la pomme du ciel

Two weeks ago, I managed to land myself in some poison ivy. As it turns out, my body no longer offers much protection from the havoc the evil plant is currently wreaking on my epidermis. I am in need of an ocean of calamine lotion. It might have been smart to talk to my doctor earlier, but I already had the appointment, and I was going to be a big tough man about the whole unsightly and hellish rash thing.

This course of action proved to be a poor decision, but the ordeal put a few things in perspective. To start with, I used to be immune to poison ivy. Never worried about it. Maybe I was lucky, or maybe it was part and parcel of being your run-of-the-mill indestructible child. Revisiting valleys and creeks, wines and rope swings, I started to wonder when the whole self-preservation instinct kicked in. My money is on 19 or so, when I became crazy boring. Or boring and crazy. Whatever. That timeframe locks up nicely with the end of a regular camping schedule that I enjoyed for the bulk of my teenage years.

The more I wander abandoned factory yards, the bowels of parking garages and the miniature jungle on the hillside behind my house, the more said self-preservation eased off. Sure, hurtling down a hillside in the middle of the night is made easier with some dutch courage, but not so much courage as to preclude a brief moment of hesitation, especially when faced with army-crawling through the underbrush. I swear there is a good reason for said crawling. Honest.

A week ago, while flailing about in the dark, running into trees and rolling around in who knows what, I managed to somehow compound my rash. And slice my left hand. And bash my legs up for the nth time this summer.

The point is, the more I wandered around, the less I worried about comparitively minor annoyances, like rashes, sunburn, or potentially impaling, breaking or ending myself somewhere in the dark green busom of the hill. I’m having fun, which unlocked the riddle of what happened to my childhood penchant for suicide missions: They never left, I had just been lazy. It was kind of like finding an old bike in a basement. Imagine that.

While it may seem preferred to chill out and watch Godzilla in the air conditioning (especially with this relentless heat), it is entirely more fulfilling to be Godzilla. Outside. Not that there’s anything anything wrong with AC, but is nice to earn it in a sense- especially if you’re coated in fresh scratches. Or lingering plant-based rashes. Or whatever. I mean, you don’t wanna die without any scars, do you?

About 12 years ago, in the Cleveland Metroparks, I took a pretty nasty spill going downhill on a brand-new, shiny mountain bike. My grandmother, the gift-giver (along with grandad), was convinced it was because I had not read the instructions. To her credit, the idea of a suspension system on a bicycle was a wholly foreign concept. Sadly, the burden of the error landed squarely upon the pilot’s head. And ankle. My helmet cracked in two (always wear it, spilled brains are for nerds!) and my ankle swelled up to the size of a Florida grapefruit. Thanks to Boy Scout training and the company I keep, we managed to get me up the hill (my impatient self hobbling the last and steepest bit of the way) and to the ER. In the agonizing recuperative months that followed, the company I keep became better and better at mountain biking, and I resolved to post up and get back in the saddle ASAP. However, an unforseen consequence of my accident was that my riding confidence was FUBAR. I rode a few times after my leg mended, but with all the courage you would expect to find from someone who’s part French. I was terrified of going fast, going downhill, riding trails, even riding down the street. I never touched that bike again, unless it was to clean out the garage.

Last year, I found a bike in the basement of the bar where I work, which the owner encouraged me to remove, mostly because he had no clue how and when it got down there. Also because I am pretty sure he likes me, because I have yet to be shitcanned. The bike languished in my basement for about a year, until I finally got it fixed about a month or so ago. I bought a helmet. I bought a U-lock. I was equipped. Of course, two days out of the shop, I landed myself in a pothole, threw both wheels out of true and blew out my back tire. The learning curve on city riding is pretty sharp. I was nervous at first, but a month later, I’m more concerned with the fastest routes around town and buying new brakes. Because I apparently enjoy going fast. On a bike. Who would have guessed? Certainly not me- The only time I rode a bike in the last twelve years was a nerve-wracking trek to work a few years ago in Squirrel Hill (read: uphill), hungover and with no helmet. Now, I’m looking for excuses to ride and getting on my friends’ cases about getting their own wheels. The big downside to my bicycle hiatus is that I’m not skilled, and will probably get doored tomorrow.

I have lived in Pittsburgh for five years now, and I feel like a grade A pendejo for not getting a bike earlier. And for riding the wrong way in the bike lane several weeks ago. Oops! I am trying so hard to not be judged by the extensive cycling community. I shouldn’t be too worried though- as I was carrying my bike away from the pothole that christened my bike, Dude in a Subaru slowed to offer a ride. Judging from the roofrack or just using common sense, Dude was totally a sympathetic fellow rider. Thankfully, my lack of skills landed me in said pothole a mere two blocks from my house, but Dude’s gesture was an encouraging sign on a number of levels. With any luck and a little time, I’ll be the guy rendering assistance to a greenhorn rider, so long as I don’t get plowed by some jagoff, thus ensuring another riderless decade, or, horror of horrors, a Jason-less reality.

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

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.

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 been awhile since I had a full-on adventure of an evening, which isn’t surprising given the absolutely hellacious icy nonsense Pittsburghers have been dealing with until the lovely thaw we’re currently enjoying.

A couple of weeks ago, however, I braved the cold with one of my partners in crime, V. I’m still not quite sure if it’s something I should regret or not; I definitely remember how hard it was to lie to V while we walked around- “Dude, it’s not that cold! I can totally still feel my toes” but that’s not the reason for regret.

The plan was to meet in Squill (Squirrel Hill, guh) after I made it to quittin’ time, hop a 64A to Shadyside, home of well-dressed pricks in bars. We were meeting two friends of mine for a singular drink. From there we were supposed to hit up my local watering hole, Sonny’s Tavern, because I can only stomach Shadyside for about one or two rounds at best. Then I remember it’s home to well-dressed pricks in bars.

The plan started to go bad when V and I both missed our stop. That was walking in the cold round one, and it was about a half-mile. We get to Doc’s, the doormen are exchanging brah stories:

“So then I punch him in the head an he’s bleeding and shit and he runs off and T grabs me and holds me back, cause I was about to kill the kid.”

“Aw, serious brah? I wish I coulda been there to see that shit.”

Their pulsing neck-veins had succeeded in tweaking me out, and V’s famous stink-eye twitch was bolted onto her face for the duration of our stay.

We didn’t linger too long; the push of a crowd toting Mommy and Daddy’s credit cards was more than enough for us, so we opted to leave my buddies there and meet up later.

While I was closing out my tab, a funny thing happened:

This young-looking square next to me had been acting up since I arrived, trying to make jokes with the bartender but coming off as a total toolbox; he was the type of dude that every group of friends have,  so they can slag him off when he’s not around. At one point, he yells across the bar at some chick who’s dressed to play, calls her white trash. Well, whatever. I guess money doesn’t buy you manners.

While my back was turned and V’s stink-eye was burning a hole in his head, he sprinkled pepper flakes into his hand, ran around the bar, pushed through the crowd and chucked the contents of his hand into this chick’s hair.

I completely missed it, which is a good thing- V and I have a running joke that I will one day be involved in a bar fight on account of her and she was dying for the guy to come back.

He didn’t, we left, and proceeded to walk through the icy wastes to Bloomfield.

We close the bar up tight, but as we’re leaving, my errant buddies show up, one, as the other put it, “ten sheets to the wind”. He had a lot of important things to say to everyone, especially V. So important, he had to use his tongue. We made it back to V’s and there was a lot of this:

‘”Hey, listen, I have something to tell you. Listen. Listen. Come here. Listen.”

Whereupon a tongue would emerge and V would tell him to fuck off.

I had already made the mistake of bringing him along, so after a certain point, the novelty of a normally civilized dude acting like a total creeper had passed and I stepped in to escort him out.

We got as far as the entryway, where the conversation turned to this:

“Listen. Listen. You know me? You know me? You don’t know me. Let’s go outside. Listen to me. Shut the fuck up and listen! You don’t know me. I love you man. You know me. Don’t test me. Listen. Listen. Okay, let’s go.”

That went on for about twenty minutes. As amused as I was by my friend trying to trick my barefooted self into going outside first so he could lock me outside, it got old. Finally, my other buddy opened the inner door, grabbed my phone and got a ride for them.

The lesson here, if you haven’t picked one up yet, is that while drunken behavior is relatively amusing, it gets old at a rapid rate, and while engaging in it, you run the risk of getting stomped on, thrown out into the cold or having to give your buddy a shamefaced smile when you unexpectedly see them the next day at the movie theater.

It’s cool man, everyone gets their nights. Just don’t ever tell me anything with your tongue, I’ll be perfectly satisfied with not knowing that facet of you.