la pomme du ciel

Opportunity, or, as I am fond of saying, Opportronity, abounds in this land of milk and honey, as any student of PT Barnum will tell you. In equal amounts is a rampant self-defeatism. People with very tiny dreams allow themselves and, subsequently, their dreams to be crushed in equally tiny ways.

I remember a conversation I had in college with a friend from Ireland about the ease of living; doing and being whatever you wanted. At the time, we were both on a one-meal a day routine, smoking our faces off, then using alcohol to re-connect them. We had no money, but we had managed to carve out a lovely niche for ourselves. The gist of the conversation was that if you’re willing to give up on some of your creature comforts, you can do whatever the hell you want. When you let your comfort level get in to way of that, then you have failed.

I have a lot of friends who travel extensively, have lived in multiple countries, and generally been living some form of a life that I covet, and maybe, at one half-baked point, thought I would have for myself by now. My lady recently spent two weeks in France, one of many tiny dreams of mine. After the resentment and self-disgust subsided, I came to a pretty a nice catharsis.

I am a bit of a slow learner, it has taken me a while to get a design for life together. After figuring out why I have yet to get beyond Canada (and that’s not even recently. I have never used my passport), I realized that I am a bit more together, collected, and dare I say- less manic than some of my more subjectively successful associates.

Here’s the key difference, and it comes in something my lady said a few days before she left; “Whenever I have money, I travel.”

After I was ready to deal with her absence, after I let the classicism stew for a bit and was done bitching about friends that had plane tickets pretty must thrust upon them by doting parents at one time or another (to be clear, the lady paid her own way, unlike many of the folks I know), I realized that I could have been doing the same thing.

Anytime I have savings, I quit my job. Ever since I escaped Erie, PA, I have been consistently trading up in terms of income and overall happiness. Not to make my sig a case study, but she is a bit of a worrier. It gives her a reason to keep me around, because I am adept at convincing people that e’ryting goin to be eyeree. When she came back from vacation, underemployment was there to meet her, along with added responsibilities (sans raise) for being so competent and solid. She could probably single-handedly save the publishing industry (she’s pretty awesome), if one of those fuckers gave her the key to the secret club. Hell, I can name a half-dozen of my friends who could save the creative industry if those fuckers weren’t such circle-jerking assholes.

I had a few jobs like that, added responsibility for no real gain. At one point in my life, I thought the added trust and responsibility was worth something unto itself. Unless you’re a total moron, you ascertain, in short order, it’s really just way for this shitheel economic system of ours to keep us all down. You have a key to the backdoor, you say? That’s just great. Did a raise come with that, or do you just have to do inventory every shift now?

So, instead of swallowing the shit sandwich, I quit, on several occasions, although I’ll tell you myself, it was probably too late, and never very well planned- Par example: Last year, I ended up with no job for about a month solid in mid-2009, and it took me all summer to recover.

As much as I would like to swap travel stories with friends, I’ve had different priorities, mostly trying desperately to live the dream. Beyond a lack of healthcare, I’d say I have nailed it.

To put this into a more general context, to anyone who reads this, anyone who is working a thankless job (and most of us are) that also gives you no joy (heaven help you), get out and fix it. All the vacations in the world won’t fix what you have to come home to. It can be easier said than done, and in the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with throwing some money into stocks, taking a weekend off to a casino, or calling off for a week and getting baked. But don’t delude yourself into believing whatever trip you desire will be some end-all-be-all adventure.

Sounds like a solid deal!

As my friend said, “Just fuckin do it. It’s no a big fuckin ordeal. Quit bitchin abou’it, and fuckin do it.”

If it’s worth it, you’ll starve for it, at least temporarily. But you’re still going to have to work some sort of job to keep that starvation temporary.  Your life is going to be waiting for you, every time you put it on hold.

Never put what you really want on hold, but if your employment makes you want to die, forgo the vacation this round and find something better. You’d be amazed how easy it is to live comfortably, even when you give up NetFlix, full cable, and all of those little toys we value so much. If you think a high-paying  job you hate is worth the years it shaves from your existence, you probably aren’t worth your existence.

I have a friend who landed a very lucrative consulting job last year. She’s harried, confused, and borderline miserable (though she has recently, in her words, “managed to fit her life back into her life”). Everything has a price tag attached, and it’s not always in cash. The big cake is your day-to-day happiness- those grandiose trips, new televisions and expensive tickets are just the icing.

Take the money you had saved for your big trip, and invest a little in the big cake.

This picture decidedly confuses my crush.

Despite being a near-instant darling of the indie-rock scene, obtaining residencies with radio stations, and generally hitting every big festival ever, Giant Drag sort of curled up and went away, right when it seemed like it would be a good time for another release.

Annie Hardy, armed with a darkly suggestive album cover and sometimes-bandmate Micah Calabrese, has finally dropped something new for the masses, who have likely forgotten they ever loved Giant Drag. I mean, I pretty much forgot about them. It’s been four years since Hearts and Unicorns.

Hopefully this release is not truly as advertised, because Giant Drag is pretty awesome, and Swan Song is a solid reminder of that. Hardy’s lyrical skill and humor is in full force, even on the slightly annoying singer/songwriter “Heart Carl”. Get it? Hardy’s weirder quirks are present as well, with “White Baby”, a song about…having babies. White ones.

The dark, violent little heart of the album is on the ambivalent yet defiant  ”Stuff to Live For”, which is the best display of everything Giant Drag does right, and probably their best track yet.

While a four-song EP is more like table scraps than the full release we’ve all been waiting on (it’s in the works, according to Hardy), it’s definitely better than nothing. Hopefully this is just the appetizer for a main course in the near future, and not a true swan song.

Grade: B-

I feel a bit like a piece of old farm equipment when I admit that I discovered St. Vincent through an NPR special. You know, rather than one of my cool friends or my hip elder sibling. The sad fact is, my friends are not that cool (which is why they never  go to shows with me) and my siblings, although lovable in their own right, are neither hip nor elder. So I count myself lucky that I am enough of a pretentious ass to listen to NPR, if only for the fact that I found out about Benji Hughes and St. Vincent through it, among others.

I had planned on going to the show for a long while, since shows here in Pittsburgh are a bit like the mirage of an oasis in the desert, always just over the next erg. Or month. Or, for the most part, never.

I had my doubts about Diesel, because I had been there before, ostensibly to dance, but that effort ended up as a bitch session about the South Side in general, and bad DJs at large. I was pleasantly surprised; the management has figured out how to turn a profit with what must have been a dead night by bringing national acts in for early evening, all-ages shows. Thankfully, the upstairs was blocked off to the scabby teens. Rather than jostle for position at the railing overlooking the first floor, the lady and I relaxed on the mostly empty couches and enjoyed the music.

The opener, Wildbirds and Peacedrums, was a borderline jam band of two; a very proficient drummer and a lady with a magnificent set of pipes. A little too much warbling and drum-noodling at times, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the actual album was better.

After the usual interminable wait and another gin and tonic, St. Vincent came on, opening a solid set with “Laughing with a Mouthful of Blood”. I had watched some live performances a few days earlier on the interwebs, and I was not disappointed. Despite the general lack of vocal effects and looping (there was a bit), Annie Clark’s vocals didn’t fail to rise to the occasion, proving all the production tricks in the book can’t really improve upon an angelic voice like hers. Where the studio tracks sometimes sound restrained and artificial, even contrived at times, the live band gave Ms. Clark’s computer-wrought symphonies the Lazarus treatment.

The noisy fury of “Marrow”’s breakdown was especially intense, and the alchemy of improvisation turned some of the dull moments on the studio tracks into gold. Most of the set was from Actor, but they did manage to hit a couple tracks from Marry Me, including the Ophelia-tinged hopelessness of “Paris is Burning”.

The highlight of the show was a slow snowfall treatment of Nico’s “These Days”, done as a solo by Clark. It totally made up for her lead-in to the song, which somehow tied Ice Cube’s “Today Was a Good Day” to the song. You know, if it were sung thirty years prior, by a “morbidly depressed” woman. Artists have funny ways of stringing things together. With the icy hell we’ve come to expect outside for the last few weeks, taking the bounce out of a classic felt like just the right dose of just the right medicine.

I didn’t time it, but the set was around 45 minutes, maybe closer to an hour, which is a little lame. To boot, there was no encore, which is total bullshit. If Pittsburgh gives you love, throw a bone. Judging by the fans’ reaction on last.fm to Diesel, a lot of people, myself included, swallowed our tongues just to be there. The venue didn’t even stay open past 10:30, cutting the bar off and hustling people out around 10:15.

On the whole, for 16 bucks it was a little under par. But if an all-ages show is the only way we can get any attention from national acts, I guess I’ll be at Diesel the next time someone decent comes around. I guess.

Grade: B

Since I was young, I repelled nicknames. My folks called me Jazz when I was growing up. I hated it. I pitched so many hissyfits about it that sometimes I think they don’t even remember the moniker.

In school, if it wasn’t the odd “four-eyes”, it was simply my last name. Later on, some shining example of humanity tagged me with Stuart, from the old Saturday Night Live sketches. You might not remember those. I barely do myself, but it was Al Franken’s character. He’s a senator now, imagine.

That was all kinds of fun, especially after the sportos picked up on it. There’s a number of reasons I got into so many fights throughout school, and that was one of them.

At one point, I tried to self-apply ‘Dok’, but never really with any conviction. Thankfully.

So, going into college, I was 0 for 4, but extremely jealous of friends that had nicknames. It became apparent to me that it was something like a badge of honor, a symbol of others’ affection and just straight up baller all in one.

I guess it makes sense that I finally got my time in the sun, so to speak, when I stopped giving a shit about it and just wandered around the fourth dimension doing my thing, which was mainly complaining, writing, and complaining, but mostly writing. This illustrious if ultimately dead-ended pursuit gave rise to my second imaginary friend and literary alias, Vick McNair, Private Investigator. A few of my friends in college still give McNair a holler, and I still have arguments with him on particularly drunken walks home.

It’s a divine irony though, that my best friend has more nicknames than Jehovah. While she’s understandably curious about our man Vick, that’s not a name she ever spits out. On the other hand, her nicknames seemingly number like species in a rainforest. Here’s a sample; Cougar, Skip, Noonan, Bliss, and Rooster. Again, it’s because she doesn’t give a shit and rolls on her own groove.

So I was secretly overjoyed that right before the holidays fell like a cloud of mustard gas, a friend of mine and regular at the bar called me Sunny J. I was even more pleased that the name later passed the test and has been uttered by friends. Again, it was because I was just doing my thing.

While this story and the happiness it might bring me may seem trivial, I submit that there’s no such thing as Big Happiness. If you can’t get excited about things like slurpees, fresh cigarettes, a perfect Manhattan or a slightly breezy sunny day (or a slightly rainy day), you don’t really have any business being on this planet. You’re probably one of those people concerned exclusively with the Big Things, like buying a house, or getting married, and you probably don’t have the sort of nice and easy natural rhythm a human life begs. And while you might have a nickname, it probably wasn’t for something you didn’t already notice about yourself. It’s like digging through a cereal box for the prize as opposed to forgetting there is a prize, and just basking in the natural arrival of wonderful things. Those kinds of things can’t just be taken from life, someone else has to reach up to the high shelves and bring them down for you.

As much as I hated being called Jazz when I was young, I kind of wish my folks would throw it out there every once in a while. I’m probably ready to appreciate it, as long as they don’t do it more than once or twice. I mean, really.

After dropping the ball on three really good pieces following the G20 here in Pittsburgh (yeah, it happened, but nobody really cared outside of the city) your faithful writer dropped the ball on the site entirely.

So, there’s a new approach, where I stop fumbling the ball.

Also, because this costs money, and I work moderately hard for that. Like right now, in an empty bar, half-watching the underdog Jets beat the Colts in the 3rd quarter.

While it pains me to watch friends leap and bound across the world, I never particularly had my collective shit together. Instead of being ready for liftoff, I was fumbling around in the swamps just outside of the launchpad. While I am convinced that I’m an expert at crafting excuses for myself, there is still overly compelling evidence that while I am not a leaper or a bounder, I have a distinct ability to steadily move upwards. Something like the construction of the Burj Dubai, and then the next Tower of Babel. And the next one.

So while many people I know catapult themselves around the world, they still crash land in a morass of confusion, something I crawled out of . I even have a map. It looks like an inverted California mixed with a roller-coaster.

To put it plainly, this is Sunday with Sunny J, and I don’t question it.

Upcoming:

-A lovely story about recording my friends’ conversations

-Scans of recent paintings

-A book review

-A small overhaul of the site, because the pictures are dated

-New writing, from a project I finished over the summer

-Finally, at least a post a week

Wednesday I went downtown with a friend to sniff out the fortifications, the giant medieval iron cages wrapped along the sidewalks and the reported sniper posts. And also to see how many businesses were boarded up.

Other than said cages and a palpable sense of dread, there was nothing doing. We were briefly tailed by…someone? while walking around and under the David L. Lawrence Convention Center, checking out the journalists checking in.

Pretty boring, but I got a Dozen’s cupcake out of the deal.

Then today rolled around, much to the chagrin of everyone in Pittsburgh. Day one of the G20 Summit.

To be clear, I completely support the right to protest. I even support most of what people are coming to my city for. I also support the right of the populace to vote on whether they want a giant clusterfuck dumped in their lap.

Even more than all of that, I believe that if you are going to protest, know what the hell you’re doing.

My neighborhood was a focal point of what I wish I could say was an effective protest against the fiscal policies of the increasingly real world government, or the lack of equal rights for all, or, you know, anything. Instead, from the comfort of my porch, I witnessed neverending troupes of grungy, white, 18-mid-20 year old kids, grinning with all the excitement a bountiful Christmas morning brings. A bounty, I am sure, many of them are well acquainted with.

I also was on the other side of the street when they smashed the windows of a KFC and a Mini dealership. I’m not going to lie; I disagree with destruction of property, but it’s already happened all over my part of Pittsburgh and elsewhere, and if it’s going to happen, shit…Those places have great insurance and corporate monoliths backing them. The same cannot be said for Pamela’s, and Lulu’s Noodles in Oakland, or Ritter’s in Bloomfield, just to name a few. Those are home-grown, and attacking those is pretty much an affront to the entire city.

Dear unwanted anarchists, the only point you are proving is that of a fear-mongering media. If you want the already suspicious older demographics of this beautiful city to be frightened, you win. If you want the younger folk who try to make Pittsburgh a better place pissed off and disappointed in the rest of their generation, you win. If you want the baton-happy, out-of-state, shake-n-bake police state we have in town for the weekend to use your actions as an excuse (as one local encouraged them on the news) to “kick some ass, boys.” you fucking win.

Some of my more metropolitan friends have implied that I’m whining, have gotten older and by extension, have washed out. Maybe they think I should be out walking around aimlessly with a bunch of clueless kids.

On that note, the local news remarked that the foreign media barely raised an eyebrow at the action on the streets today. This is an average day, a quiet day for them.  As far as some around here are concerned this is the fucking apocalypse.

The point is that this is Pittsburgh. We are not New York. We are not London, Moscow, Paris or any other fantastic travel destination with embassies aglow. We’ll never be, and we revel in that fact. As much as a backwater this can be, and as (charmingly) antebellum the people can be (there is nothing better than having a Yinzer realize you’re on the same team as they are). We didn’t ask for this clusterfuck, that’s the fault of our opportunistic megalomaniac of a mayor.

Before today, I think most of Pittsburgh was on that same page. After the petty destruction I witnessed and later watched on the news, I think the people that could have been won over to supporting the First Amendment unequivocally will now grin when they watch news footage of protesters being smoked, gassed and beaten. I think that despite the feelings of nausea I felt when I watched a fully mobilized (sonic crowd dispersal, SWAT trucks, school buses of riot-clad officers) army of police herd a group of protesters barely a hundred in number, a part of me is hoping they manage to break the jaw of one of those elusive bad apples.

Tomorrow is when the approved marches take place, the assemblies with actual permits. After the adrenaline both sides felt today, I wonder how civil the disobedience will be. I wonder how those entrusted to guard the safety of this nation’s citizens will interpret “Serve and Protect”.

I’m pretty sure my taxes don’t go too far in paying their salary. If there’s anything that crystallizes the disparity in wealth and power on this planet, it’s the fact that my city has been turned into a military base to protect a handful of world leaders from the rest of the world.

All I know is that tomorrow, I’m wearing a tie. And bringing my camera. It’s my day off, and there’s a world event in my backyard.

My apologies to anyone who’s visited in the past week or so, for both the lack in new and exciting things and the overall glitchiness of the site. My baby, it seems, had been accosted by some unsavory internet demons, which I have since excorcised (hopefully).

Since I have little of note to report (until after the Autolux show on Wednesday!), I’ll share with you the opening of football season for yours truly, beyond the dubious 13-10 OT win over the Titans. To keep this in context, I am originally from Cleveland and my immediate family all reside there, sisters in college notwithstanding.

A Thursday night facebook status of “Go Steelers!” yielded, in the following order:

My friend B. liked it. My Irish friend K. commented on the fact that Chairman Rooney is Ambassador to her country. My baby sister said, with all the eloquence one expects from my breed, “Fuck you.” My Cleveland friend A. said, “Go to Hell, Steelers.”

The end to this shower of love from Cleveland was my second youngest sister lamenting at what a disapointment I was to my father, a grizzled Browns fan.

To which I replied:

B- hooray! though i am still pissed the officiating in the first quarter was mostly bullshit.

K- yes! that was largely a result of stalwart republican chairman rooney breaking ranks and supporting the big O. even gave him an 08 steelers jersey. obama loves the 412.

My baby sister- yr mother know you talk like that?

A-scientists, running future scenarios on super computers, have determined that the steelers are humanity’s last, best hope during the hypothetical end of days. once a method for proving existence of, then transporting to hell is developed, the steelers will be sent to hell to beat the demons and circumvent the apocalypse. most experts believe the steelers will win. handily.

Sister 2-unless i’m mistaken, dad came home [from a camping trip] to the realization that he’s going to be forced to watch another season of browns football. that eclipses any feelings he has as far as me, i’m sure. that disapointment is older than all of his children combined.

In other news, this season I decided to try my hand at caring what happens in the NFL beyond my division, and have a fantasy football team. So far, I am intimidated, confused, irritated, and  excited at the entire process. Sort of like when I moved here four years ago and didn’t give a damn about football, let alone know anything more than it made my father (again, a Browns fan) very grouchy and loud on Sundays. Then I suddenly found myself watching games with rapt attention, all the way to the Super Bowl, which I was more or less conscious for.

Also, I am all around stoked that I drafted Drew Brees.

On paper, I’m easily impressed by movies. If there’s checkmarks for aliens, explosions, and sinister corporations and/or  governments, I’m usually in. I was raised on sci-fi movies, I am an unapologetic Star Trek fan, I fret about the potentiality of SkyNet and I still watch TRON (and was all kinds of jolly to see the trailer for the sequel). I am the perverbial fish in the demographic barrel Hollywood suits love to shoot at a couple times a year.

True enough to Mr. Barnum’s dictum, there is a (sad fanboy) sucker born every minute. Unfortunately, when you actually pay money for shitheaps like Alien Versus Predator, you’re only encouraging George Lucas to milk Star Whores harder.  I saw the preview for District 9 right before Terminator: Salvation locked my childhood in the basement for several hours and proceeded to abuse it (as if T:3 wasn’t bad enough). The logic that followed after I had expunged my rage in the parking lot was that anything had to be better than that: “Wait, that one trailer…District something…It’s got aliens, explosions, shit, what the hell? I love that stuff! I’ll be back.”

Niell Blomkamp’s film opens up with mock interviews, post-shit hitting the fan, letting you know that protagonist Wikus van de Merwe (Sharlto Copley) had gotten into some shit, has disappeared, and that the people of Johannesburg hate the aliens living in the refugee camp/shanty town of District 9.

Good. Great. Aliens look believable (though I wish our imagination could go beyond the whole bi-pedal thing), sound cool, and then here’s Wikus, being filmed for a documentary, fumbling with new-found authority as the head toadie for MNU’s (MultiNational United) forced eviction of the aliens into a concentration camp well outside of the city limits.

Then Wikus gets into some shit. In the span of a few hours, he goes from a naive, loyal MNU stooge to guinea pig to a fugitive. There are explosions, lots of explosions, and the weapons in the movie are a sendup of every shooter since Doom. I am beginning to think that the R rating is the only safe way to watch movies anymore.

A lot of the footage is from the documentary, security cameras and the like, mixed in with some very striking shots of the arid squalor of District 9. Then there’s the nigh-seamless special effects. It was a treat to not have my intelligence insulted by hyper-real effects and a hyperbolic sis-boom-pow.

Plot, you ask? In full force, made all the more believable since not only are the actors all unheard of South Africans, but they’re damn good. From Wikus to the chillingly callous MNU executives to the trigger-happy head of MNU security, it’s all awful close to the mark, especially if you’re at all familiar with humanity’s history of medical research on itself, for one. It’s not too hard to concieve how blind of an eye would be turned towards the plight of non-humans.

The film is based on a short called “Alive In Joburg“, a six-minute short by the same director, which was apparently good enough for a studio to throw him a paltry 30 million for the best science fiction movie I’ve seen in awhile. It even trumps J.J. Abram’s Star Trek re-boot, suck it.

While District 9 is  a far cry from the gentle whimsies of the sci-fi films from my youth, I’m a big boy now, and I’ll take my screaming moral implications with gratiutous gibbage and Nigerian warlords.

Grade: A

It finally happened. I finally made it to a show. I haven’t been to one since, unless I am mistaken, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! What did I miss in the meantime? The Dears. And, oh, just Autolux. Just the Fiery Furnaces. Haven’t seen a local show since the Jenn Gooch CD release, unless you count bartending for the Beagle Brothers CD release show in June. Which I do. Not. As much as I love that album.

I’ve been a bit jaded about music as a whole, at least until a few weeks ago, when I discovered the Army behind Black Mountain. Ironically enough, I’d been pretty jaded about everything lately. I was about a fingernail clipping away from not giving a damn about a ticket I got in April. I mean, I was just hoping for a couple of my favorite songs from a band that put out one of the worst EPs I had ever heard. I hadn’t even bothered with the Hazards of Love, which kind of sounds like something the Arcade Fire would come up with.

I couldn’t think of a more perect mindset to go into a show with. My mind was blasted, blown and undone, as only the head of an apathetic can be.

First of, Heartless Bastards opened, and I was delighted to discover that they could be secret members of the Black Mountain Army, if their sound is any indication. It was a happy coincidence, and I was invested as soon as Erika Wennerstrom let those PJ Harvey-esque pipes soar. My favorite music will and always be the stuff you can let slip like the dogs of war in a bar that seems a little too sleepy for your tastes, and my fellow Ohians are now a part of that repetoire.

So that brings us back to the Decemberists. I had been content to give them The Crane Wife for a shark jump, especially after hearing “Valerie Plame” too many damn times. It took about ten minutes into their set, but then I figured it out- they were playing Hazards of Love in its entirety, which accounted for the two additional players upon the stage. So I settled in, and let the epic take me. I’m only just now taking my first real lesson to the album itself, nothing will ever compare to seeing and feeling it live.

While Wife had its threads and themes, the Decemberists had not really visited the realm of heavy consistent concept, at least in terms of making one long opera (Yes, I know they put The Tain (that is on The Tain) to music, but did you?).

The reviews are already out on the album, I know. It’s nothing like any other Decemberist album; comparing it as such is an insult to its sheer audacity and derring-do. It’s a landscape with oases and deserts, Cliffs of Insanity and blissful plains of purple buffalo, cracked crystals and hideous Nothings. It gallops, it stomps, it throws fits, its bones rattle to sublime dust. It’s a leprous healer with an axe to grind, because that chapel ain’t gonna build itself.

It’s an A.

Some bands manage to get to the part in the story where they can throw together a decent set, communicate on that higher level, and give the audience the best night they’ll ever have until they have it again. Other bands get past that part, where they so fully understand what the music is, and that they have less and less to do with the music the higher the audience is lifted; they simply let what they have crafted work for them. The Decemberists made it look easier than a dream.

As if that weren’t enough, they had a second set, something more along the lines of that former band, the one that does what they do with enthusiasm, but might never stride through the cloud deck like the giants do.

So we heard “July, July!”, my all-time favorite song of theirs, which was my only hope for the concert. You can see why I was floored by the experience. They also played “Shankill Butchers”, my second favorite song. I had heard in an interview that Meloy was a drama student, and that it came out in thier shows, so I was waiting a little on that, too. They re-enacted the Battle of Fort Pitt amidst the audience with a less than scrupulous or sensical account of history, halfway through “A Cautionary Tale”. Then got right back onto the stage for the second half with nary a beat missed.

With the song’s final admonition, they left the stage. I expected an encore, given the band’s flair for the dramatic, but was shocked and rocked by what they delivered:

Sadly, that’s the best of the videos. But you get the point.

I would be lying if I said the show didn’t provide an incredibly beautiful counterpoint to what my life is doing down here on the ground. As it goes with all inspiration, it tends to find you, slap you silly and get you imagining the day your head reaches above the clouds. Working towards it is another matter, but then that’s why we have heroes who risk, well, the hazards of love.

Grade:

The Decemberists at the Byham Theater, August 14, 2009: A+

The Decemberists: The Hazards of Love: A

(It’s a difference of seeing a play and reading it)

EDIT: It has come to the author’s intention that he’s a bit dim sometimes. And that yes, he likely became lost about three times because he doesn’t even know the name of the reservoir he was at. Please continue for a lovely account of a trip to the Allegheny Reservoir.

As much as I love the 412, I tend to get a little stir crazy. As hectic as my life can appear on the surface, it ends up being pretty routine. So any chance to break the cycle and get outside my head is a wonderful gift. The last week had been all kinds of what-am-I-doing-with-my-life and I was asking myself, “How do I win more efficiently?”

Let’s be clear, I know what I’m doing with my little l life. I have a five-year plan, I’ve got projects and goals. Hell, I even quit that stupid call center to make way for the trip account you’re about to read. I was concerned with the big L, and this last weekend was the capstone to answer my questions, if only for the fact that I was out of Pittsburgh. It gave me the perfect vantage point to strategize.

My buddy Hot Shot’s family has had a tiny cabin (more of a shack) a mile down the road from the Allegheny Reservoir for decades, and it’s become a large part of my orbit, sort of like I’m a comet that swings into view every year. A core group of five Eagle Scouts (Hot Shot, Sugar Ray, Flex, Shirtless J and yours truly), count ‘em, have been going up there at least once a year for the last 9 years to get silly, build fires and play cards. Before that, we went as part of Boy Scouts. It was a happy day when we managed to pull the beer and driver’s licences together for that first unsupervised trip at age 17.

We try and supplement our group with new faces; this time my good friend and roomate TCKTOCK came, and was gracious enough to not make me walk. He even let me pay for half the gas. He is a swell dude. The last few new guests never really stuck, but TCKTOCK took to it like a fish to water, and we’re all pretty stoked about the upcoming winter trip.

To paraphrase TCKTOCK, the cabin is refreshing because it’s just dudes hanging out. The standing rule is no women, only because the cabin is the only dependable time of the year when the five of us are together. And also because girls have cooties. We don’t need to muck up a good thing, so we don’t. Our phones also don’t work out there, unless your wife has you so whipped you stay on the phone with her so she can tell you about the shoes she bought. Suck it, Flex. I love your wife, but three calls a day is ridiculous.

We don’t worry about anything, we all chip in, we all take care of chores and projects with joy and vigor. Each of us values the chance to get the hell out of the day-to-day; ask me to dig up my back weedpatch and I’ll probably tell you to go screw. Take me to the cabin and tell me we need to level out a 14×10 patch of ground for a shack, and I will revel in how sore my muscles are, even as I type this.

Hot Shot relayed a pretty funny story to me when we arrived. He and Shirtless J  played Disc Golf courses on the drive up. Hot Shot was pitching to a hole right near a stream, but it wasn’t a tough throw by any stretch. Just as he was releasing, a voice in his head half sung, “Don’t throw it too ha-ard,” and the disc ended up in the stream. That phrase became the slogan of the trip and it was applied to everything, from the shed to the fire to the cooking to making Euchre calls. By the end of the trip we had all learned the importance of moderation yet again, but more importantly that sometimes it’s worth your while to throw too hard and lose some time  making up for your mistakes.

In recent visits, we’ve been working to improve the cabin. It started with some hardcore cleanup. Then we got a new awning to replace the busted-up aluminum one that kept you from opening the door all the way. Then we built an awning over the propane tank. Then we built two new sawhorses. This time, we built a shed for the new rider mower (the plot of land is about an acre) and got a composter-toilet to replace the filled-to-the-brim outhouse. Next time, we have to replace the roof.

My favorite job was the propane awning, because before that, every winter we had to heat up water on the pot-belly wood stove (which took like an hour) to melt the ice on the propane line outside. Every morning. Now we don’t even have to think about leaving the cabin until we’ve had breakfast.

Building the shed was a really cool excercise in problem solving and general gusto. Everyone fell into a role, and we all worked together pretty well. After we had hucked about forty cinder blocks into place and put the plywood decking in place, we were forced to confront the fact that we only sorta leveled the frame. Our solution? Shims, drill new holes in the frame and muscle the panels into place. It worked. For a modular sheet metal shed, I was surprised how often we had to muscle panels into place (even after we finally leveled it), and I am also surprised I only have one (superficial) cut on my hand. I am also surprised that Flex, an engineer, went to school for five years and still managed to put in the roof beams upside down.

I got to play with power tools, including a reciprocating saw. I had another opportunity to play Cups, and I also got a couple games of Cornhole in. On the first night, we stayed up all night drinking, drove down the road to the reservoir and swam around in the dawn and took a bath. We listened to Girl Talk’s “Feed the Animals” about a dozen times (Sweet Jones!). We took about eighty trips to Lowe’s. I made delicious chicken with a 160z can of Stroh’s, honey, pepper and garlic. Six guys hung out and threw their problems on the fire. As always, we all came out slightly better people. We’re almost tolerable humans now.

Remember, when you’re digging your own grave, don’t dig too dee-eep.

Despite the face that I’m generally envious of those who live at a slow plod (if only for the fact that it’s altogether more stable), I am wholly unable to function at anything other than sporadic bursts of living.

Sorry Ma, I’m totally excusing my penchant for alcohol and adventure.

This last weekend was no exception; my best friend M and I have since decided that our weeks would be better addressed compartmentalized into themes. Last week was her Slutty Week, she batted 3 for 7, as if that’s any of your damn business. In any case, we both go down together, and as such, PARTY was the party line. I can only imagine what would have happened to the both of us had I not been bartending for the first five days of the week.

Thursday, I was free for the first time since I accidentally took three weeks off, but this time I had money. It was time for Eighties Night at Belvedere’s, and it was one of the most packed I had ever seen. I learned two things interesting things that night. One was that that bar serves the most PBR in the tri-state region. The other was that they ran out of PBR well before midnight. Beyond the oppressive rush of hip kids, I really dug the new layout: the ability to play pool without asking someone to move six times during each shot is always a plus. The roving PBR girl is a definite improvement, too. What I really like about Belvedere’s is that it’s quintessential Pittsburgh. Sure, we’ve got clubs (I guess), but when it comes down to it, the action isn’t at a ritzy IDM club or a Manhattan-style joint, it’s in grimy old dude’s lounge type places like the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern for Drum and Bass night, or yeah, Belv’s for 80s.

The place was wall to wall- leaving meant you were never getting back in, stamp or no. As such, my face was only partially danced off. After the dancing was done, helped arrange a trip to the local after-hours, where I hung out with a some long lost friends and helped an ex by walking her home and cockblocking the dude that came after me at her request. I barely made it home, soaked in spirits as I was. I topped off the evening by talking ugly to M, who had decided to go to Shadyside, rather than accompany me. Anyone who reads this blog knows how I feel about that shithole, and I had no sympathy for her.

I spent Friday reconstructing the night before, and coaxing M and I both back into fighting shape. We rolled up to Qdoba in Oakland for something called Fishbowl Fridays, about a dozen deep. Imagine blue Long Islands, served in a beer pitcher with a straw. We reconvened at the Garage Door where M’s frisbee team, looking foxy/suave as hell, owned the dartboard. If you ever have the chance, hang out with some frisbee people. They’re some of the best. And they don’t even care if you play frisbee, they like just about any game.

The main cause for that celebration was a roomate and friend leaving on Sunday. We gave him a hell of a fun time, complete with a being pulled over by the cops for expired tags (mind you, they expired June 30. Do the math), and getting a warning, because Q does not ever drink when he drives. That’s only one of the thousand reasons I miss that ginger fucker.

Home meant pass out and prep for the real meat and taters, the fourth. M’s team had a shindig going on that I wasn’t going to pass up. There was Cups, my favorite outdoor game. There was also Mingle, and I shit you not, Duck Duck Goose. You have never seen people play that game harder. I am still a bit sore from laying out, sprinting and hucking people around.

M and I crashed out because we started arguing, about what we’re not sure. We have since threatened each other with never spooning the other again whenever an argument arises, which is pretty often. In the morning, we went to the Quiet Storm for some farewell Q breakfast, and thus ended a damn good weekend.

Relevent? Maybe. But the next weeks are Resuscitate J’s Libido Week, Hair Metal Week and Dyke Week. I’ll make sure to keep the progress on all that updated frequently.

Hope your Independance Day clebration was equally draining; it only happens once a year for a reason. If you’re gonna be a bear, be a Grizzly.

It’s been far too long, and I’m pretty sure that i’ve managed to lose whatever meager crowd I had been generating. I quit my job in March, prepared to enter the world of I’m never working in a bar’s kitchen for disloyal employers ever again. Or any employer. Never again will I work in a kitchen. That period in my life is dead. I’ll never miss another Steelers touchdown because I was busy with someone’s shitty food. I have since moved to the top of a very small hill; Bartending.

The job change and easing into period took out my savings and nearly devoured my landlord’s patience. Thankfully, after working my ass off for the last two months, I caught up on rent.

If there’s any advice I have for someone who wants to get a new job, it’s do it. You’ll be happier. Just get something lined up, and don’t be afraid of the telephone or pushing yourself to wake up at a decent hour to pound some pavement. This from the mouth of a dude who took a three week vacation because he was too lazy to showup at the office for trianing day.

That’s right, bartending, while generally lucrative, wasn’t enough to maintain my jet-setter lifstyle. The spending structure is pretty much this: Cigarettes, Alcohol, and Foodis OK Sometimes I Guess.

I work as a telefundraiser, calling on behalf of the World Wildlife Fund, Amnesty International, Public Television. Really the most exciting thing about it is that the staff are all interesting, mostly in my age bracket, and tend to visit the bar when I need money. And also concieving this tattoo idea:

Sarah Palin, buck-ass naked, riding a polar bear, toting a flame thrower and scorchin’ herself some wolves. Because she has it out for them, and my fellow caller and I were fed up of people telling us to go pound sand when all we wanted was thier money to save them. Sheeit.

I’ve let this thing languish for while, and I’m still proud of it. I am sort of a badass writer, and I need to create and maintain a viable portfolio and keep my skills sharp. So, uh, hi imaginary reader? I missed you, and will likely not leave home for so long ever again. Mommy and Daddy made up. Maybe Mommy will stop illuminating Daddy’s cultural insignificance, but Daddy’s totally not quitting the sauce.

That metaphor really bothers me, but I’m not sure if it’s because it’s silly and irritating, or somewhat true.

…just resting.

Like so many people I know, I got smacked hard with one of the nasty bugs goin’ round. My head still feels like an overinflated balloon, but the whole waking up four times a night phase is thankfully over. Between that, a bit of the seasonal slows, a dead internet for the last couple of days, you’ve got me, not posting. My apologies gentle reader, for I have many a sundry tale for you.

Within the next couple of days. I mean, you don’t want me to burn myself out, do you?

Perusing Google Reader today led to this little gem from Magnet, my snobby-indie-as-fuck-asshole’s magazine of choice. Dude, they are so hip that they only publish three times a year. Take that, Pitchfork, you ‘print is dead’ dilettantes.

The article is Corey duBrowa’s take on the five most overrated and five most underrated Radiohead songs of all time! He’s known for, I guess, a 1,700 word review of Hail to The Thief, which is about 1,700 more words than I need to read about that self-indulgent ode to Hunter S. Thompson’s Kingdom of Fear.

To be fair, he and I agree, with the strange exception of “I Will”, that the album is better left to listening to everything they did before instead.

Which brings us to his list of the overblown. Again, I agree. Almost completely. Name any “hit” Radiohead song, and I’ll probably tell you it’s a gust of hot alternarock air. But while “Electioneering” is a bit of an anachronism within Ok Computer, it presages the full brunt of Bush-era insecurities several years beforehand. So, given the fact that that album is so “ahead of its time”, let’s put it into a total context and agree that “Electioneering” is a badass rock song which also happens to epitomize the callow irony that so many intellectuals hide behind in the face of Politics as Usual.

Okay, onto the most underrated. I’ll get to the My Iron Lung EP slections later.

I guess I can hang with “Blow Out”, but I’m tempted to say it’s a contrarian sort of logic that points one to find one of the only redeemable tracks on Pablo Honey, an otherwise forgettable album, especially in light of the rest of the catalogue.

Kid A? Seriously? Two of the tracks made it onto the “Vanilla Sky” soundtrack. That album, by all accounts, should have never sold so well, not because it isn’t genius, but because (especially at that time) it’s fairly unlistenable for the unwashed masses. Because we all know not enough people have proclaimed “genius!” enough times.

We get it, and it’s not underrated. It might well be overrated and I never want to see Tom Cruise paired with a Radiohead song ever again.

The rest of his list seems purposefully obscure. That’s right, kiddies. Big brother is gonna tell you where it’s at with tracks you’ve never heard, but should.

Except that, yeah, you should hear them, if only to realize there are reasons they’re obscure. And if you want obscure Radiohead cuts, there’s better songs.

I’ll see “Meeting In the Aisles” with “Maquiladora”, because I’d rather rock with the “beautiful kids and their beautiful troubles” than stand around looking thoughtful, deal with the love of the My Iron Lung EP with a “Bwuh?”  and politely suggest “Cuttooth”, “Trans-Atlantic Drawl”, and above all else, “A Reminder“.

This last weekend, two of my buddies, J and B, graced me with their presence. Our time together started with an ignored call from J and a voicemail early Saturday afternoon.

“Hey, we can’t make it man. B drank way too much  last night and he’s puking.”

Satisfied to let my sadness happen later, after my hungover ass got a bit more shuteye, I tried to sleep. Then the doorbell rang, repeatedly. I knew it was them, but I had convinced myself it wasn’t, and I continued to roll around in bed for another hour.

Then, the phone call.

“Hey, did you want to get up? We’ve been here for an hour.”

I shouted a few choice profanities and cranked up some music. It was time to be a professional. After some brief hand-shaking, hugging and discussion, myself, my friends and two roommates hoofed it in the sweet sun to Tessaro’s, home of the best burger in the city.

It hit the spot (medium rare with dry blue cheese, bacon and the works), and we were off to my house for several games of Carcassonne. If you’ve never played, try it. It’s a great game, and that’s coming from a guy who has never won a single game. And I’ve played a lot. Always just one point shy. Generally because J, that witty guy with his clever little white lies, is playing. He destroys all he touches. The man has beat people at Monopoly in under five minutes. But he probably cheats.

After I had been trounced, after my roommate Quinn won playing for his first effing time, after I had been soaked in shame, we saddled up for the Roller Derby.

We missed the first half of B-Unit’s bout, but were just in time to see the ladies squeak out a tight win in the second half, beating the Ohio Roller Girls’ team by one point. My crush for any and all girls on roller skates continues to grow at a geometric rate.

The Steel Hurtin’ played a tough game with the Ohio A-squad, but generally commanded the flat track for the kind of victory I’ve come to expect from the Steel City’s best. The double-header ended and after a brief discussion, it was decided that J, B and myself were going to meet up with a friend of J’s on the Ohio team at Belvedere’s for the after-party.

I love Belvedere’s. So much. So did J and B. I trounced J so hard on the pool table, he chose to express his love for the place by disappearing and leaving me to take care of B, who brought a flask. The only time I saw the flask was when he was trying to pour its non-existent contents into his empty plastic cup. I’ll have to watch him more closely next time, but at least now I know he is fully capable of falling asleep standing up. While smiling, no less.

Eventually, J came out of hiding in the shadows of the neverending armchair section, and was joined by another derby girl he happened to know. She sat on his lap, I went to the dance floor and tried to figure out why things like that weren’t happening to me. It likely has something to do with, well…a selective lack of social skills in the pursuit of not being a creeper.

Maybe, like J, a derby girl will somehow magically sit in my lap.

Last call happened. We trudged back up Main, an icy hazard after a bit of wintry mix, and into Bloomfield, B stopping every few blocks to examine a shrub and giggle. We stopped at the Sunoco for cigarettes, where my apparent lack of luck with women reversed, and a pretty girl on her way back from clubbing in the Strip asked me to buy her some M & M’s. Sure, why the hell not? I am apparently “cute for a white guy”.

Finally home, we invited neighbors over, games were played, expletives were shouted, bottles of Jim Beam were exhausted. Various people collapsed onto the couch at various times and before I went to bed, I explained Life, the Universe and Everything to one of my roommates as the sun crept along behind the sky’s steel curtain.

I awoke to my neighbors continually calling my cellphone, painfully reminding me of promises made only hours before to go to Pamela’s for breakfast.

Despite three cups of coffee and surprisingly delicious chorizo, my physical state forced me to drag my ass through work after J and B dropped me off. I was still hurting on Monday and every inch of me smelled like Manhattans. Which won’t be delicious again for a long while.

It was a good visit, and likely the last time I’ll see J for awhile. Bastard is moving to Cali. B promises to be more visible, and it’s good to know that miles, years and the occasional bout of apathy can’t stop the friendships I’m lucky to have exported from Cleveland.

As an added bonus, I gave my Warhammer 40K armies to B for safe-keeping in the hopes they find a better home. One that doesn’t neglect them. He brought me a pair of Czech army boots, too small for him, and J sold me his climbing shoes, also too small for him. Everytime I get nice new-ish things, I feel like I am upgrading myself.

After such a positive experience, the upgrade is incidental. Turns out, I’ve done a few things right.

It's how vikings would do it. If they used condoms.

Specifically, polka-dot condoms. Although, I can’t imagine why I or anyone else would feel impelled to do anything resembling a polka dance merely because they had a snug little polka-dotted raincoat on.

In any case, yes, I mentioned polka-dotted condoms in the first real post here, a lovely little story about precisely how stupid the people I associate with can be. And yes, if you’ve read it, you are well aware that my idiot friend was thrilled to death about the prospect of polka dot condoms. And that he gave me one.

Grade: F-

I think we can all be understanding and adult enough to appreciate that ribbing anything for her pleasure is a grave misnomer and that dotted condoms are the twisted little cousins of those particularly misguided attempts at female pleasuring.

After letting the thoughts of several awkward moments seep in, accented with an, “Ow, uh, no. No, I’m done.” I was reminded of two funny monologues from two separate people. The first is one of Dane Cook’s funnier bits, where he explains that in the throes of ecstasy, he said, “My dick feels like corn.”

The second was a story from a girl I met in a bar about a year ago, and she told me the tragic tale of how she had met a wonderful guy just that last week, but upon discovering that he had the herpes, she wanted nothing to do with a “dick that looks like a corn-cob.”

The conclusion here is inescapable. A polkdotted condom gives you prosthetic genital warts, and no one should ever use them. My friend is a jackass for supplying me with one, even after he figured out they were no good. Thanks, pal.

Dear Uncommon Sense,

I have a manly physique, awesome hair, and I make six figures a year.  Despite all this I have one flaw: I never learned how to chug a beer.

I’ve tried countless times whether it’s shotgunning a PBR or chugging out of a glass, but always with the same result.  I only get halfway before I just can’t keep it down and I end up choking and spilling beer everywhere.  Even girls routinely beat me in drinking contests.  I’ve given up.

Can you help me fix this obvious character flaw?

– Can’t Chug

Well CC, it sounds to me like you may be trying to overcompensate and assert your alleged alpha-male standing. Losing drinking contests to girls? C’mon dude. Everyone knows that the best way to duck out of that sort of humiliation is to play it cool and just not run that risk. I mean, there are plenty of females that can drink plenty of men into oblivion. We just don’t know about it, because most dudes aren’t trying to show off that they can get their ass handed to them by a surprisingly robust 112-pound waif with a mouth like a sailor with tourette’s.

If the urge to thump your manly physique proves too strong and you just have to assert dominance, there are a few things you can do to prepare to at least not be dead last. Or just finish your beer.

If chugging normal liquids proves to be an easy feat for you, then all you’ve got is a nasty mental block. You want to look like a complete badass, get into a chugging contest involving a gallon of milk and win. Yeah, it’s gross, but no one can say a damn thing, other than, “Holy shit, did you see that? That dude just chugged a gallon of milk!”

Maybe you just don’t like beer, which is cool. Maybe you just don’t like chugging. That’s cool too. While the supposed badasses are winning chugging contests, you’re in for the long haul, and taking those gutter-mouthed waifs out for breakfast at sunup, right after you both bonded over a sharpie and the champions’ faces. Keep things in perspective, CC. It seems like you’re already ahead of the game.

How about your problems? Email askuncommonsense at gmail dot com for your prescription.

EDIT: The phrase “Yinzer Diaspora”, as far as my inspiration emanates, comes from this friend’s blog: virulent.nu

While Beaver County is the place 24-year-old Val McNeil calls home on technicality, Pittsburgh is home for her. After completing her Criminal Forensics Degree at Mercyhurst College, she eventually moved the the city itself, where she stayed for a little over a year before moving the Portland, Oregon- a popular destination for wayward 20-something members of the 412. After four months, she found herself back in the Steel City, extolling the virtues of living in Bloomfield once again.

Why did you leave? Is Pittsburgh really Shitsburgh?

Pittsburgh isn’t bad, I just wanted to leave, because I’ve been here my whole life. I essentially hadn’t left the same 50-mile radius with the exception of going to college in Erie. I was just ready for something new away from everything and everyone I ever knew. Plus, it’s good to know I can do that sort of thing.

Why Portland?

I chose a few really unimportant things- vegetarian friendly, good public transportation. Cities like Boston were too expensive. I had $2000 saved up. I knew I didn’t want to go anywhere near Florida or California. [Portland] sounded fun. I also didn’t want anyone to hop in a car and come bother me.

How long did you plan on staying?

Not forever. Until I got sick of it.

Now that you’re back, why did you get sick of it?

I didn’t get sick of it, I had shit to do back here.

What shit?

Shit like my little sister getting married. It’s tough enough communicating with my family when I live here, let alone the other side of the country. It ended up not really making a difference anyway.

So you regret coming back?

I used to think that coming back was the first thing I regret, ever, but I live in Bloomfield now, so life is getting better. I don’t even have the funds to get back there if I wanted to, so it’s not worth worrying about it.

What did you do for fun in Portland?

I worked a lot. The one thing I did do was go to the hotel next door to my work with my co-worker. They had a swanky bar there, we’d get sushi, go back to my place, bake, get wasted. That’s one thing that doesn’t change. The people do.

What was your living situation like?

It was a strange experience living with strangers. One roommate was sad all the time, blahblahblah. I went through craigslist. I paid $500/month, utilities included. It was a three-bedroom house.

What do you miss most?

I was sad that I left prematurely. I didn’t get to know my friends completely. I wouldn’t move back, because I’ve been there. I went and visited Seattle while I was there. If I was going to live somewhere on the West Coast, it’d probably be there and not Portland. The rest of the West Coast consists of California, and I have no desire to live in California.

What’s your beef with Cali?

The whole idea, whether it’s Hollywood or LA, I just don’t want to be associated with it. [For the record, she does not give a shit about San Diego, Sacramento, San Jose, or San Francisco, either.]

What was one thing you missed about Pittsburgh?

I missed the actual city. Whenever I think of a city, you know the city is coming. When you think of a city, you can see the buildings. Portland has a small downtown and one building. It just felt like a big area for hipsters and hippies. There were city people, but no city feel.

My strung out cigarette break and ensuing tweet all revolve around childhood memories of  this:

Your source for dancing leprechauns.

Yes, Darby O’Gill. The reason why I am still up at this ungodly hour is because if I fall asleep, the Banshee will get me. Or the horse-coach of death. Or some other misappropriated Irish folk-myth will. Or maybe a singing Sean Connery will snuff me out, that’s how I’d like to go.

Still not clear on what I’m talking about? Because I’m not either. But here’s the Banshee, just promise me you’ll watch it at five in the morning while the wind is telling you very scary stories at thirty miles an hour and it just ate your neighbor’s drainpipe.

In my junior history class, we were given the option of doing a film for the final project. Being that we were a bunch of screwups and had no intention of doing some bogus presentation, we opted to have fun. My buddy posted it up a week ago, and I feel it incumbent upon my bad self to share it.

Here’s your invitation to the best war movie barely made: Les Jeunes Perdu.

What you are about to see may shock you, or worse yet, bore you. I get a kick out of it, almost ten years later. Maybe you will too. The last half is the outtake reel, and yes, we made the class watch that.

Grade: A+ (Seriously. We got an A+)