la pomme du ciel

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.

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.

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.