Stay gold, Calzony boy
Surprisingly, the Little Caesars’ Batman Calzony turned out to be exactly what I needed
“Good morning, sir. What can I get started for you?”
It’s a very profound moment when the Little Caesers employee says “good morning” to me. Why yes, the clock has yet to strike noon and I’m standing in the warm, Crazy Bread-scented air with my mouth agape, about to say the words “Batman Calzony” as if this is a rational thing people say. I hadn’t put too much thought into the circumstances that led up to this moment, but the guy’s “good morning” sends me into an existential spiral—one of those David Byrne ”Once in a Lifetime” moments.
How did I get here?
“Are you still doing the calzony thing?” I ask, eyeing the Batman Calzony front and center on every display. Perhaps some aloofness can temper the shame.
“We don’t have any made right now, but I can make you one from scratch,” the Little Caesers guy says.
“Aw yeah!” I say.
He rings me up and takes my money. I slump in the single plastic chair that serves this store’s waiting area while he goes to make my Batman Calzony “from scratch.”
What, exactly, has brought me to this stage of life? Sure, I’ve wanted to try this Batman Calzony (a Calzony, much to my spellcheck’s chagrin, is Little Caesers’ attempt at portmanteau-ing a food into existence—similar to Pizza Hut’s P’zone). But this desire is fleeting, a byproduct of manufactured ridiculousness that I often fall for when it comes to food products. In other words, whenever food becomes a novelty, I’ll be there to eat it.
(Calzonys and P’zones are both just calzones, btw).
But novelty is reason enough for me to be here. Why else would I be so eager for this movie tie-in? It’s not like I’m dying to see the hundredth Batman movie (although I will see it, since that’s what the social contract dictates. Hell, I’ll see every Batman movie they put in front of me—my face sloppy with Calzonys and whispering “Aw yeah” every time Batman gets a bad guy).
I’ve also found that novelty is good at combating the lowkey depression and world weariness that comes from two years of living under Covid’s thumb. On top of that, let’s not forget the run-of-the-mill anxiety/depression that drops in to say hi during particularly stressful times.
As I’ve mentioned before I’m currently working toward getting a teaching credential from SDSU, which has been one of the more challenging and stressful endeavors I’ve undertaken in my adult life. While, yes, the workload has been like setting my long-dormant brain on fire, the real stress comes from student teaching. Nothing quite reminds you of all your incapabilities and shortcomings as a human as when you’re in front of a group of 8th graders. They’re mostly great kids, but every once in a while, they unleash their masterful powers of shitty teendom on you, and you just have to retreat to the nearest fast food joint.
The Little Caesars guy comes out and hands me the Calzony along with a sizable portion of Crazy Sauce (i.e. marinara with an ableist name). The bottom of the box is delightfully warm against my palm. This must be what it’s like to hold God’s hand. My mouth pools with saliva. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now, and I feel like a goddamn animal for this thing. I just hope that no 8th graders see sad Mr. Bradford in his nerdy teaching clothes, running back to his car, clutching an orange box like it was a life preserver, whispering and maybe half-crying to himself.
On the drive home, my car fills with Crazy™ scent. I look over at the Calzony, teasing me from the passenger seat, and it breifly reminds of that scene season 2 of Euphoria where Cassie and Nate have a sexually-charged moment while riding in his car.
When I get home, I open the pizza box and stare at the mangled thing. I’d love to see the corporate training instructions on how to prepare this bad boy. How many times does it say “ruin a regular pizza”? It appears there are four strategic pieces of dough removed, giving it the shape of a modified iron cross. Then the top and bottom edges are folded inwards, forming the head and tail of a bat. I guess it’s supposed to look like the Batman logo, but it looks like what happens when a kid—already tucked into bed—tells their parent that they have an art project due in school tomorrow, which they haven’t started, so the parent stays up late working on the project, and voila: the Calzony.
The unappealing construction doesn’t deter me. I rip off the two folded head pieces and dunk them so deep into the red sauce that my fingers get a cool, zesty bath. When it emerges, it looks like a piece of flesh or something. For my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink, I think, Biblically.
In that first bite, I feel a lightness, as if the heaviness of the world has been lightened. Garlic sauce and julienned pepperoni slide out of the pocket when my teeth sink in, filling my mouth with a delightful, vaguely vomitous tang. I wouldn’t call it good, but that’s not the point. I perform the same sloppy surgery on the pieces that comprise the bat... tail? Feet? I’m eating fast so that my stomach doesn’t catch on to what I’m putting into it. I know this is going to fuck me up as it makes its way into my digestive track, but there’s a perverted sense of agency that comes from making poor food choices. No matter how bad the world gets or how banal superhero movies become, the self-actualization that comes from little vices shouldn’t be underestimated. Novelty food, man—just as good as Lexapro.
After I’ve eaten half of the bat-zza, I set the rest aside. Who knows if I’ll finish it (I will), but I feel strangely accomplished, and also a little stupider. Whatever’s sliding through my body right now has numbed the mental handwringing that’s so often the source of my sadness. Regret will come later, but right now, there’s only contentment. And given the circumstances, pure contentment is no small feat. (Feat-za feat-za).
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Friday, Feb. 18
Dark Tranquillity, Kataklysm, Nailed to Obscurity, Shawshank @ Brick By Brick: To the uninitiated, “operatic, theatric, melodic” might be the last adjectives that come to mind when imagining death metal, but legendary Swedish metal pioneers Dark Tranquillity have been refining and defining the genre since the late ‘80s. For anyone curious about dipping their toes into the death metal genre, Dark Tranquillity is an excellent place to start.
Sunday, Feb 20
Decent Criminal, Neckscars, Original Son, and Se Vende @ Til-Two Club: Spring is for garage rock and punk, and from about March to May, all I want to listen to is bands like Black Lips, Bad Sports, and Together Pangea. Although it’s not quite spring yet, I’m still stoked for Decent Criminal, who play rambunctious yet sunny punk in the style of Culture Abuse. No frills; just fun.
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Julia Dixon Evans edited this post. Thanks, Julia. Go follow her on Twitter.