Heroes Need Pizza Too

My heroes are almost exclusively the "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!" type. Guys who had the odds stacked against them but who, nevertheless, did not waver. No compromise. All or nothing. Ben Franklin, Winston Churchill- these kinds of people.

But now I have another kind of hero- Boris Yeltsin. Not because he usually managed to intimidate everyone else in the room. Not because he stood defiantly on a tank during one of the most perilous times in Russian history. Not because he was a wild-eyed reformer who strove to change the Soviet Union's socialist economy to one that more closely resembled a free market. Not even because he could drink a bottle of vodka before (and after) giving a speech and still not start a war with the west or, probably worse for a Russian man, fall on his ass.

No, it's because he was a man who braved crime-ridden Washington DC late at night, standing out on the street trying to hail a taxi. All alone. Hammered out of his gourd. In his underwear. And why?

Because the man wanted pizza.

Having spent many a night (and morning) in my underwear, bombed stupid and trying to figure out how to score a pie myself, I feel oddly connected to the man.

You've since gone on to the great Pizza Hut in the sky, but kudos to you, comrade Boris. A man who will go to such great lengths for a slice while heading up a world superpower deserves my undying respect and admiration.