Written by Lars Hancock

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As I pen this, I’m currently stuck in the Denver airport in the middle of a four hour layover, trying to get home and trying to keep my sanity.

The easy approach to travel is to get mindblowingly drunk whenever you leave your home, in order that the excruciating boredom and stress of it all doesn’t kill you. I’m not sure if there are other approaches or not, because I almost exclusively take this one. It doesn’t help matters that my other jobs necessitate that I take people out drinking as a part of my job duties – that aspect of my jobs makes them more tolerable to be sure, and allows me to bond with my customers and friends. Couple that with early wakeups, late nights, poor oxygen levels on the plane, cramped spaces, the inevitable poor hygiene or gastrointestinal distress of a fellow traveler, and constant stress, and it is no wonder my energy levels are lower than the Indians’ team batting average, and overall motivation, by the end of the week.

The one thing that keeps me sane is how amazingly connected I can be as I attempt to murder some clock. Twitter, in particular, is a hobby/fetish/obsession that allows me to keep abreast of the world as I have cared to define it, and connect with the people that I love and with whom I share common interests. And that’s the key – it allows me a view of a world specifically as I define it, and communications, information, conversation, and articles that are specifically to my interests.

The challenge of twitter is to pick about 100 people that represent a comprehensive set of your views of the world, with a density on those things that matter most. For me, this means 10 family/friends, 10 news, 10 humor, 5 food and booze, and 65 Cleveland sports. And no, it isn’t that Cleveland sports matter 6.5 times more than my family and friends, but I know what’s happening with my family and friends, and don’t need 6.5 times as many opinions of said to be informed and part of the conversation.

Major events almost have become more fun for me to live tweet vs. actually watch. Take the Browns preseason game I’m currently “watching”. Twitter is equipping me with all the data, analysis, and commentary (be it professional, snarky, or R-rated, as the case may be) Bernie Kosar et al in the booth couldn’t possibly provide as they try to keep track of the game. I’ve got 65 different sets of eyes watching it for me, and I’m enjoying immensely the banter of watching the game, though blind to the actual plays. When they play well, you can enjoy all the positive references and dream of a better tomorrow for the Browns. And when they play like crap, you can snap off wisecracks to 200 of your closest friends to commiserate with them.

It has long been the goal of the internet to deliver this sort of personalization. Companies try to learn everything they can about you in order to deliver to you tailored media and special offers that are of interest to you, with the hopes that you traffic their site and filter dollars their way. What you usually get is Groupon-like spam that tries to do this, but still winds up sending you 50 offers a week for manicures and pedicures. Funny enough, the internet solved this problem itself via twitter, and it is all for free. Unlimited customization of all the news you can eat, 140 characters at a time.

Pat Shurmur completely doesn’t get twitter (and some would say, the game of football, or making toast, or walking and chewing gum concurrently, but I digress). He sees it as a risk, where his players can make fools of themselves and leak information to the public. His viewpoint is certainly not untrue, except you must consider those things have happened in the US all the way back to the days where the Native Americans played lacrosse here. Back in those times, you had to worry about your star attacker sending inappropriate smoke signals, horseback riding under the influence of fire water, or some other stupid shit that athletes do (and the rest of us too for that matter). Today, the media is more immediate, the reach is broader, but the problems are unchanged.

Shurmur doesn’t see that twitter is the telegraph that replaced mail and it is the telephone that replaced the telegraph. It is the internet that replaced the television. All of those things did, indeed, allow stupidity to travel faster and further than ever before. But they also allowed the conveyance and continuance of familial and fraternal bonds over long distances, the dissemination of the latest news of the world, the ability to send a laugh to millions of fans, the broadcast of trends in food and wine, and, most importantly, the ability for suffering Cleveland fans everywhere to bond over each and every multitude of misery the hands of fate have slapped us with.

Mohamed Massaquoi was going to tell someone that he thought his head was fine, one way or another. In the old days, it would have been whispers and grumbling, exploding into exclusive scoop in the newspaper and a story that got bigger than it needed to be, disrupted the team via innuendo and rumor, and took days to quell. Today, it was tweeted, handled, and the world moved on, because our attention span is shorter. Why wouldn’t Shurmur want it that way?

So while Shurmur draws up his plays on the back of a rock, and communicates via cave paintings in Berea, the world goes forward without him. And I’m kind of glad I don’t get to look into his mind on a daily basis, because I’d likely be more frightened knowing than I am supposing. As the old adage goes “better to be thought an idiot than open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

Oh, and good effort for the boys in the Orange helmets tonight. I’ll print this column and Pony Express it to you, Mr. Shurmur, so you can see that I did compliment your coaching and preparation, and the fact you have your team looking pretty solid, at least for one largely meaningless day.

Anyway, off to the questions.

You wake up tomorrow to find you now own the Indians. How long do you take to have the front office dream team of Shapiro and Antonetti drawn and quartered? Five second? 10? Or do you draw it out and make them wait a whole 30 seconds before having security "escort" them out of the building via a nice full-body toss through the front window where they then are arrested for disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, littering, and just being goddamn stupid. –justmebd

The most important thing to do to someone when firing them is to give them the illusion that they have a chance of keeping their jobs until you milk every bit of information you can out of them. And then, you go Kayser Sose on them – nuke their email, their phone, their twitter accounts, and once they see that everything around them is gone, call them into your office and execute them swiftly and surely.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to go all Ernst Blofeld on them and have some overly elaborate slow death planned for them to punish Shapiro and Antonetti for the inexcusable levels of incompetence they have shown over their collective tenure. It would be justice to construct an overtly hostile workplace where they look over their shoulder constantly, creating stress and discomfort to the point where their only friend is the bottle. But the fact of the matter is that a wounded animal is the most dangerous one, so you need to befriend it, coddle it, and lead it willingly into the office so by the time they notice the plastic is on the floor, it’s too late to harm you.

Shapiro and Antonetti are idiots, no questions there. But you really do need to look at their files, their scouting reports, their notes and plans, because those are assets of the organization and they at least provide some data. So while most of their notes (especially the Ubaldo Jiminez scouting report) are likely crayon drawings of dogs with enormous genitalia doing obscene things to each other, there may be an occasional nugget of wisdom that must be gleaned in order to allow the franchise to proceed in a positive direction as quickly as possible.

I think I could get all that wrapped up in a week or two, easy. Besides, I’d need at least that long to have the trap door installed in my office, and to build the catapult at the bottom of the trap door which could launch them 5 miles into Lake Erie.

I have been on a life-long search for the perfect pizza and hope you can provide some ideas.  I grew up in the small town of Bellevue in the 70’s and we had Don’s Pizza, the absolute best.  We make our own pizza twice a week and try as I might, I am not able to come close.  I know the cheese is the important part and I am looking for your ideas on the best cheese to use for pizza.  Do we not make cheese like they did in the 70’s?  Do I need to be blending different kinds of cheese?  What is the answer?  I would be forever grateful.  –PizzaBob

First and foremost, the perfect pizza starts with the perfect crust. For me there are only two options here: thin and Sicilian. Thin crust pizza is advantageous in that it is a great way of presenting toppings. As such, it needs to have a firm foundation but enough of a softness of bite to it that it is pleasing. In order to make the perfect thin crust, you need a ton of gluten. Knead, rise, knead, rise, and knead. Get the air out of it and make sure it is highly elastic so you can stretch it thin, and then cook it as fast as you can in as high of heat as you can with as high of a heat transfer as possible. 800 degrees on a grill with a pizza stone in it is ideal, if you can’t go higher. A lot of traditional dough recipes work, but make sure you give the dough plenty of time to develop, and the yeast plenty of time to permeate the dough with a wonderful taste.

Sicilian crust is an entirely different animal, and the perfect Sicilian has been my Holy Grail quest for some time. About 20 years ago, an Italian coworker invited me to Brooklyn for the weekend to hear his band play. We went to his brother’s pizza place in the neighborhood and I was introduced to the perfect pizza. The bottom was like a cracker, and the dough itself was like a two-inch pillow that completely disappeared to your bite. On top was the most wonderful sauce and cheese, nothing else, and it was heaven. I’ve been trying to recreate that magic since.

Here’s what I do know about Sicilian crust pizza: you need to cook it in a heavy metal pan (cast iron or stainless, no cookie sheet), you need to add about half a cup of olive oil to the mix, and you need to be careful not to build too much gluten so as to stunt the dough’s ability to marshmallow. One brisk kneading on the onset, a preliminary rise, a second brisk knead to get the air out, no more, and then form it in the pan. Rise again and bake, more like bread than pizza. Studding the crust with hidden goodies – roasted garlic, carmelized zucchini half moons, sausage pieces, etc. is awesome because it allows the top to bake clean and smooth, while protecting the delicate toppings from burning.

The sauce needs to be as simple as possible. Cook an onion to translucence with some thyme in olive oil, add tomatoes, and reduce to the proper texture. Maybe add some fresh basil and/or marjoram at the end, but this sometimes adds bitterness or takes over too much in flavor – it is often best to leave herb as a topping or finishing element in pizza. Thin to win is the mantra – too much sauce and you’ve got soupy, gummy pizza. Especially if you go Sicilian.

Ah, but your question was of the cheese, wasn’t it? Pure mozzarella is too stupid, culinarily speaking, to make your ideal pizza. But even so it is a vital element. Never use the stuff in a bag – the quality is not there, and the pre-shredded state fosters oxidation which spoils the flavor. Get slices from the deli, and if your deli doesn’t have a big log of mozzarella to slice, find another deli. Under the mozzarella, you need a dense layer of Parmesan. As you know, Parmesan cheese doesn’t come from a can, it comes from a giant wheel. Get a chunk of the big wheel, and grate it fresh over the whole sauced surface until everything is covered. Let the sauce take it (it will disappear into the sauce) and do another grating. But even that does not yield the perfect pizza. Instead of layering over the Parmesan with only mozzarella slices, you must also layer in some Provolone. Mozzarella brings an unctuous creaminess to the party, Parmesan brings a nutty salty umami, but Provolone is the secret ingredient bringing the funk like George Clinton. Imagine a party with no George Clinton, no James Brown… what sort of party would that be? That stinky funky acidity is what you’re missing, and Provolone’s got it, especially when cooked. So play that funky music white boy (or whatever ethnicity you may be) and add a slice of Provolone for every two of mozzarella. Under 800 degree heat, that will make the perfect pie.

Where would you rather live, 18th century West Virginia or 14th century England? –hikohadon

There are two ways to answer this: the first would be in the context of a modern man, having been sent back in time to live in that era after being spoiled with such modern amenities such as twitter, multiple available cheese options, and toothpaste. The second perspective would be in the context of a man of the era.  

In the first context, I’d have to pick jolly old England. 21^st century Lars in 14^th century England would be a pretty amazing dude. The things I’d know – lightning, gravity, the construction of the solar system… all stuff that would make me a prized possession in any royal court. Using basic scientific principles that modern 4^th graders know, I could wow and amaze them constantly with my parlor tricks. Plus, I’d be at least a foot taller than everyone. It would be life in the big castle for Lars with serving wenches bring me all the mead and mutton my heart could take. Heck, you give me this offer I may take it now…

Ah, but if I’m a child of the times, what would I pick? I would have to assume that if I was in 14^th century England I would be a serf, and not a lord. The odds predicate that, and life as a serf kind of sucks, even if being a serf is all you know. You are malnourished, uneducated, and oppressed – all things that would cause misery on your current condition. Moreover, the lords would stride by you on their high horses and look down upon you. What right does that prick have to think he’s better than me? Why should he rape my land and women at his leisure? And how come he gets to eat mutton with the tall geeky dude that dresses funny?

Don’t get me wrong, life in 18^th century West Virginia is no picnic. You are constantly struggling for survival – you need to work hard to find your daily bread, nothing is given nor assured, and the occasional drunken lacrosse star rolls into your neighborhood and creates some mayhem for you. But here’s the thing – you get up every day, you work hard every day, and your quality of life is based on how much you produce every day. A hard life is a baseline, so you don’t care about that. You’re not whining about how the other guy has it better, you just work honestly during your day to survive, and if you eat that night, you feel pretty darn good about things. And that lifestyle may actually be better than the life of spoiled ennui most Americans live every day.

 

Please email questions to lars.hancock@yahoo.com, tweet them @ReasonsImADrunk, or DM them to me in the forae to LarsHancock