Herman 142

Well… you can’t deny it, really.

Herman 141

Uh…

Pitiful! Pitiful!

Proof that there is something magical to this world.

Pizza’s been on my mind quite a bit recently. During a recent trip to Chicago to see some high school friends (Chicago somehow clutched onto several of my close friends and pulled them into dynamic lives there), we ate at a place called Giordano’s, which is very well-known for its Chicago deep-dish pizza. I’ve had it before, and this serving of the thick, flaky corn-based crust didn’t disappoint. The following day, we had the TV on and saw a Travel Channel program highlighting some of the country’s best Italian eateries. The exact Giordano’s that we were at the previous evening was featured. Right after that came Grimaldi’s, which is a pizza place right beside the Brooklyn Bridge that is widely renowned for its New York-style thin-crust pizzas. (I may have gone to college in New York and admired pizza there, but I’ll admit that I prefer Chicago’s deep dish. I’m a carb hog, and those massive crusts just get me so darn excited.)

All of that reminded me that for the longest time, I didn’t realize that pizza could be gourmet food that had international followings and was worth traveling to sample. Much of my Kansan existence was spent debating the merits of what are manufactured, widespread franchises that are good for casual eating but clearly don’t measure up to the gastronomical quality of some of these more delicious places, or even just small stores like the ones in New York that make their own gigantic pizza slices that you customarily fold lengthwise to eat. My life with pizza was spent consuming personal pan pizzas or slices of 14″ pizzas. The pies came from Pizza Hut, Domino’s, Papa John’s (I remember how excited one of my friends got about Papa John’s when it first opened where I lived), and also plenty of frozen pizzas from Tony’s, Red Baron, Tombstone, and others. I didn’t even encounter Minsky’s, which is one of our town’s more well-respected pizza places, until I was in high school.

People continue to discuss which pizza chain is their favorite. Some argue that Pizza Hut’s crusts are too oily and that each slice has to be meticulously de-greased with a napkin. Papa John’s seems popular, especially due to that garlic dipping sauce that comes in the corner of each box. Domino’s didn’t leave much of an impression on people around me, maybe because hardly anyone ate it. (In the frozen pizza category, I’d have to say that DiGiorno wins for sure.) The couple times that I did have it, it definitely didn’t impress me. We got them because of the 5-5-5 deal, where you could get three medium pizzas for $5 each.

They're trying.

Since then, Domino’s has tried to revamp its image as being a sub-par pizza chain with middling standards. I’m sure you remember how hard they’ve been trumpeting their new pizzas and how committed they are to making a high-quality pizza. I think it’s pretty bold of them to shoot commercials where their CEO says they were faltering and want to improve. Whether they’ve done so or not, I don’t know–I’ve yet to try their new pizzas. So I guess I’m sort of undercutting my own point.

I’m sort of rambling. The point I want to make is that in this arthritic economy, all the pizza chains seem to be making a push to prove that they care about quality but also offer that quality at impressive prices. Domino’s is doing that in full force and recently started its Monday-Wednesday deals where you can carry out a large three-topping pizza for $7.99. Pizza Hut has three-topping large pizzas for $10 everyday, and Papa John’s is following suit while also continuously advertising how fresh their ingredients truly are. The advertising frenzy is on.

However, there’s one pizza chain that seems determinedly committed to not advertising, pushing out food with little integrity, but doing it all for obscenely low prices: Little Caesar’s.

See? REMEMBER?!

When was the last time you went to a Little Caesar’s? They used to air commercials with the guy in the toga yelping “Pizza! Pizza!” all the time, but now they just have occasional coupons in the papers. It’s been years since I’ve tried Little Caesar’s, but I definitely don’t forget that it’s around. On many days, I drive by a dank Little Caesar’s where the same guy constantly stands outside and flips around a sign saying that carryout one-topping pizzas are $5 each. (I really don’t know if that guy takes a day off, eats, or sleeps.) That’s ridiculous and makes the pizza seem to have even less integrity than it already seems. I mean, we all love a good deal, but when you consider the fact that they’re somehow profiting by selling the pizza for $5, it makes you wonder just how lousy the ingredients in it are. All of those factors added to my personal experience tell me that Little Caesar’s is failing. The store I pass by is perpetually empty, and the one time I bought a couple pizzas there to give to some students, I walked out with the only two (lukewarm) pizzas that they had sitting in the half-heated oven. They weren’t expecting booming business.

Sales would probably go up if they had this guy at each store. At least the older people would enjoy the nostalgic value.

I did some research and found out that Little Caesar’s is apparently the fourth-largest pizza chain in this country, trailing behind Pizza Hut, Domino’s, and Papa John’s. This statistic is based on the number of franchises, though, and not on actual revenue. That’s both surprising and unsurprising. It’s surprising because Little Caesar’s seems less active than a dead raccoon. It’s unsurprising because the top three are huge and other chains like Godfather’s, Cici’s, and Papa Murphy’s just don’t come anywhere close to those numbers. In the realm of truly widespread pizza chains, fourth place is practically last.

$5 speaks for itself.

I’m left shaking my head. But I don’t know whether it’s because I kind of admire or don’t understand how stubbornly committed they are to inexpensive, unadvertised mediocrity. Maybe they’ve tapped into a prime market–one that wants very cheap pizza, no questions asked. They might be the ones having the last laugh.

They can laugh all they want. I’m not eating their pizza anytime soon.

Herman 140

This might seem anticlimactic after yesterday’s birthday extravaganza. Deal with it.

Herman’s First Birthday!!!

Wow. It’s already been 365 days since a misanthropic panda found its way onto this blog, first quipping about coffee-related things. I’m not going to bore you with the details of his origin story–I’ve already said it multiple times, and Herman wouldn’t appreciate a history lesson on his birthday. (If you’re curious about how Garfield inspired this, check the details here.) I’ll just say that Herman started as a joke. I hadn’t expected him to be part of over 160 more strips (139 of mine, about 25 based on reader suggestions), outlive his first counterpart, or make it through one full year. But thanks to his charm and your strange interest in him, that’s what’s happened.

Here is my attempt to respectably honor this formerly inconceivable occasion. It took lots of time and ambition… but mostly time. It’s also ironic, considering that Herman was supposed to be a lazy endeavor.

Here we go! (Click on each image to see them up close to read the small text and/or see the images at higher resolutions.)

Happy Birthday, Herman! Here’s to more years of bitterness, cynicism, vices, and unbridled hate!

Herman 139

Sorry for the sudden disappearance, folks. I went on an unannounced trip to Chicago.

I ask for your forgiveness by giving you something tomorrow: HERMAN’S FIRST BIRTHDAY! Trust me when I say that many, many hours have been invested into the occasion. It’ll be awe-inspiring.

Until then, here’s this.

Herman 138

In recognition of the first teaser trailers for The Dark Knight Rises. Sort of. I made this before that happened.

Four Yearbooks

As I went to bed recently, I plopped down and sighed. I didn’t really feel very tired, but I knew that I should get sleep and not ruin my internal clock. Instead of closing my eyes, I let them wander aimlessly around my bedroom. It only took a couple seconds for them to notice four thick books that were firmly perched on the top shelf of my half-open closet. They were my high school yearbooks!

My four high school yearbooks.

This wasn’t the first time that I’d seen the yearbooks in my room, but something about that night made me get up and decide to actually skim through them for the first time in several years. I think it was probably because another friend and I looked through his freshman year yearbook a couple weeks ago. The wave of nostalgia nearly drowned the two of us as we pointed out goofy pictures of our young selves and struggled to recall fond memories of people that we saw in all the pictures. I was hoping to get a taste of that same wistfulness.

The yearbooks definitely didn’t disappoint. Enough years have passed for those books to seem novel all over again (I hardly remembered anything written inside), and quite a few aspects made them already feel like they were the slightest bit outdated. In the freshman year yearbook from 2003, it wouldn’t take a detective to figure out that lots of the pictures were actual photos that were on film, developed in a dark room, and then scanned into the computer. Some pictures of people were obviously cropped using a pair of scissors rather than computer software. The mini-articles sprinkled throughout made references to how No Doubt had just made a comeback, the Motorola Razr, and other things that I’d long forgotten.

The one realization I had as I sifted through the yearbooks was both profound yet so apparent: Yearbooks are snapshots in time–several hundred pages worth of freeze-frame moments. (Duh, right?) Yet the more striking part of that comes with the yearbook signings–they represent an annual amalgamation of what people think of you, how close/distant they are, and what they expect with you in the future. When you check what people scrawl in your yearbook after the last day of school, it’s heartwarming to read people’s goodbyes and fair tidings. You can jump into a bubble of near-instant nostalgia as you reminisce about all the great times you had that people mention in their notes. It doesn’t take that much separation from the past to feel fuzzy thinking about it.

But now, at least five years have passed since those yearbooks were signed, and the fuzziness I feel reading those entries is comprised of a more bittersweet mixture of emotions. I’ll start with the positive. Have you ever taken out all your yearbooks and read the signings one after the other? There’s this fascinating progression where you can see how your relationship evolved with a person over the years, as logged once a year in your yearbook. It reminds you that friendships that might feel like they have existed forever started somewhere.

Here’s an example. I have a friend from high school that seems like she’s been a friend for ages. But looking at what she wrote in my yearbook at the end of freshman year, we clearly didn’t know each other very well:

You are such a cool person and SO talented. You really blew me away with your oration.

I smiled looking at that entry. I also remembered that she and I were part of a small group that went to a nearby amusement park just a couple days later; that was the real start of our friendship. The yearbook was a couple days ahead of that game, which is the main reason I now remember when she and I became friends. It’s also interesting to see the lengthening of her entries over sophomore, junior, and senior years.

I’m so glad I’ve gotten to know you this year! You are really one of the coolest, smartest and most caring person [sic] around. I’ve loved our online chats. 🙂

I feel soooo blessed to have you as a friend. You have the most delightful sense of humor in the world. Really. I have loved every minute of our online convos & b4 school chats. So in closing, you were great in OO! (hehehe) YOU’RE AMAZING

Geez, I can’t believe we will be so far away next year! These past years have been so amazing… I’m really going to miss joking around w/ you in 4N6 & class. We will seriously have to keep up our crazy aim convos. I just had to tell you b4 we graduate how much I admire you. Not only are you unbelievably dilligent [sic], but you have the best sense of humor in the galaxy! Eric, you amaze me. You are one of those guys that is nearly impossible to not love.

I’m happy to say that this person and I are still good friends to this day.

You probably know that the entries involving seniors are typically the most sincere ones. Whether it’s a graduating senior writing in a younger student’s book, younger students writing in a senior’s yearbook, or fellow seniors writing things for one another, seniors seem to take the yearbook endeavor more seriously. Even the people who typically write nonsense things will be more heartfelt this one last time, possibly thinking this might be the last time they get to leave a lasting impression.

In eighth grade, I wrote "Go home. Climb a tree." in everyone's yearbooks. More than one person remembered in high school.

That aspect is what leaves a slightly melancholy feel to everything. Looking back at all these people’s notes, you can see just how many potentially amazing friendships you could have had but you ended up letting go. It’s especially surprising when you see names of people that you totally forgot about, only to see how close you were to them back then. Sure, some of what people write is very formulaic and more flattering than necessary. That doesn’t take away from the fact that you spent many hours getting to know lots of great people that were more than happy to keep in touch and continuing fostering a deeper connection even after you parted ways–and that a lot of those opportunities get taken for granted and/or pushed aside by new things in life.

It’s a senior year entry like this one that got me a bit wistful.

Dear, dear Eric,

I’ll say it for the millionth time in one of these signatures: we’re done. I can’t really believe it, but that doesn’t much matter, does it? You have meant so much to me in these last four years, from when I first got to know you in forensics to my first prom. You’ve been such a confidant for me, and your wisdom and friendship have been completely priceless. I meant it when I said that I could marry you, so if you find yourself reading this alone at 30, give a call. 🙂 Don’t be a stranger! I’m sure there’ll be a million times that I’ll need you, and you know I’m always here for you, too.

I dropped the ball on that one. This person and I had a great time together and a strong foundation for the years to come. While we kept in touch for a while after graduating, at some point it all died to very occasional posts on Facebook. To be fair, she clearly let me down, too: She’s married now.

Of course, we can’t maintain equally personal friendships with every single person that we encounter. (According to academics, a human can only keep 150 friendships at a time. That’s all the brain can take.) And as we grow up and face new locations and circumstances, we gain even more relationships that enrich us in new ways. But if there’s one thing looking at the yearbooks has really shown me, it’s that we (or at least I) should occasionally step back and really absorb just how many people are in my life and not take them for granted. You’ve got to be truly proactive for your relationships to last so that when you look back at your yearbooks, you’re not riddled with pangs of regret. I’d like to think that I’ve gotten better at that, but it’s the people around me who will end up being the real judges.

Herman 137

As suggested in The Gods Must Be Crazy. (Great movie.)

The Greatest Post Ever.

Who am I kidding? Everyone’s too busy watching, thinking about, or discussing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.