Forty Years of Darkness: Day 45

Mother Nature has an incontinence problem. Or maybe she's just been glued to the Lifetime Network's latest "Beautiful-Actresses-Dying-Tragically-Yet-Finding-Last-Minute-Closure-with-their-Domineering-Mothers" movie marathon.

Either way, here in Pittsburgh it has been raining almost every day since Spring twirled onto the seasonal stage, looked around, and said, "Daffodils, this is your wake up call. Time to haul petal."

So, they grumblingly rolled out of bed. And stepped into the shower. But the shower just hasn't ended yet. Two-and-a-half months, they've been in there, singing "What's the Story Morning Glory" and there's no sign of it stopping-- even with Oasis suing for lack of public performance permissions.

I mean, I totally understand the old "April Showers Bring May Flowers" thing. But what we've been experiencing this year is not normal. If it were, there would be more sayings we'd trot out to make excuses for why we have to ScotchGuard our socks.

Phrases like: "The rains of March, they quench the larch."

"Monsoons in June, mean blooms kaboom."

Or "February showers bring March flooding of the Mon Wharf parking lot due to too-rapid snow melting, causing commuter tensions in an already challenging downtown parking situation."

You know, catchy stuff like that.

But it's not just the rain. It's the darkness. The kind of perpetual darkness that no amount of coffee will cut through. There is not enough coffee in the world when 10 in the morning every day looks like the lighting set-up for Blade Runner.

Now, me, I am one of those unnaturally pale people that really shouldn't be out in any kind of direct sunlight or, I don't know, stand next to someone like Snooki lest my skin peel off from the radiation. I probably luminesce on my own. But that doesn't mean I don't want to see that warm, golden stuff shining down on us at least once before the fall school supplies are out in Target.

(Actually, that will probably be tomorrow; nevermind.)

So, I'm starting to wonder what's next, friends? The Three Rivers boiling with blood? A plague of locusts sweeping the city? (Stinkbugs have already beat them to that.) High winds and a record number of tornadoes wiping out whole--

Oh... okay. Fine: points to you, Mom Nature. You've proven you can still mix it up with the best of 'em.

I guess the only thing we can do is adapt. Like those see-through, sightless crustaceans that live in caves.

Finally, I'll have a chance at not blinding everyone come summer shorts season. So... hey, silver lining!

The Secret Subterranean World of Pittsburgh Parking

It's like the Mines of Moria. Nestled under the city lurks an unexpected subterranean world. One where water drips in concrete caverns. Creatures lost and bewildered scurry through winding paths, searching for the light. And great hordes of treasure accumulate in jingling tribute, as travelers beg exit without incident.

Yes, these are the parking garages of downtown Pittsburgh.

Getting disoriented there is like some regular rite of passage, an important part of venturing into the mystic city. For me, this weekend it was a trip to see Mel Brooks' "Young Frankenstein" play at the Benedum Center theater. I tucked my vehicle deep into the bowels of a nearby garage, wound around the parking cave's great pylons and Tow Away zones, and made note of my level-- Orange. Floor: G2.

Leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, I found my way to the elevator, and rose back into the world of the living again, as it spat me out into the marble-floored lobby of some high-rise. I spun through revolving crystalline doors and out onto the street.

After we put on the ritz with ol' Frohdrick Frahnkensteen and his monster man-about-town, I returned to the block where my car rested, miles below.

Yet-- it seemed everything had changed. I had left a building with a shining glass front. It took a moment for me to locate the ramp my little steed had originally descended.

Ah, and there! Next to it. A building with a revolving glass entrance!

I entered, crossing its marble floor.

I stepped into its elevator on the left. I descended. I got out on G2.

It was not orange.

Eyebrow raised, I exited the elevator expecting the Orange percentage to increase 100% as I rounded the corner.

It didn't.

My GOD! In the three hours I was in the theater, someone had repainted the entire floor and stolen the ticketing machine that had been there, as well as my car!

Or, well, maybe I was on the wrong floor.

So I got back in the elevator and pushed the button once more. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was G1 and not 2.

The elevator rose. The doors opened...

A complete absence of Orange. Creatures scuttled from the elevator light. Something howled chillingly in the distance.

I was in the wrong parking garage.

I ascended once more, offered a blushing, cheesy grin to the guard at the security desk, who had now seen me twice in five minutes-- probably a record-- and I stepped back out onto the street.

I slipped my parking ticket from my pocket, and against raging winds, ventured down the block. I read the address on that ticket, yet it, and the name of the garage matched absolutely nothing on the entire street.

But then-- then I saw it. Another set of gleaming glass revolving doors. Another building with a bright marble-tiled entrance. And there- an older couple dressed up and walking purposefully toward them.

Could they possibly know the path to the Mystic Orange Parking Garage of Lore? The Otherworld that only the denziens of this labyrinth could know?

Look! An elevator! On the left!

And buttons-- a G2!

Oh, fellow travelers, could it be? Had we found the walkway through the mysterious underground city?

The doors cracked open to reveal the warm, inviting orange glow. And there, my breadcrumbs still lay, a crumbly trail to my beloved four-wheel steed.

I had made it!

Of course, finding the Exit was a whole other story.

Variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law

My town, Pittsburgh, dances to the beat of its own stadium organist.

For instance, the 'Burgh believes there's nothing odd about tucking french fries inside your sandwich-- and while you're add it, slap a little cole slaw in there, too.

It believes that anybody making a left turn has a God-given right to go first, nevermind those pesky traffic laws or that giant truck barreling down on you head-on.

It stands for helping stranded motorists just because it's the right thing to do. It believes in never-ending potential for Steelers Superbowl stardom even if half the players are in full-body casts.

And it believes that once you dig your parking space out, like astronauts on a moon landing, you are permitted to symbolically claim it as your own.

And this can only be done properly by putting a chair in it.

Now, these chairs may look like ordinary chairs, but the moment they step a leg outside, they gain magical properties. That chair instantly stakes your claim. It renders that chair unmovable by foreign entities under penalty of instant epidermal liquification or a good punch in the snoot.

For Snowapolooza 2010, however, I'm noticing some creative variations on the Pittsburgh Chair Law.

I myself have never taken advantage of the Chair Law until this year. But after spending an hour digging out the space in front of my house-- resulting in my need to buy stock in a name brand Ibuprofin manufacturing company-- I was friggin' well going to make sure that spot was waiting for me at the end of a hard day.

But alas! I had no moisture-resistant chair available to sacrifice to Mother Nature! So, in an irreverent twist on tradition, I went for the Tall Kelly Green Plastic Recycling Bin.

My next door neighbors, I noticed, have selected a Homebound Resident Toilet Chair as their snowtime statement-- an interesting spin on the usual chair motif.

I have spied Tailgating Cupholder Chairs... Reappropriated Dairy Milk Crates in Leaning Tower of Pisa-like formations... and my new favorite: a stack of colorful desk "inboxes," a rainbow of hope in a tundra of white endlessness.

Come spring, these items will once again return to their original functions. Back again to the home office, the den, the spot cradling the bottom of Great-Uncle Alfie.

Or perhaps they'll end up curbside on bulk trash day. Having served their purpose for one cold, crystalline season. Having enjoyed a few months elevated as the one object that guaranteed a small moment of reprieve, of ease, in the relentless winter struggle of Man Versus Street Parking.

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Question of the day: Does your city have any odd unspoken rules visitors find confusing or funny?
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Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome

Heavy snow accumulation. The words escape the weatherman's lips. It reaches the ear. It travels to the brain.

And it triggers a jittery, uncontrollable need for bread and milk.

Why, even if we're so lactose intolerant we'd get irritable bowel from one lonely Milk Dud....

Even if we're Living La Vida Gluten-Free...

...We Pittsburghers still grab the keys, revv up the car and roar to the closest Giant Eagle supermarket to stock up for three months of total geographic isolation, by buying things that mold and spoil if you look at them the wrong way.

It's tradition.

So, I go to the store and, in an attempt to strike a note of stoic individuality, I buy hamburger buns and coffee creamer.

"These are not milk and bread. They are non-dairy creamer and sandwich fixin's," my shopping basket proclaims proudly. "Judge not, lest thine Wonderbread and Colteryahn 2% be judged."

And, well, while I'm there at the store, I decide I'd better just pick up some more toilet paper, too. Because what if I suddenly develop dysentery during my seclusion? Or... or... scurvy? (Does scurvy involve intestinal issues? No time to look it up, but why take chances?)

Why, I'd be forced to use... I don't know... sheets from the Pennysaver!

And not only would that clog up my drains, but the print would transfer itself in ways I'd prefer to not think about. There are just certain places on the body that do not need ads for purebred pitbull puppies decorating them.

So with toilet paper in tow, I realize I might want also to cook myself a nice hearty breakfast before digging out. To give myself the superhuman energy to move the artic ice caps that undoubtedly will be moving into my neighborhood.

And so I'll need eggs...

And bacon...

And, well, if I want toast, maybe I'll need that loaf of whole grain wheat after all...

I stack it in the basket with a furtive gaze, and in an instant, I feel a flash of chilled hands and frozen toes.

Dear God! Post-shoveling I'll want a cup of tea. Do I have tea in the house?

And in spite of some sense that there's actually stack of tea in the pantry so towering that Earl Grey himself would say "pip-pip" to it, I secure another box. Safety tea, really.

So by the time I've done, my basket is a low-rider and my 12-items-or-less has somehow transformed into the fully-stocked freezer of the Overlook Hotel.

And I can see, by the bulging grocery bags of my fellow shoppers, that I am not the only one. This behavior really needs itself a name. And I'd like to suggest "Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome."

I suspect it's borne of some innate fear that one day, lack of preparation and an Apocalyptic dose of Mother Nature will mean we'd be force to dine on... oh... Grandpa Al to survive.

We know deep down that even if we made it through the crisis ourselves, the post-dinner guilt of noshing on beloved relatives would kill us.

Plus, Grandpa Al is a little stringy.

It's just safer to buy the bread and milk.

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Question of the day: In your area, do you see the bread aisle pretty much cleaned out at the first sign of flurries? And are you one of those snowstorm stocker-uppers?

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Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

"I'm going to check for water in the basement," said my housemate, Scoobie, hopping up from the couch Wednesday evening, and heading to the lower floor.

Now, I didn't openly scoff, but that's only because I caught it pre-scoff, somewhere in the upper uvula.

We'd had rain, sure... And okay, it was coming down like a metaphor for doom in a Creedence Clearwater Revival song,.... And, yes, it was pouring dogs and cats and baby hamsters and enthusiastic emu... And the weatherman was talking record totals and tornado watches and cloud-to-ground lightning...

But the basement had never really gotten water before. Hardly a reason to go all Monk on the situation and--

"Oh my GOD!"

The basement had gotten... um... water.

In The Odyssey, there is this giant deadly whirlpool monster Homer bangs on about-- the mighty Charybdis.

It seemed that in the space of an hour, Char-baby had decided Greece wasn't where it's at anymore, thought it'd be nice to see a little more of world, and had relocated to Pittsburgh.

In the hotbed of social activity and culture that is my unfinished basement.

Water swirled. Boxes were submerged. My art supplies were doing the backstroke. And my paint mixing bowl decided it had always wanted to be a boat, and made a temporary career change.

The spiders in the basement, of which I have many, were seeing their greatest fear in action. Yes, that downspout song they'd heard so much about as mere eggs had finally come horrifyingly true. And at least two washed out eight-leggers were swirling about in Homer's whirlpool, doing eight-legged doggy paddles and unable to hitch a lift on the paint mixing boat.

Scoobie and I started bailing.

Should you ever be in this situation, with a Greek whirlpool monster in your basement, the proper attire for whirlpool bailing is:

• Pajamas
• Big rubber boots

You can see by this what a sophisticated operation we were running.

Well, pretty soon, we got the water down to Slip-n-Slide levels. And while one spider was lost to the fatal waters (a moment of silence in his honor, please) the other latched on to a dry box and survived.

He's now suffering Eensy Weensy Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and has had to go to therapy to work a few things out.

I hardly blame him. I haven't fully recovered myself. And I hear that today, another hard rain's gonna fall...

Okay, yes, I know, that's Dylan and not Creedence. Take it up with the spiders and me later, 'kay?

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I've Been Working on the Hellmouth

The hole that opened up was growing at an alarming rate. And the macadam dipping downward at its ridge hinted that its plan for Manifest Destiny was not complete.

Peering into it, I could see a significant cavern below. One filled with paper cups, broken beer bottles... and I'm not sure, but I swore I saw a small naked creature rubbing a ring and murmuring, "My Preciousssss."

We probably wouldn't have thought anything of it. But this was the second Portal to Hell to rip into the alley behind our offices in the last year.

The last one grew to rival the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon, causing the city to consider summer tourism options.... Helicopter fly-overs and postcards... T-shirts reading "I Saw What Put the Pit in Pittsburgh." Stuff like that.

That's when PennDot finally filled it with concrete and problematic union workers, as per code.

My coworkers and I thought that was the end of it. But now "Pit to Hell 2" has started to suck in our world. Just in time for the summer blockbuster sequel season.

"The Hellmouth": that's how we've been joking about it. Sure, the idea of mine subsidence and underground springs are legit theories. But they just don't click as well as this being the beginning of a demon uprising in our neighborhood.

You see, the more we think about it, the more the Hellmouth theory makes sense.

I mean, what else would explain the local bagel shop-- a place where asking glassy-eyed sandwich artists for a simple ham and cheese means you might as well be speaking in tongues?

Or the strange neighborhood burger joint where madmen linger covered in scarves and teddybears... where humans bark like dogs... and where the cashier smiles her greeting with bright brown teeth?

Are these not signs that something demonly is nigh? I mean, I've seen Ghostbusters 47 times. I know how these things work.

So we're keeping a close eye out for our colleagues who smoke out back. We figure they'll be the first ones to be picked off. And it's a shame, because they're some really nice folks. I'd hate to see them go.

Well, okay, maybe not that one guy... But hey, most of 'em are really, really super-nice folks.

But in the fight against Demon Spawn, those kind of affections just have to be put aside. Doesn't matter who it is, and how much I like them-- the first person who comes in from smoke break with glowing red eyes unrelated to a nicotine buzz...? Well, I'm afraid we'll just have to slay him.

Of course, we don't have a lot to work with right now. Just some thick wooden pencils for staking, some decent scissors and a few Swingline staplers. But we'll make due.

So if the office coffee runs red, and the mini-fridge in the kitchenette shouts "Zuul," well, we'll know it's time to spring into action.

Well... maybe not the part about the mini-fridge. I don't think that's actually been cleaned out in a while.

Any tips for us to battle the demon hoards?

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An Open Letter to PENNDOT

Dear Pennsylvania Department of Transit:

I must have been hallucinating on Saturday.

Because it was... oh... two or three weeks ago already now that the evening news told us how you were done with roadwork on the Parkway East for the year.

Done until next spring, when you would once again regularly close one of the major highways that connect we East side folks to the rest of the city.

Or to Monroeville Mall.

Or to, say, the Turnpike.

So I know I must have been hallucinating over the weekend. Because I could have sworn I saw roadcrews all along the in-bound Parkway on Saturday. I saw road cones taking up two lanes of the three lane highway. I was so positive I saw cars backed up almost to Penn Hills by late afternoon.

I must have been imagining the men under the bridges, then. And the cranes. And the giant piles of freshly dug up dirt. And the worktrucks and machinery here and there looking anything but done for the season.

Because they couldn't possibly have been there. You were finished for the year, you see. We all knew that.

But it was very life-like.

When you originally decided to work on almost every major road in the city at the same time this spring, I can't say I was happy about it, but I understood.

Yes, the work would close us off weekend after weekend, evening after evening, from our popular shopping destinations, and the biggest route across our state. But I knew it had to be done. I had empathy in my heart for you. I held the image of a beautiful, smooth-riding future.

I am stupid that way.

And so I heeded your warnings and made workaround plans. Which isn't exactly easy when you decide to rip up the Parkway East, West, North, Saw Mill Run Boulevard, Route 28, Fifth Avenue, Forbes Avenue, and partially close the Birmingham Bridge, all at the same time.

My empathy waned a little once or twice there, I admit. I might have even said a few not-so-ladylike words.

But I kept out of your way, weekend after weekend, night after night. The way you seem to like it. The way your PR reps on the news tell us, "Avoid this area. And if you have to be somewhere, leave extra time."

Only it's hard to estimate an extra two hours for what's normally a ten minute drive. I had that happen once.

Never again.

So, you can imagine my horror over what had to be just a very vivid figment of my imagination. As I dared peek my head out from my home on Saturday and journey East, thinking my path was free--only to see my return trip might very well hold hours of gridlock and gritted teeth.

Fortunately, it was only a hallucination.

So I am now looking for a good psychiatrist. I will tell this doc about the vivid images that have been appearing before my eyes. Perhaps it was caused by stress. Perhaps brought on from spending too many weekends shut in. But whatever the reason, I am hopeful that with patience and analysis, I will have a cure.

I am stupid that way, too.

The tricky part, of course, will be to ensure I get a shrink on the proper side of the Parkway. Because if the doc's in Monroeville or off the Turnpike, well... I might just not be able to make my appointment.

Due to the hallucination delays, dontchaknow.

Sincerely,

Jenn Thorson

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Doodle Week- or- The Further Adventures of Back-up Girl

To help celebrate my friend Claire's latest Doodle Week, I thought it might be fun if our buddy "Back-up Girl," from the other day's post (Back-up Girl Takes on Captain Anonymous), flew in for the "Doodle Air" theme day.

As you may or may not know, Back-up Girl is BurghTown's resident marketing superhero. When other marketers are unavailable to fight the Dark Forces of Corporate Silliness due to disinterest... incompetence....sickness.... or actual personal lives, Back-up Girl is there!

Sweeping in, she uses her Super Follow-up Skills and her Red Editing Pen of Justice, to save the project!

Today, we find the Red Phone ringing at Back-up Girl's Super Secret Marketing Headquarters, located at 200 Main Street, Third Floor in BurghTown... Also found in the Yellow Pages and on Google via satellite...


Back-up Girl picks up the receiver. "Hello? Back-up Girl here. What seems to be the trouble?"

A child's scared voice quavers over the line. "It's Mayor Skippy, Back-up Girl!"

"Mayor Skippy?" Back-up Girl frowns and looks at her desk clock. "It's 8 o'clock at night. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"It is and it's making me cranky. But there's no time for that now. This is an emergency! Miss Management has been taking over marketing campaigns all over town!"

Back-up Girl gasps. "Miss Management! Oh NO!"

"It seems she encouraged one of BurghTown's major advertisers to launch a billboard marketing campaign that is definitely not 'Rated for General Audiences' -- and the billboards are offending people all over the city!"

"That's terrible!" Back-up Girl says. "What are the billboards of, exactly?"

"I don't know," Mayor Skippy sighs, "my mommy won't let the Deputy Mayor show them to me. But I hear they're really bad. That's why we called you."

"Understood!" says Back-up Girl. "I'm on my--"

"Because, you know, the billboard people aren't answering their phones."

"Okay, then. I'm on my--"

"And our city PR rep is on his honeymoon."

"I hope he'll be very happy. I'm on my--"

"And I called the marketing company who designed the ads, but they all really kinda don't feel like taking the ads down right now..."

"All righty, then, Mayor Skippy, I'm on my--"

"And we all know you don't actually have a family or, gosh, even a DOG who might miss you... so we figured you'd probably wouldn't be doing anything tonight, anyway, other than drinking wine coolers and watching re-runs of Monk and--"

Back-up Girl grits her teeth and takes a deep breath. "Er, Mayor Skippy? I hate to interrupt you, Sir, but--"

"Yes?"

"I'm on my way!"


Meanwhile... in the historic center of BurghTown..

Miss Management is doing end-zone dances over the success of her most recent nefarious project.

"HAHAHA! I have changed all of the city's billboards to a campaign for my client that is so racy... so over-the-top... so mind-numbingly stupid and so fingernails-on-chalkboard offensive, even Girls Gone Wild, Gary Glitter, life-long porn stars and Courtney Love will be calling in to complain about it!"

Miss Management's lips part in a smile that reveals she has lipstick on her teeth.

"By the time I am done with this city, everyone in BurghTown will have my client's messaging burned indelibly in their minds-- forever! HAHAHAHAHA!!"


"Not so fast, Miss Management!" says a determined voice.

"Back-up Girl! You!... But I thought a Monk marathon was on tonight!"

"The continual battle against tasteless marketing ideas never stops, Miss Management!... Anyway, Monk would want it this way. I'm going to clean up this town."

"Oh, really?" Miss Management asks, with a narrow gaze behind her high-fashion spectacles. "Well, we'll just see about that."

(GASP!) Look! An electric bolt is shooting from Miss Management's evil Power Tie!

Watch out, Back-up Girl!


Phew! A near miss!

"You'll never stop me, Back-up Girl! I have my hand in businesses all over BurghTown!" Miss Management laughs. "Wherever you find catch phrases that don't make any sense...

"Or ads selling jeans without a single pair of jeans in the picture....

"Wherever you find typos on banner ads... Or badly mixed metaphors....

"Or billboards advertising events that ended MONTHS before...

"Whenever you get courtesy calls that interrupt your dinner...

"Or multiple copies of the same flier stuffed in your mailbox...

"I am there! You can't get rid of me, Back-up Girl. I am all around you."

"Maybe so," Back-up Girl says. "But I can take care of this offensive campaign!"

Miss Management laughs heartily. "How? The client wanted something that would grab the attention-- and I've given it to them!"

"I'll tell you how. Through something that's even more powerful than your cheap publicity tactics, Miss Management! Good old-fashioned quality writing!"

And with this, Back-up Girl brings out the red editing pen of justice.

Going from billboard to billboard, she battles with wording...

Struggles with unruly themes...

Gets knocked out by some powerful cliches...

But rallies under the cloak of a giant brainstorm.

"Okay, Back-up Girl," Miss Management sneers. "You might have won this one. But I won't be down for long. And just you wait...

"The Presidential Elections are coming up, and the candidates need a fine ad woman with an aesthetic just like mine. So why am I waiting around this hick town? I'm off to DC!"


Will America soon see political campaign ads offensive enough to make candidates need a good cry in private?

Will Mayor Skippy finally get to sleep-- once his Deputy Mayor gets him a drink of water and tucks him in?

Will Back-up Girl finally get to finish her Monk marathon and her wine spritzer?

Stay tuned, for the next thoroughly-punctuated adventure of Back-up Girl.

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A Few Semi-Solemn Words on the Truck Cab Graveyard

"WARNING!" Flash, flash-- "CLEARANCE 11 FEET 6 INCHES!"

"WARNING!!!!" Flash, flash-- "CLEARANCE 11 FEET 6 INCHES!!!"

"Yo! You in the Peterbilt!... WARNING!!!" Flash, flash-- "CLEARANCE 11 FEET 6 INCHES!!!--"

And SMASH! Crunch. Grind.

Ah, yes... another one gone to the Truck Cab Graveyard.

Every couple of months, my exit on the Parkway looks like the parking lot after a big Steelers loss-- unmoving, clotted with cars, black exhaust and steaming rage. And then I know:

Some semi-tractor-trailer has gotten wedged under the bridge to Second Avenue again.

The area is like a great Venus fly-trap for large trucks, drawing them down the road under increasingly lower bridges until eventually the truck cab can go no further...

Then the bridge peels off the top to get to the gooey Tootsie Roll center.


The berm along Bates Street looks like the truck cab equivalent of heads on pikes at the gates to a medieval fortress. Twisted metal and large chunks of expensive equipment sit to the side as a way of saying, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."

Of course, the flashing yellow signs with the clearance levels should be a warning, as well.

Yet the truckers always seem to miss that part. Why, I've seen truckers plow forward with not a care in the world-- thinking of their loved ones back home... outrunning Smokies... overcome by the stink of pig carriers and diesel... or hampered by lack of sleep...

Only to get lured like a mosquito to a bug zapper under that bridge.

It's the song of the Sirens... the lighthouse lure of privateers on the rocks... or just long hours and a lack of java. But it's a regular feature of my commute.

Then yesterday, I saw a semi headed down the very road toward oblivion.

A quick eyeball estimate-- even from us shorty four-wheel amateurs-- said that Big Mack was never, ever going to clear the 11 foot six area. It'd be like a tin of beans to a can opener.

His fellow commuters watched in rapt anticipation as he went through the first series of warnings... went through the second flashing cries and...

STOPPED...

Twenty feet from Ultimate Doom.

He put on his flashers and waited to back up.

I applauded, the claps echoing over my car radio. Yes, this day, the Cab Eating Bridge would not feast on the good travelers of Western Pennsylvania.

Ah, but it will be twice as hungry tomorrow.

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Now Taking Auditions for Pittsburgh's Mothman

So a few weeks ago, one of the piers on the Birmingham Bridge dropped a few inches-- the pier over which I commute these days.

Interestingly, the side of the bridge that IS currently closed to traffic is the one that… HASN’T SHIFTED.

Now I understand that SOMETHING has to be closed. Because, of course, this is Pittsburgh; unhindered movement through the city is simply not allowed.

It’s for our own good, of course. We might all get swimmy in the head from going a heart-pounding 25 miles per hour… Or for more than two consecutive blocks without stopping. You know: experience some automotive version of “The Bends.”

That’s just the city looking out for our best interests.

So, yes, something has to be closed. I accept that. But it seems to me-- and I’m not a construction worker, or a structural engineer, or a mathematician, or even very good with a slide-rule or anything-- but it seems to me, the side of the bridge that SHOULD be closed should be…

Oh, I don’t know…

THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE THAT DROPPED SEVERAL INCHES.

But no.

Now, the bridge has been propped up with hydraulic jacks, and supports, and steel, and thirty energetic superheroes, and duct tape. So it’s perfectly safe for tons and tons of giant shiny bits of metal and people to press down on it each day. That allows them to close the bridge pier which HASN’T DROPPED, in order to “design and manufacture a new bearing system for it.”

Then they’ll attend to the dropsy side.

It makes no sense to ME. But again, I don’t construct, engineer, math-up or have slide-rule savvy.

What I DO know is that driving on Mr. Dropsy each day tends to give a person a slightly different perspective on things like, oh, traffic back-ups. I see that light up ahead on Fifth Avenue turn red, notice myself 50 cars back and idling in the center of the bridge, and I find myself thinking:

In the 60s, the Silver Bridge in West Virginia fell into the river and hundreds of people died, almost including Laura Linney, except that was in that Richard Gere movie and they’d had the Mothman to warn them. Pittsburgh has no Mothman....

Pittsburgh NEEDS a Mothman.

So I think I'd feel more confident in my commute if we could take a serious look at some Mothman-style talent for Pittsburgh.

When I say "Mothman-style" talent, I want to give the applicants a little leeway. I mean, yes, Mothman himself had merits. The legend of the creepy apparition with red eyes at the window, making prophetic telephone calls, all culminating in the Silver Bridge disaster, well, it has showmanship.

But, really, is Pittsburgh prepared for anything so convoluted, so overdone? Plus, there's that whole rotten phone reception when he calls. Pittsburghers are practical people. Instead of listening to these crackly warnings, half the city would be calling Verizon and Vonage about issues with their cellular service.

So I'm thinking if there's any local, say, Troll-lady (trolls notoriously have good bridge skills), that would be an excellent place to start. Or maybe a Gargoyle-man (also appropriate for our historical architecture). Or even, say, a turn-of-the-century Steelworker type, that's something I think the city could get behind.

The job of fortelling potential collapse, now THAT is going to have to be a little more straight-forward than Mothman's approach. Sure, the right candidate should try to make a grand entrance. The burning-eyes-in-the-dark schtick is an attention-getter, certainly, but not a deal-breaker. The applicant will want to use their own discretion about that-- and be creative!

Now the warnings, they're going to have to be easy to hear. We have a lot of older people in this city, and they have a right to hear the proclamations of potential doom as well as anybody else. So any candidates for the position-- you're going to have to remember to project. Speak up. No mumbling. You're prophecizing disaster, not asking little Suzie for a date.

With Pittsburgh's own Mothman-style entity, I think the City of Bridges can keep going safe and strong for another century. And I'll feel just a bit better on my drive home.

Applicants for the position can submit their resume, headshot and previous hauntings to the Pittsburgh Casting Office for Paranormal Phenomena and Mascots, or leave a comment with this post. We'll get back to you with an audition time.

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Recruiting for our mascot from Humor-blogs only netted us some dead roosters, pointless banter and a bunch of clowns.

The Race for the Coors...er, Guinness

So Sunday I was sitting in my livingroom, reading and wondering what to write for today, when I heard a shout from outside.

"Ohhhh! Ayyyy!"

Tossing aside my book and dashing to the door, I spied a middle-aged man in a green plaid kilt running by the house, making a good pace and giving another militaristic hoot before he disappeared entirely from view.

"Hm," I said to myself. Because, while jogging is popular in my neighborhood, the kilts are usually kept to a minimum....

Not WIND-RESISTANT, ya know.

"Must be something St. Paddy's-related," I considered. A man in a green kilt on March 16? Oh yes, I am DEEPLY perceptive. NOTHING gets by me.

At this point, my housemate called down from her office upstairs. "What WAS it?"

"A man wind-sprinting in a kilt."

"Oh," she said. "Right." Like this was an everyday thing for her. Like once a week Connor MacLeod and his entire Highlander clan came sweeping into her workplace, plaid flying, shouting, "There can be only one!" to a Queen soundtrack.

(Actually, she'd like that. I probably would've heard about it.)

"And here's a girl running after him," I called up the stairs shortly. And sure enough, a girl in a nylon jacket and running gear went sprinting by at full tilt, hot on his heels.

Housemate: "That's.... interesting."

Well, it sure as heck was better than my book, anyway.

I waited.

And I was rewarded by a new actor entering the stage.

"NOW, there's a man with a dog chasing after HER," I added, feeling I might as well give the play-by-play. I described the man with green spandex shorts and a sleek greyhound (not in spandex) who breezed by. It was beginning to look like a "Jeeves and Wooster" third act. But they vanished.

The street was empty.

I started back to my favorite chair, but hadn't gotten far when another "Ohhhhh! Ayyyyyyy!" reached my ears.

I dropped my book and again scrambled to the window. THIS shouting was caused by a man putting some serious effort into his running, and wearing a green derby perched jauntily on his head. A derby which didn't move one bit in the wind, I might add. A ten for balance! A 9.5 for form! Impressive!

Now they were coming in droves. People in green spangled shorts were right behind. Followed by a woman jogging in shamrock-shaped deely-boppers, which jounced and bounced with every step.

Now Leprechauns with emerald green boas!... Now Jolly Green Giants with Chuck Taylors!... It looked like a high-impact aerobics version of a"Let's Make a Deal" gameshow audience.

You know, it fills my heart with gladness that the world is so bizarre I don't even have to leave my house to get material for a post. I've lived here for six years. Who knew I was on the route for a local St. Patrick's Day jog-a-thon?

Of course, this got me thinking about what this jog-a-thon was actually for. I mean, these were not idle runners, just putting their time in for the St. Paddy's holiday, were they? The way these folks were running, something was at stake. A good cause? A trophy? The pot o' gold at the end of the rainbow? The case o' Guinness at the end of the finish line?

How about a free one-year supply of Lucky Charms? (I'd be all over that myself. That stuff really IS magically delicious!)

Or how about some of THESE?


No, no, do not be deceived-- they're not "Sno-Balls," the pink or white coconut-covered cakes of our youth. These are DIFFERENT. These are "Lucky Puffs." Because they're green, donchaknow. The Marketers have deemed it so.

Why change the name of the Sno-Balls entirely, just for St. Patrick's Day? Because "Lucky Balls" would have caused a baked goods scandal, that's why. And "Saint Patrick's Balls" would only be worse. I can just see moms picketing the Hostess plant talking about the offensiveness of snack cake nomenclature these days, and kids having entirely too much fun with it at lunchtime.

Well, I did a bit of online research, and not a single St. Paddy's Day race could I find listed in my area.

Was it a parade which took a strange, Olympic turn? Was it a pub-wide bet after too many black-and-tans? Maybe it was a series of athletic, poorly-dressed banshees on the misty suburban moors o' Pittsburgh?

We may never know.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, my friends! And slainte!


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Green beer goes perfectly with a side of Humor-blogs.

The Pittsburgh Pothole Admiration Society

Spring in Pittsburgh. When trees bud, robins appear, and the roads are filled with potholes so deep, they make the Mines of Moria look like Kansas prairie.

On the news, commuters rage daily about the city’s pothole situation. Tires are blown, rims bent, small children rattled out of the car and lost, and denture wearers turning to heavier fixatives. Like tar.

But I think all these folks who are complaining just aren’t looking at it from the right angle. They’re not seeing the potential found in this season’s potholes. So I thought I would help, by offering my beloved city some top tips for "Pothole Appreciation." I believe, with a simple change in perspective, the pothole plenitude can be turned into a real asset for our region. Here are some preliminary suggestions:


Instead of continual patching—which we know never stays put anyway—why don’t we just scrape off the bit of road surface that’s left? Looking at it in pure square footage, there’s currently less of it than there are holes, anyway.

Now, this will cause Pittsburgh's overall elevation to be somewhat reduced. So it means that places like "The Bathtub"-- that part of the Parkway which inevitably gets covered by the Mon River-- to be permanently under water.

But all that requires is marketing spin. Think of Atlantis, and how that’s still a curiosity and a household name thousands of years later. If “Pittsburgh: The City of Bridges” could be spun into “Pittsburgh: Like Atlantis But Still Kicking,” this could be really good for the tourism market. This would also help out the local ferry lines, which could offer more points of interest on their tours.


Consider how potholes stimulate the economy. Wonky wheels, blow outs, tow services, people in vehicles trapped in six foot pits. All these things mean money is going to the autobody shops, tire companies, insurance companies, car dealers and hospitals. This means more people in theses industries are keeping their jobs. More jobs mean happier Pittsburghers. Also since many autobody shops are small businesses, this helps support local entrepreneurs. So, when you see a pothole, don't curse, swerve into oncoming traffic, or weep over the damage to your vehicle. Smile! Cheer! Say, "Hi, Mr. Pothole, I'm happy to meet ya! Thanks for helping keep our local mom-and-pop shop automotive repairmen as an integral part of our city's great neighborhoods!"


The Grand Canyon gets millions of visitors a year, and that’s just one big hole. We have thousands of holes across the city and suburbs, so why not take advantage of it? Organize a “Potholes of Interest” tour, choosing the most deep, dangerous and dynamic of the bunch to feature. We could name them, give them a little prestige. Plaques bought in bulk only cost a few dollars each, so offer sponsorships to companies and local celebrities for each plaque and naming rights. For instance, the “Pitt Football Pit.” Or the “Ben Rothlisberger Pass.” It could be sort of like the Hollywood Walk of Fame. There could be maps. The city needs this sort of new energy brought to it, and this “Potholes of Interest” plan might really get things rolling.


Look at it as an opportunity to test personal jetpacks as a city-wide transit option. With the fine technological minds available at our local universities, we have the astounding opportuntiyy to create Pittsburgh into the first jet-pack commuter city. Surely major research institutions would be happy to invest in this as a critical social experiment. How viable is it for our future? How cool would thousands of Steelers Fans look on television jettisoning from the stadium after a game? We'd be the envy of viewers all across the country.

Okay, sure, jetpacks don't currently allow movement over significant distances. But that's where the R&D comes in. Pittsburgh has transitioned so elegantly from a steel town to a technology hotbed. It's up to us to take advantage of it.

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Now mind you, these are just the first round of ideas, designed to really get our families, our neighbors, and our city administrators thinking in new directions. But I firmly believe we can accomplish much if we all start to look at the as pothole half-full, instead of half-empty.

Thank you.

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What do potholes and Humor-blogs have in common? A lot of dips-- myself included!