BELOW: Jean genie Legs Malone models five denim looks that are both haute and hot.

Appears in issue #3 of Whim. Photographs by Ashley Macknica and Joel Barhamand. Garments by Anna Macknica.

Elliott: Wait… what? You think the capital of Slovakia is a series of tiny metal figurines (smallmetalmanstatueskas) of famous Slovaks? I can understand a desire to celebrate great men like composer Eugene Sucho, Robin Hood-like outlaw Juraj Jánosík, and Academy Award-winning director Ján Kadár, but there’s no way a major metropolis could be made up of tiny figurines. Where would people live? Inside the statues? How could anyone fit in there?

Also, think of the trouble their post office would have if, say, I wanted to mail some jaternice to my cousin Mikulás, a politician representing Slavs Vegas in the Slovakialegislatureplace? How would I address it?

Mikulás Kalan
Stan Mikita Slovakian
Slovakia

None of this makes sense. Is it possible you mistranslated “capital” meaning the official seat of government as “capital” meaning wealth or currency?

Either way, the area still needs its own name. I say it’s Slovakiacity.

Next: Brock’s rejoinder to Elliott’s claptrap bunkum.

Elliott’s Opening Statement:
Americans get a bad rap from foreigners just because we don’t know every little detail about their boring, insignificant little countries. But we can’t get defensive about it. The fact is, as citizens of the world (as well as the only country with the cojoñes to blow the rest of the planet off the map if we feel like it) it’s up to us to educate ourselves about the global situation.

Unfortunately, this means hashing out the answers to a lot of tough questions involving exotic cultures, unfamiliar geography, and food that looks icky. One of those questions faces us today: Brock and I can’t agree on the capital of Slovakia.

This is foolish, of course, because the capital of Slovakia is Slovakia City. That’s just how capitals work. Kansas City, Kansas. New York City, New York. Brasilia, Brazil–which is Portuguese for “Brazil City”. Sometimes places leave off the “City” part, like Luxembourg, Luxembourg, but when your country has a name like Slovakia you want to pretty it up a little.

It’s always possible that the name is in the Slovak language, which I imagine smooshes words together, much like the Slovaks themselves smoosh every part of the pig into the blood sausage delicacy jaternice. In that case, the capital would be Slovakiacity, which is a great name because it fits perfectly in the tourism ad campaign I just came up with: “Slovakia — Feel the Slovakiocity!” Doesn’t it make you want to buy a ticket to Slovakiacity right now?

Not only does Slovakiacity have a great name, but I’m sure it’s a lovely capital, from the marble halls of the Slovakian legislature (Slovakialegislatureplace) to the nightspots of downtown and Little Estonia. Truly, it is one of Europe’s greatest capitals, ranking only behind England City, Franceville, Cittá Italiano, Germansburg, Russiatown, and Greekopolis.

Next: Whim editor Brock Mahan proposes an alternate theory on what the capital of Slovakia is.

BELOW: Jean genie Legs Malone models five denim looks that are both haute and hot.

Photographs by Ashley Macknica and Joel Barhamand; Garments by Anna Macknica

By this point, the work of celebrated food delivery box artist Nathaniel Stringman has become a staple in all of our lives. Whether the calligraphic exoticism of “Delicious Chinese Food,” the classical elegance of “Greek Gyros,” or the subtle satirical dig at consumerism in “20 Pc. McNugget,” Stringman’s work is the very height of food transportation packaging. Of course his story has become legend, how the penniless urchin with a dream rose to the very pinnacle of the Boston social scene before being killed by a gorilla who had mistaken him for someone else.

Yet how many of us have heard the tale of the man who inspired Stringman’s most famous and beloved work, “Pizza with Smiling Italian Pizza Chef?” If ever there was a time to tell that story, this is it. For that man, Luigi Gabagoozzini, has died after a long battle with mustache cancer.

Gabagoozzini came from humble circumstances, the son of a poor tailor who, to make ends meet, moonlighted as “Tony the Squeege,” the all-powerful crime boss of the eastern seaboard. Though he dreamed of being a doctor, Gabagoozzini was rejected from the university system due to anti-Italian sentiment and his refusal to move out of his mama’s apartment. He passed through a series of short-lived jobs –- organ grinder, opera singer, gigolo, racecar driver, “man hanging around barbershop even though he doesn’t need a haircut” –- before the fateful day when, while rinsing out a chianti bottle for re-use as a candle holder, Stringman first saw him.

Stringman recorded the moment in his diary:

“Oh most joyous of days! At last I have found my pizza chef, as if plucked from my own fevered dreams of cheese and dough! His smile, his mustache, his round friendly countenance. His very eyebrows scream out to me, ‘Mangia mangia! I make-a pizza for you!’ Brick oven muse, I shall repay you for smiling upon me! This shall be my monument!”

Ironically, Gabagoozzini knew nothing about making pizza. Once outfitted in chef’s hat and apron, however, a disc of dough tossed powerfully upwards, he exerted a powerful charisma that was soon looking out from every pizza box in the country. Hailed as Stringman’s greatest find, Gabagoozzini was escorted by the artist into America’s cultural world. Rumors of a romantic relationship between the two have never been substantiated.

Hailed as “the face that sold a thousand stuffed crusts,” Gabagoozzini became a media darling, appearing on the covers of Garlic & Ammo, Italian Aficionado, and U.S. News, World & Pizza Report. It wasn’t long before Hollywood, looking for an edge over the emerging television market, snapped up Gabagoozzini, starring him in over 40 films including the minor classics The Meatballese Falcon and From Here to Ethnicity. Unfortunately, his ride at the top was brief, and he was soon trapped in a series of low-budget “wopsploitation” films with titles like Pizza Owns This Town, Garlic Dynamite, and Shut Uppa You Face!

As his star fell, Gabagoozzini reached his lowest point. He describes it in his self-published 1992 memoir I Am Not Pizza:

“There-a I was. Scrambling inna da garbage for som-a-thing to eat, all my money gone-a right uppa my nose thanks to my addiction to Sicilian White [a particularly potent strain of Parmesan cheese]. That’s when I see it. My own-a face looking right back at-a me from a pizza box. Thrown away in-a da trash, just like-a me. And yet he look so happy. So innocent. I cry like a man without a mistress, and promise on my momma’s grave to kick the cheese for good.”

That’s exactly what Gabagoozzini did. Retiring to Brooklyn, he gracefully faded into obscurity. Perhaps if you walked past the white plaster lion gates of his modest home, and rapped loud enough on the Virgin Mary doorknocker, the friendly old man might show you his collected memories of the time when “Gabagoozzini” was synonymous with “Italian stereotype.” Or he might be too busy playing bocce and making inappropriate gestures at his grand-niece’s high school friends.

Services will be held this Sunday at 2 p.m. at Famous Ray’s. In lieu of flowers, it is requested donations be made to the Pro-Defamation Society.