by Harold McMillan

One of those days. A mix of real-life stuff, mostly normal Friday - maybe - I -can -slow - down - now triviality. My computer crashed, but I got the data copied to another machine. I got more bills in the mail, but I got a really nice thank-you card from someone I don't know. I had one of those heavy - on - my - mind emotional conversations, but I got to play bass with Margaret Wright and put that energy into some soul-deep music. It was 100 degrees and funky-all-day hot, but I got to go home to some polar air conditioning and comfortably ponder what to do about my raging hunger. It was one of those Fridays when I needed food to make everything better.

Now let me tell you, I love me some good food. I love to eat my friend's home cooking and find out how they made it taste that way. I love to go to the market, buy stuff like I could actually afford the prices, and hang out in the kitchen until I figure out how to marry in the ingredients into an exciting delicious relationship.

Cooking and eating is a way to truly commune with your inner self You don't wanna get all upset and nervous about the act of eating. Eating a good meal is supposed to be a good experience. Take my mother's peach cobbler -- you taste love and caring in each bite. You taste some butter, too. Eating should be enjoyed and be good to you and for you.

However, there are times when I have one of those mostly normal maybe - I - can - slow - down - now Fridays, one of those long, funky-all-day, too - tired - to - cook, I'm - calling - out - for - pizza - days. July 22 was one of those days. I wanted to relax in my favorite chair, listen to some tunes in the cool, and have somebody bring me some food. I deserved the decadence of hot pizza pie -- not by any means the prince of foods -- cooked by somebody else and brought directly to my house. Ain't that American! Even here, deep in the Heart of Texas, capital of the land of cowboys, longhorns, and Tex-Mex, you can get hot Italianish food delivered to your door.

Back to my story... On the Friday night in question, I happened to be at a dear friend's house, house-sitting for them (sorta) while they're traveling. I left my gig, performed my settling-in ritual, and decided on the pie of my choice. With Miles Davis' "Freddie Freeloader" on the box and a cold beer in hand, I called Mr. Domino Pieman. "Please Mr. Pieman, deliver to me one pipin' hot extrawhatever pizza pie and a Diet Coke, yes please," I said.

Pieman responded, "Your total will be $$. I'll be there in less than 45 minutes. Your address and phone number please." So I told him the address and phone number. I chill with "So What" and my cold brew. The phone rings, which I hate. But I answer it after I remember that the only folks with whom I'd want to speak know I'm here.

"Did you just order a medium extrawhatever and Diet Coke?" It's Mr. Pieman. "Yeah, I sure did. Did I forget something?" I respond.

"No sir, we just need to make sure we have the right address... Let's see, that's the house at XXX East 15th Street, is that right?"

"Yep, that's me. Just look for the Volvo; the porch light is on."

"Now, is that on the East Side? I mean, are you EAST OF THE INTERSTATE?" The embarassed-sounding voice came back.

I'm hit with a memory from years ago when Mr. Gatti's on MLK refused to deliver to the offices of Nokoa -- also on MLK, but EAST OF THE INTERSTATE about ten blocks...

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Pieman, we are EAST OF THE INTERSTATE. Exactly 60 feet east of the service road. Across the street from the Erwin Center and Brackenridge Hospital. Sitting on the front porch I can read to you the upcoming shows at the Drum off the marquee. So you shouldn't have any trouble finding it, right?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't deliver to the EAST SIDE." I realize how silly this conversation is.

These guys deliver to my office downtown, even late at night. My office is further away from their store than is this house, so it's not distance that makes this a pizza-free zone. As for crime, downtown is certainly more ridden with urban crime than is this quiet residential neighborhood. And Mr. Domino Pieman is in the heart of West Campus. It strikes me as odd that Mr. Pieman will take his chances with prank-playing party animals and booze weasels, but won't venture into a quiet neighborhood full of families, young professionals, artists, homeowners. What's wrong here?

Could it be that Mr. Pieman doesn't know how close I am to his store? Could it be that Mr.' Pieman does not know who lives in this neighborhood? Could it be that Mr. Pieman has no idea of the relative crime rates of Austin Neighborhoods? Could it be that he does not know that my black hand contains green money? Or does he just know that I am exactly 60 feet EAST OF THE INTERSTATE?

As trivial as it may seem, it's very difficult for a hungry man with money to get a pizza pie delivered to an East Austin address. I t seems to matter little if you are next door to a police sub-station, at your lawyer's office, or in a neighborhood full of old folks and kids. Pieman ain't going to bring you pizza. Mr. Domino Pieman is not alone in this silly policy.

But at the time, I thought that perhaps this was just more of the same from this big multinational corporation based in another state, with a reputation for not being terribly PC anyway. So I tried to redeem this situation by calling on some smaller, local pie joints. After all, these hip and cool Austin-based hippie-owned pizza companies would have more sense than to write off an entire service area. Local folks would know that EAST OF THE INTERSTATE you will find owner-occupied neighborhoods, hippie/artist/student rentals, ghetto crack houses, gentrified yuppie settlements. In other words, just like the rest of town.

The sad news is that all of our calls -- yes, even to out local hip and cool pizza purveyors -- netted the same result: "Is that EAST OF THE INTERSTATE? Well, I'm sorry we don't deliver there." All of East Austin, even this quiet little tree-lined street, is No-Man's_Land, a vile and dangerous urban ghetto. If these guys just educated themselves a little bit, they's know that ain't so.

Austin moves into the 21st Century, seething with attitude -- the Live Music Capital of the World and the Cultural Center of the Southwest, home of THE University and the New Silicon Valley, the CD-ROM Development Mecca for the Nation, a hot-bed of progressive artistic and cultural activity, the home of the state's most educated and sophisticated citizenry, and a bastion of free thought and idea exchange. But you can't get a pizza on the EAST SIDE. It's sleepy time down South.

Somebody needs to realize that the compact city of our dreams includes East Austin. The progressive cultural community needs to pass the word along... It's time to wake up.