hot cheese and basil and oregano and garlic and onions and maybe pepperoni in the air, and notice some youngsters and loud cowboys eating pizzas and drinking beer at wooden tables, and start studying all the scrumptious pies in the display case in front of the big oven. There's one with sausage and mushrooms and three cheeses, and one with bacon and charred peppers and black olives and shrimp, and another with tiny meatballs and broccoli and whole garlic cloves, and one called the Super Deluxe, with everything but the kitchen stove.

I'm not sure we'll have much to your liking, other than the roasted vegetables. We Southerners are all about refined sugar and flours." "You don't eat sugar or flour?" Sam's eyebrows reached his hairline. "God, what else is there? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a carnivore through and through, but I couldn't live without breads and desserts." "Sam!" Poppy gave him a disapproving look. Maybe she could polish my brother, although I doubted it. Javier ladled several scoops of chicken and dumplings onto his plate. "I try to eat clean. But it's not as if I don't ever splurge. I love a grain-free veggie pizza with no cheese." The table gasped. "Veggie pizza with no cheese!" Meemaw looked appalled. "That's not pizza! What's the point without the cheese?" Javy passed the tureen to Betsy, who scowled at her grandmother. "It's still pizza, Meemaw. I might try that sometime." Alex choked on a sip of tea. I elbowed him as Betsy leaned around Javy to glare at her cousin. "I agree that on occasion, you gotta splurge." Alex laughed under his breath. "Cheese is your favorite food group, Bets." The idea of Betsy eating clean really seemed to tickle his funny bone. He was lucky she wasn't sitting closer to him. He'd pay later. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her knife. "And yours is beer foam." The table went silent.

In the stinking dark forest of splintery posts under the pier lay pizza tins, beer cans, cigarette wrappers, condoms—the joyless detritus of American joy.

People like Xavier should only smell like day-old pizza and beer. It would be a more accurate representation of his lifestyle than this clean, woodsy thing he had going on.

The Evolution of Appetite [10w] String cheese and juice boxes; pizza and beer; pussy and Jack.

Rory and I are better together. We’re like beer and pizza. Or beer and a Blazers game. Or beer and anything.

Have you ever noticed that the children’s menu is exactly the same as the bar menu? Burger, hot dog, pizza. If you put the children’s menu at the bar, people wouldn’t even notice. “Oh, cool. I can color in an airplane while I drink this beer and wait for my chicken strips.

Walking to Cooper, I asked, “Are you taking me home now?” Cooper took the beer from my hand. “There’s pizza in the kitchen. Are you hungry?” “I’d like to go home.” “Maybe your boyfriend can take you,” he said, glaring at Nick who ignored him. “Is that your way of saying you won’t take me?” Cooper finally pulled his gaze away from Nick and focused it on me. “Who gave you this drink?” “I don’t know. Some guy.” “Your boyfriend?” “No, some guy.” “Did you drink it?” “I’m eighteen and it’s illegal for me to drink alcohol.” Cooper laughed. “You’re kidding, right?” “No,” I said, crossing my arms. “I take the law very seriously.” “Nerd.” Laughing, I tightened my arms and studied him. “Did someone mess with the drink? Like a roofie?” “Maybe. These guys are idiots. Always fucking with stupid freshmen girls because you bitches don’t know any better,” Cooper said, his gaze locking onto someone behind me. I turned to find the guy who handed me the beer now standing near the door with his friends. “Should I drink this shit?” Cooper hollered at the guy. “Huh, asshole? What happens if I drink it?” When Cooper lifted the beer to his lips, the guy looked ready to run. Only a second passed before the beer went flying and smashed against the guy’s head.

We shared deep passions. John Hughes movies, the New Romantics, the Chicago Bears. We both loved chicken-flavor Ramen and hated the shrimp flavor. We liked thin-crust pizza over deep dish, and wine over beer, and gin over vodka.

Finally, there is one item that I have in my living room that I take way too much shit over, but I don’t care and if you are serious about playing this game to win, you won’t care either. The magic item is scented candles. Girls love a place that smells nice, so I sacrifice some of my man card by making sure my place doesn’t smell like pizza and stale beer.

Toby was in town visiting for a few days. Between all the time the man had been spending with Lori, and with his own family, Zev hadn’t gotten to see his friend much. But that evening Toby had shown up with an extra-large pizza and a six-pack of beer. They’d eaten some of the food, then shifted and gone out for a long run. It had felt good to let his wolf free and feel the wind running through his fur. So good, in fact, that Zev was almost smiling. A foreign expression on his face these days. “Look, Zev, I know you’d rather sit on my lap while I’m taking a dump than talk about your feelings, but what’s going on with you?” Zev coughed at the visual image that little comment had painted in his mind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied none too convincingly. Then he flopped his head on the back of the couch and draped his arm across his eyes.

Still can’t decide what to throw overboard? Okay, time to make like Inspector Renault: round up the usual suspects. Here are a few things that many women are having too much of: potato chips, bagels, pasta, pizza, fried foods, juices, beer or hard liquor, candy bars, ice cream, soda, and junky chocolate.

Simon’s had been littered with empty pizza boxes and emptier beer cans, decorated in Early American Pub Crawl, while Eileen Vaughan’s suite looked like something out of an Ikea catalogue, all pale woods and real furniture and freshly-vacuumed throw carpets.

Hearing a time-delayed full-throated sing-along ricocheting from the farthest rafters of a football stadium is an out-of-body sensation, one that becomes oddly addictive over time, echoing in a chorus of sublime connectivity. The open air, hitting you in gusts that give your hair a perfect Beyoncé blowout while you inhale the aroma of sweat and beer that sometimes rises from the crowd in a foglike condensation. The roar of fireworks above your head as you take your final bow and sprint to the room-temperature pepperoni pizza waiting in your dressing room. Believe me, it is all that it’s cracked up to be and more. I never fully embraced stadium rock until I experienced it from the lip of the stage, and to this day I have never taken a single moment of it for granted. It is an otherworldly experience, one that can be described in just two words: fucking awesome.

a frozen pizza cooking in the oven, filling the kitchen with the tantalizing smell of melted cheese and sizzling pepperoni. Six beers cool in the fridge. A map of Glacier National Park is spread on the table, accompanied by sheets of paper filled with scribbled notes and calculations. Sitting around all day is not healthy for any human, but it is certainly not healthy for thru-hikers. After spending the day brainstorming possibilities, sharing ideas, and speaking our desire to finish the hike, Koozie and I decide to get all logistics down on paper. During our most recent conversation, we were both moved to tears expressing how important hiking this trail is and what it means for us. Working for 5 months toward this goal, only to be halted 75 miles from the finish, is an insult to the previous 2,460 miles hiked and every sacrifice made to get to this point. Our determination is not to be doubted, but our finish-vision can easily get us into trouble that would be better to avoid.

We were girls being girls at the keg parties and house parties, eating frozen pizza, holding red plastic cups of bad beer or worse wine, convening for late-night McDonald’s, and meeting for gropings in the dark with interchangeable boys-will-be-boys boys.

He returned to the room five minutes later with pizza, beer, and a bottle of wine. I guess we're celebrating sex. Go, Team!

That eureka moment has been carefully planned and programmed to deliver an insight at exactly the right time. When you put the pieces together before the detectives do, you feel smart, happy, powerful, and in control (exactly the emotions needed to motivate you to buy some canned beer, frozen pizza, and extra-soft toilet tissue). And you tune in next week so you can feel that way again.

For previous generations, progress in life so far would have meant going through the motions prescribed by caste and class: together, the imperatives of education (inevitably vocational), marriage (nearly always arranged, with love regarded as a folly of callow youth), parenthood and professional career (with the government) imposed order, without too many troubling questions about their purpose and meaning. Regional and caste background dictated culinary and sartorial habits: kurta-pyjamas and saris or shalwar-kameezes at home, drab Western-style clothes outside; an unchanging menu of dal, vegetables, rotis and rice leavened in some households with non-alcoholic drinks (Aseem’s first publication in the IIT literary magazine was Neruda-style odes to Rooh Afza and Kissan’s orange squash, Complan, Ovaltine and Elaichi Horlicks). We belonged to a relatively daring generation whose members took on the responsibility of crafting their own lives: working in private jobs, marrying for love, eating pasta, pizza and chow mein as well as parathas, and drinking cola and beer, at home, taking beach vacations rather than going on pilgrimages, and wearing jeans and T-shirts rather than the safari suits that had come to denote style to the preceding generation of middle-class Indians. Our choices were expanded far beyond what my parents or Aseem’s could even imagine.

Let’s go get some,” about whatever it was they needed—more beer, pizza, buffalo wings, liquor—as though this getting was not an act that required money.

It never made much sense to me to see guys buying guns and going to the range with the excuse that it was for self-defense when the same guy is 100 pounds overweight, smoking two packets of cigarettes a day and eating a diet of fried food, pizzas and beer. He’s going to die from a self-inflicted heart attack or stroke before he ever ends up needing his gun for self-defense

I set the beer on the floor, on top of what might be a cat carcass stuck to a pizza box from a local place that hasn’t been in business for the last three years.

I watched her standing there, and a twinge of regret that this wasn’t a date washed over me. I couldn’t believe I had to give her up. When our food came out, she gave three tacos to Marv and we sat on the hood of the car to eat. “That was pretty sexy back there when you went Marine Corps on that guy,” she said as she pulled off her heels and chucked them through the open sunroof. “I wouldn’t have let him touch you.” I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, ever. She took a sip of her Sprite. “I know. That’s what was sexy about it.” For all her claims that she found me sexy, it did me no good whatsoever. She didn’t want me. None of this would continue once her boyfriend was here. I wouldn’t be able to take her out for tacos or show up with pizza. I wouldn’t even be able to sit in her living room with her. I wondered if this thought had any effect on her, or was she just happy that her boyfriend was going to be home? Probably that last one. I sat looking out over the lot, a sucking sense of loss pulling on my heart. She was like a unicorn. A mythical creature. An honest, no-drama woman who didn’t bullshit and drank beer and cussed and didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was a unicorn, tucked in the body of an attractive woman with a great ass. And I couldn’t have her. So I should just stop thinking about it.

Afterward, we drove out of the high country, gassed up the truck, and headed to West Yellowstone through an awful snowstorm. The flakes were so thick in the headlights that the yellow line clocked in and out of view. In other circumstances it would have seemed like pretty nervy driving. In the rescued pickup, which we had taken as a sort of trophy, the weather was just smoother reminder of our success and competence. We ate pizza and drank beer in West Yellowstone, ands Jeremy picked up the tab on the company credit card. He called it overtime, but the meal felt more like tribute paid from the people who owned the land on paper to those who bought it daily with measures of skill and sweat

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.

Pizza and beer,” Corman said. “And if you want something with weird toppings, you’re paying for it yourself. No goddamn pineapple this time.

The great lie about a college education in the infancy of the twenty-first century is that it guarantees a job that will allow you to live the lifestyle portrayed in all the beer commercials and car advertisements you see on TV. The reality is that you have a lifetime of student loans to pay back while you send out résumés and serve pizzas and wonder when your proverbial ship is going to pull into port to help you navigate your ocean of debt.

After the better part of a month working in the fringed cold, we were ready. There were still a few minor things to do but the ship was now completely primed and painted, with her name outlined with spot welds on each side of the bow and the stern. That morning, prior to sailing from Boston, I slipped ashore and bought a case of Budweiser beer. There was a lot of activity around the ship so no one noticed when I returned with beer in my sea bag. I distributed the three six-packs I had sold to classmates and the remaining one was for the guys in my room. I hung the brew out of the porthole, wrapped and tied securely in a towel. For us the porthole wasn’t just a small round window to the outside, it was also our refrigerator for keeping things cold! We didn’t get going until after dark, expecting to be on the Penobscot River back in Maine by daybreak. I was on the afterdeck trying to free lines that were solidly frozen from the cold, when I felt a jarring under foot. Looking over the railings, I saw one of the tugboats right outside of where our room was. He had bumped into us, and now with his engines roaring in reverse, was backing down. What the hell was going on? Instinctively, I knew what had happened. I dropped the mooring lines onto the deck and left the flaking down of them to others. I quickly ran to our room and opened the porthole, confirming what I already knew. Our beer was gone! Damn it, the tugboat was disappearing into the dark and they would be the ones drinking our beer that night! At least we still had some cold pizza. Free of the dock, we headed down the Inner Harbor, past Logan International Airport and Deer Island towards the Atlantic. We had worked hard to get our ship ready, and had every reason to be proud, as we steamed out of Boston Harbor that night. We were on our way back to Castine and to the Academy. By the next morning, we were sailing under the Waldo-Hancock Bridge into Bucksport Harbor.

Chicago deep dish takes forever to cook and costs as much as four New York–style pizzas. Chicago deep dish is a commitment. You arrive at Uno’s, Giordano’s, Gino’s East, or Lou Malnati’s and place your order, and then you wait and wait for what seems like a lifetime. At times it feels like they are purposely tormenting you to make the deep-dish pizza seem all the more appealing. I actually make a point of not showing up hungry when I go out for a Chicago deep-dish pizza. It would be torture. To kill time, you eat a salad with provolone, salami, and pepperoncini in it and drink a pitcher of beer like you are preparing yourself for some kind of long, difficult journey of waiting. Finally your pizza arrives in a pan carried by your server with some kind of clamp contraption that I’m pretty sure is the same one they use to shape molten glass. After the first slice you are full, and you should be. You’ve eaten roughly three pounds of food that is baked on top of a crispy, cake-like crust. There is never a reason to eat more than one slice of deep dish, but you forge on. The wait has built an enthusiasm and excitement in you that can’t be quelled by just one slice. Most humans stop after two slices, but I like to think of myself as a superhuman.

large portobello mushrooms 6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper 8 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled 6 rosemary sprigs One 12-ounce bottle beer (brown ale, pale ale, IPA, stout, or porter) Preheat the oven to 450°F. Brush the mushrooms lightly to remove any dirt clinging to them. Gently pinch the stems and pull them off (you can save the stems to use chopped in a stock or compost them). Take a small spoon and gently scrape away the gills from the mushroom caps. Lay the mushrooms in a large flameproof roasting pan, gill side up. Drizzle with the olive oil and use your hands to get them all good and coated with oil, then season with salt and pepper. Scatter the garlic and rosemary around the pan, between the mushrooms. Pour about three-quarters of the bottle of beer over the mushrooms. Don’t drink that last bit! Seriously, you will need it right at the end.

Darrin and Lance,” he said. “The love that dare not speak its name?” I drank some beer. “This will give rise to considerable speculation on our part,” I said. “I thought it might,” Hawk said. “That’s why I wanted two pizzas.” “I’ll get right on it,” I said and reached for the phone.

Man Code 25: The universal compensation for everything is beer. Unless you agree to monetary compensation ahead of time, all favors will be repaid in beer. If the favor was a big one, beer and pizza is acceptable compensation. Friends should never ask friends to pay them for a favor, unless it's for parts or for tools that are needed to do that specific job that aren't already owned. If you do a favor for someone who doesn't drink, tough shit. Pay them with beer anyway. Just kidding, they can be repaid with some sort of food item. Money still shouldn't be an option.

his niece. I replay the day in my head. She looked out the door at me. Maybe she saw him. It’s the only explanation for her mysterious sudden illness. I knew it didn’t add up. Her interest in baseball. In him. And then her unwillingness to see him. But not everything makes sense. “Why was she hiding from her brother?” I muse aloud. Ethan shrugs. “If she wanted to hide the baby from Grant, it may have been her only choice. Alexa’s father is out of the picture and her mother is deceased, so Caden is probably the first person Grant would have gone to in order to find her. Abused women often have to cut off ties with their entire family in order to protect themselves and their children.” I run my hands through my hair. Shit. My instinct is to find her. Protect her. But I already tried protecting her once and she didn’t let me. Things are different now. Six months ago, if I’d found her, I think I would have thrown her over my shoulder and dragged her to my apartment, baby stroller and all. But now—I’ve had time to think about things. And even with knowing her identity and more details of her past, it’s obvious my feelings were not reciprocated. She was nice to me. She even kissed me when I kissed her. But I was her doctor. And patients sometimes mistakenly see their doctors as saviors. Not men they can build a life with. The fact is, she didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. She didn’t love me enough to trust me. She stole my heart and then she tore it to shreds. Even if she didn’t mean to. I gaze through the window of Ethan’s office. I can’t keep doing this. I have to move on. I have moved on. I’ve gone back to basics. My job. That is what I’m living for. I never should have lost focus. I’ve vowed never to allow myself to get close to a patient again. Get close to a woman again. At least until I’ve accomplished my goals. “Caden should know,” I say, gathering up all the paperwork and putting it into a folder. “I need to contact him and tell him everything. But then I’m done.” ~ ~ ~ I pick up my third beer of the night and crack it open, waiting for my pepperoni pizza to arrive. I’m spent. Exhausted from my meeting with Caden. When he was here earlier, we put all the pieces together. Caden never liked Grant. He didn’t think he was right for his sister. He and Alexa would get into arguments about him from time to time.

You ever go to one of those arcade pizza joints as a child? You’re usually there because it’s some other kid’s birthday, or worse, because your parent hates raising you so much they’d do anything just to keep you distracted for ten minutes in exchange for a pitcher of watered-down beer. The whole place is chaos. There’s flashing lights, blaring music, a colorful carpet that hides the vomit stains. Not to mention the norovirus-infested ball pit, the rickety merry-go-round, the workers with dead eyes, and the pizza that tastes like it was cooked in a Soviet-era microwave? All the while an animatronic rodent holds court on stage, blinking and rotating and telling you that he is now your god.