My extended bout of good health came to a close this past week as I bunkered down for Nemo with my down comforter, Netflix account, and loads of soup. While waves of falling snow camouflaged curbside cars, the virus and I spent time trapped in the apartment together, perusing the web and catching up on television programs. (Fun fact: did you know that nemo means no one in Latin? I hope the irony is not lost here.)
Alongside my health, two other things came to an end in these past couple of weeks, all of which I’m still finding difficult to process:
Giga’s closed and I was not even aware of this catastrophic, soul-rending event. That being said, I am fully aware that Giga’s did not offer Boston’s optimal slice of pizza. In fact, it was pretty terrible as far as the art of layering dough, sauce, and cheese goes. (Insert here a belabored exposition on my New York roots and how we know pizza.) For bad pizza, Giga’s nevertheless stole the show with its transparent display of usually room-temperature pizza which efficiently provided the equally enjoyable day old, cold pizza; the night owl’s usual snack evolved into the special hangover breakfast.
(The only thing still left up for debate about this forsaken pizza joint is the pronunciation of its name. Is it Gihga or Geega? I’m sticking with the latter, although the mega-sized pizza they offered would suggest the former.)
Anyone with a pulse also knows that 30 Rock ended its seven year run two weeks ago. I’ve been a fan since the beginning, and always maintained this distant dream that I would get into screenwriting and one day work on the show. As of January 31st, that dream is null and void, carried off into the world of syndicated television programming. The greatest disappointment is that I will not be able to contribute to the subtle employment of Classics humor for Kenneth’s dialogue. (At this time, I also further direct you to the moment in this latest season when an audience member quotes a Latin poem. I choked.)
Of course, the end of a television series, or the closure of a pizza shop, is not exactly a traumatic experience worthy of a therapy session. There are other shows to watch when looking to procrastinate, and there are certainly other locations when looking to drunkenly consume terrible pizza in Boston. (Looking at you, Charlie’s on Allston St.) These simultaneous events, however, would almost certainly stress Liz Lemon out. It would be as if her favorite blazer store went into liquidation at the very moment that her favorite sub shop could no longer afford the rent–it’s just ill timed and plain inconsiderate. Come on, universe.
And when the clouds finally let up on Sunday, and Nemo’s snow shields finally melted away from my windows, I watched as neighbors dug out their cars until nightfall. Almost a week has now passed since the storm and the snow is only a dirty eyesore on the city streets–it’s hardly an issue at this point. At the same time, my sophomore year hangout may have closed, and my favorite comedic outlet may no longer provide new material, but it’s hardly an issue when warmer temperatures lick away at the snow mounds and spring follows so close behind.