The Attitude Challenge

Obviously what's needed is a sign. "StopShopCarriageReturn."
Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Recently on Facebook--as only Facebook can do--there's been a "Gratitude Challenge" making the rounds: For five days, list three things that you're grateful for.

I like the idea, but it did get a bit overdone after a while. Still, I am hopeful that someone someday will challenge me to express my gratitude over a few things. And believe it or not, despite all the whingeing and whining I do, I am thankful for many people, places, things, events, and moments in my life.

Except for Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh is definitely not something I feel gratitude toward. Instead, I feel an immense amount of attitude toward it.

And thus was born, the Attitude Challenge.

What are the rules? Feh, rules. Rules are for squares! Rules are the hobgobblins of bureaucracy (actual quote from a person I dealt with in Washington, D.C., once, circa 1985). Just issue forth attitude as long as you can stand yourself or until everyone tells you to STHU (Seriously, Think [about a] Happy Unicorn).

Day 1: Attitude Challenge--Pittsburgh (what else?).

Specifically, the inability of anyone in the SMSA (other than yours truly) to return a grocery cart (or buggy, if you insist to speak in Pittsburghese) to the grocery cart "corral" in the parking lot of any grocery store anywhere at any time and to line up said grocery cart in an orderly fashion.

Look--one fits inside another! It's like a Russian nesting doll with wheels!

I mean, come on, this is common practice in most places, isn't it? Even in other parts of Pennsylvania. But not Pittsburgh. I don't know why the local population is incapable of this simple skill.

. . . Although I suspect it's less about capability and more about "I can't be arsed to care" that all the carts are piled up in a jumble and some poor bagboy who barely earns minimum wage has to clean up the mess.

Look 'burghers, learning this simple behavior is not establishment or management vs. union, nor is it exhausting, nor is it (too) anal-retentive, nor does it go against what the old Pope said (but not the new one) or whatever you think is wrong with it. It's just common courtesy and common sense.

Oh. And there's the reason right there, why this doesn't, nay can't, happen in the Steel City.

Against all odds, let me try some logic, regardless: Fewer carts piled up mean more carts in the store. Fewer loose carts in the parking lot mean more spaces and less chance of accidents. (But we rank worst for accidents for a city our size, so I know you don't give a toss about that.) Fewer problems with carts in the parking mean that more bagboys can actually bag your groceries (let's pretend at least) and that you can get home in time to put on your black-and-gold track suit to sit in your trusty Lazy Boy in front of your 90" TV to watch yet another "Stillers" game.

Capiche?

You're welcome.

Stay tuned for more attitude . . .

Pierogibomination

I'd like to claim this is a joke, but no, it cannot be because our little corner of the world has never met something tacky it didn't embrace with both Buffalo chicken wing-greased hands--especially when it comes to worshiping our "Stillers."

If this news item isn't proof that all beauty has died, Western Pennsylvania Division, I know not what additional evidence you require.

One colleague at work deluded himself for a moment tby wondering whether the black pierogies were made from squid ink pasta. Oh, ha. I'd laugh if I weren't crying. Then the gold ones must be made from sunflower petals.

More likely Mrs. T's colored the pasta with runoff from coal mines or leftover asphalt from construction season.

Hard to fathom how one innocuous news report, one goofy product placement, one more White Trash Bed 'n' Breakfast offering could (further) crush my soul, but, alas, it has.

I am really hoping to be delivered from this evil to some place better in the near future.

And by better I don't mean heaven. And if it is indeed heaven, the streets better not be paved with black and gold anything. 'Cause then I'll know I've entered Steeler Heaven and my own personal Hell.

You've (not) got a friend in Pennsylvania

This has been my ohrwurm for the week, "Let's Call It Off" by Peter, Björn, & John. I'm not sure why this has stuck in my ear so deeply and intently this week--it's been a pretty good week. I'm not thinking of calling anything off or out in particular. Maybe it's just the sublime catchiness of the song--the beat! those guitars! that calypso steel drum! the higher and lower timbers of vocals singing together! Again, with the modernized '60s sound for me. I'll never change my Merseybeat ways. No, never.

To my ear, Peter, Björn, & John don't always get it right. Songs like "Young Folks," "Blue Period Picasso," "Amsterdam," "Second Chance," and "Let's Call It Off"--these to me are perfect examples of their talent. I think I've never gotten past the excellence of the Writer's Block album--subsequent PB&J long-plays have left me a little indifferent, mainly because the music has become coarser--more rock-'n'-roll, less jangly pop--and the lead singer (to my listening) gets a bit monotonous after repeated listenings. It's why I like "Amsterdam" and "Let's Call It Off" so much--they vary the vocals and transcend the tried and true.

Probably time to go back and give Living Thing and Gimme Some a relisten. I didn't even realize there was a Seaside Rock LP until just now.

Perhaps PB&J are on my mind this week because it is fall in Pittsburgh--although at times this week, it felt like we'd shifted into winter, what with the howling winds, snow showers, and gray skies. The first or second winter I lived in Pittsburgh, can't remember which, I had the chance to go see PB&J at Mister Smalls in Millvale. It snowed that evening, and I bailed on the concert, not trusting my Mini to maneuver the freeway or the hills and dales of a Northside steeltown. It was probably a wise decision, given the Mini's subsequent performance on icy, snowy roads. And perhaps the concert was even sold-out (me and my poor planning). But it is (another) missed opportunity. For musical satisfaction, yes (I still experience pangs of regret for never going to see The Blue Nile when they performed in D.C. some 25 years ago), but also for my adapting to life in Pittsburgh.

I think it would come as no surprise to readers of this blog that Pittsburgh leaves me cold (literally, figuratively). I do not get Pittsburgh--or perhaps I do, and there's just nothing much for me to get. I have felt incredibly out of sync with the town ever since I got here, and the town has more or less has consistently reminded me of my out-of-stepness.

Where do I begin? And do I even want to? It didn't help that I moved here in grief over my father's death and did not take up readily some of the offers made to me for socializing. How could I at that time? I felt like I spent the first year or two here, wishing I was wearing a black armband, like some 19th-century mourner, to let everyone know to stay away. Now that I think about it, I probably did as much without benefit of the armband.

It didn't help that in my first job here, I spent more of it away than at home and did that for the first 3-1/2 years of my existence here. It didn't help that I couldn't get laid here to save my life, that Pittsburgh extended by a few years my mojo-less life in Pennsylvania, that once again I had to go to Canada to get anything going on. I know I'm getting older and maintaining my fighting weight is a constant struggle, but I don't seem any older or heavier than anyone else here. Why have I been unable to connect in that most quintessentially man-to-man way?

It doesn't help that people here seem brusque on the surface and somewhat depressed during the long gray months of winter. (If you can get behind the surface, they are ultimately OK.) It doesn't help that it is an insular town, disinterested in the outside world, isolated from it by the hills and the clouds to paraphrase my Central Pennsylvania friend NoRella. It doesn't help that I have never found a group to fit into, a community to be a part of, or encountered very many like-minded individuals with whom I could be friends, learn from, and share with. Which, for me, is what I'm here for, what we're all here for: To have fun, to be friends, to enjoy each other's company, and hopefully make one another's lives a little bit better.

It doesn't help that I am easily bored, getting older, and probably too cynical for my own good. It doesn't help that I gave up trying to love Pittsburgh, or even just to like it. It doesn't help that I can't even remember when I gave up. It doesn't help that I can't figure out how to get out of here, to move on to the next phase of my life, assuming there is one.

So maybe I do know why PB&J are stuck in my brain this week. Because I'm stuck in my brain this week.

Let's call it off. Let's call the whole thing off. Now how to do so? And when and where?

Not-so-secret squirrel

I can't even explain this. It's like trying to explain Pittsburgh. 

And six years into living here, I really don't know how to.

OK, how about this? It's like Baltimore without John Waters to reveal it to everyone.

And with no crabs, just pierogies. Cooler summers, worse winters, lots of hills, and no water taxis.

And obviously squirrels with brass keys.

Biting my tongue, eating my feelings, swallowing my pride

When the going gets tough, the tough head down to Vanilla Pastry Studio in Regent Square, Pittsburgh, for a six-pack of cupcakes.

Other than jonesin' for cupcake crack, I think my problem is that I exercised the night before, didn't eat enough that morning, generally loathe my job, felt guilty for dropping at least 10 f-bombs in the office before noon, and really, really, really like cupcakes.

They are an especially good chaser to a jalapeño-laced hamburger and a distilled beverage from D's next door.

Not that I would ever contemplate a liquid lunch in the middle of the workday. 'Cause that's the kind of dedicated professional that I pretend to be.

I'm nothing special, in fact I'm a bit of . . . an inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!

It's a mystery to me why I haven't been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yet. It's only 2 hours up the road in Cleveland, but I've become too Pennsylvanian in outlook and now consider Ohio a foreign country, apparently one requiring an invitation or a visa to visit.

Pittsburghers, for the record, love to hate Cleveland (and Philadelphia and Baltimore and practically any other city with a rival team, whether a worthy adversary or not), so whenever I suggest to someone that we should make the quick trek to the city on the lake, it never gets much of a reaction. Other than a silence meaning "no."

But hey, Pittsburgh! Cleveland has an airport that offers more non-stop flights, for less than you do. Cleveland still has a Saks Fifth Avenue and had a Nordstrom long before you did. Cleveland has a waterfront, one with some parkland, so that you can actually see the water, rather than one being hidden from view by a train running alongside of it, blocking all access.

Just saying.

And, again, Cleveland has the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, while we have, what is it? Oh yeah. The Western Pennsylvania Sports Hall of Fame. It staggers the mind, really.

Say what you will, whiny white boys: "They let Madonna in, and Donna Summer in, and ABBA in, so it's not really rock-and-roll." Good lord. I feel like I've been hearing that argument for 50 years. Yeah, it's popular music, maybe not "classic" (barf) rock-and-roll. Gotcha. However, I still find your definition of rock-and-roll unnecessarily limiting.

Free your mind, the rest will follow: Listen in particular to Benny Andersson's explanation about ABBA's musical heritage, a very European musical heritage, one that is decidedly different than that of American and British rock-and-roll. It's an intriguing musical lineage, involving rock, classical music, pop, German schmaltz, French chanson, and a host of other influences. You don't have to call it rock-and-roll, but it is something quite powerful, well-crafted, clever, and catchy. As Frida notes in her portion of the acceptance speech, the members haven't performed together as a group since 1982--and yet, 28 years later, they are still recognized for their artistry and popularity, enough to warrant acknowledgement by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Nope, it doesn't mean they're rock-and-roll. It doesn't even mean they're good, as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is no guarantor of quality, the Good Pop Music Seal of Approval.

However, I do think it means that ABBA "arrived," ABBA made it, despite the odds and the odd derision. I'm glad to hear Benny explain their music and their sound so well. I'm pleased to see the Swedish Third Way applied to music. I'm happy that ABBA is still with us (and with me) all these years later.

Stop me before I eat again

Truth be told, I think Pittsburgh food is mostly godawful. Oh, I like pierogis, especially the sauerkraut-filled ones, and I've had some good pizza, but like the city itself, sometimes there's just no there there.

And by "there," I mean flavor. And spice. And taste. And appeal.

This is a town where everything comes with fries, even the salads, where Buffalo wings may have come as an uninvited guest from that town up the road but have found friends and family here (unlike yours truly).

I've had one or two good meals here (one at Tamari, this Latin-Asian fusion spot in Lawrenceville comes to mind--a trend that perhaps happened everywhere else years ago, but still, I wouldn't turn down a great meal--and a tasty mojito--just because it's a bit five years ago in culinary trending). But for the most part, I've been disappointed even by places that came highly recommended, that seem more style over ingredients.

But I shan't name names, at least not the bad ones.

Credit where credit is due, though: One thing Pittsburgh does really well is baked goods. There are a number of bakeries here, some new-fashioned but many old-fangled ones, even though some of those are on the way out. Food service work looks really hard with bad hours and tight profit margins. Baking looks even harder and I'm sure has been undercut by so many supermarket bakeries. I can imagine it's tough to make a go of it. Add to that it appears to be something of a family tradition and perhaps younger generations don't want to take on the work.

What a shame. Because the few bakeries I've had the pleasure of visiting in Pittsburgh and environs have been incredible. Kretchmar's in Beaver was probably the first one I visited, and it set a very high standard for the others, as did Carol's Pastry Shop in Zelionople and Moio's Italian Pastry Shop in Monroeville.

Oh, I like Allegro in Squirrel Hill, too, and I'm always going on about Jean-Marc Chatellier in Millvale. I've only had donuts from Stoecklein's in Penn Hills (they were delicious!) because it's too hard to find for a non-native like me. I've still yet to stop in at Prantl's in Shadyside because I hate the parking in that neighborhood. The point is, there are some excellent options for baked goods in Pittsburgh--A yeasty embarrassment of kneaded deliciousness, one might say. If one were so inclined.

But this week maybe I've had too much of a good thing. On Tuesday, Mardi Gras, one of my office mates and I went to Jean-Marc in search of King Cake only to find them sold out. So, naturally, we each bought a Breton cake and a six-pack of French macarons. It seemed like the thing to do.

Today, the beginning of the Lenten season, said office mate got a lead on King Cake from another shop, the Oakmont Bakery in one of my favorite parts of the Pittsburgh area, little Oakmont on the Allegheny. So we got one. And we also got a six-pack of pączki, a type of filled Polish donut (like a German Berliner, as in Ich bin ein a big jelly donut). Each.

Which is just insane. Financially, first of all--I mean, so much for saving on cable. At $1.50 per pączki (big enough for two meals, let alone one), this was not in and of itself an unwise purchase. Combine it, however, with a Breton cake, some macarons, gas money, future heart medication, etc., and, lordy, I blew any savings on pastries. Which just seems a little weird . . . and pitiful.

Healthwise, second of all and third of all--although it should be first of all--as much of a slacker I've been at the gym the last couple of weeks, I certainly don't need the calories. And I swear I was getting a contact high off the sugar and yeast alone. Thus, this week, I'm destined to take at least twelve steps toward a better, healthier life.

So any lessons this week? Other than "don't eat your feelings"? Yeah, well, easier said than done of late, although seriously, I'm much better/worse at it when I'm stressed over work than I am over life. But point taken. I'll try to keep it to dry toast and mineral water the rest of the week.

Then again, bakery items and pierogis are the only things edible in this town. So, again, credit where credit is due: Pittsburgh is why I'm fat. If the salads were better and weren't loaded with French fries, it might be a different story . . . .

Only in Pixburgh

Or Johnstown. Whichever, jagoffs.

Pixburgh rox!

One by Donora, one of Pittsburgh's best local bands--who ought to be known nationally and beyond, they are just that good!

Pittsburgh and me, keeping it classy

We made Gawker! For all the wrong reasons!

Hockey will (not) set you free

I'm very late in getting to this one, being that some weeks ago the Penguins went down faster and more dramatically than the Hindenburg in a lightening storm. But this is too funny not to share, despite the fact that this meme--I think that's what the kids call it--has been done to destruction and, well, sorry about the Nazi Germany imagery.

My favorite moments:

• "I trusted all the praise on Roots Sports all year long . . . " 
• "Johnson couldn't stop a slapshot from a 6-year-old" 
• "It's OK, Pirates games are still fun sometimes." 
• "There is only one possible explanation for this . . ." 

But there are many, especially if you know anything about Pittsburgh or sports. So put your historical squeamishness aside and enjoy.

Arrivederci, Verona!

Lessons learned from the neighbors #3.

After a wet, cold weekend, housebound on the ground floor of my building with my neighbors and their apparent preschool-cum-menagerie housebound on the upper floor, I have decided that I would really like to find a new apartment. Sooner rather than later. Hopefully before the real winter weather sets in, which, given that it's Pittsburgh, will no doubt be in another week-and-a-half.

Nevertheless, nothing is so bad in my little corner of the world as to make me want to take a place in bullet-ridden Verona, no matter how charming it otherwise might be.

Guten tag, Aspinwall.

Is it me, Pittsburgh, or are there shoot-outs and stand-offs on almost a weekly basis these days? Is this a local thing, like the Steelers and halushki and slowing down in tunnels? 'Cause, really, Pittsburgh, the fact that everybody insists on dressing like bumblebees on game days is enough for a gentle soul to contend with.

2gether, 4ever

Spotted on Meade Street, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

I support traditional marriage.

As long as it's between 1 Robot and 1 Octopus.