I know, I know. The crosswalk is a whole block down the street. It’s just too far for you to stumble in a brown-bag and crack rock daze. I get it. The DT’s have a way of turning your legs to smackberry jelly. Hiyo, silver … spoon and needle, away. But, as much as I like pizza, I don’t want to be the guy making it. I want it delivered to my front door, not delivered to my front bumper. For Bob Dobb’s sake, man, cross at the crosswalk … and in the light too. Street pizza is not tasty.