Monthly Archives: April 2012

Uncool.

Wiz Khalifa was again cited for marijuana possession, this time in Nashville Saturday night, which is like finding out Toby Keith got cited for grabbing a sweet badonkadonk at the honkey tonk. Internet, when is Wiz NOT in possession of marijuana?

As I’ve written before, the man sings ODES to weed. He has an album of songs almost entirely dedicated to weed. He throws rolling papers out to his crowds.

It is his schtick.

According to police reports, officers responded to a Holiday Inn in Nashville on Saturday night, where front desk personnel told police they had already told guests in a seventh-floor room they had received complaints of marijuana odor.

Officers immediately noticed the pot smell coming from room 725, according to police reports.

When police knocked, Lonnie Howard, 27, of Hazelwood opened the door and Mr. Khalifa, 24, threw a marijuana cigarette out the window, police said.

Police asked if there was any more pot in the room.

Mr. Howard said there was not, then said he had some in his pocket, according to police reports. Police documented varying totals for the amount of pot in his pocket, but it was at least 2.7 grams.

I’m about to say the uncoolest uncool thing that ever uncooled in Pittsburgh.

I’m not cool with Wiz too much.

I love Black and Yellow and I love that he loves Pittsburgh and gosh darn it, I love me some DJ Bonics like you would not believe. But Wiz?

Meh.

I’m tired of the stoner schtick and I’m especially not liking him lighting up enough weed in the Holiday Inn that guests on the floor smelled it enough to be driven to complain. And I’m not liking him not listening to hotel staff when he was alerted that complaints were coming in. It’s just so damn selfish. What if it was a pregnant woman next door? Or small children? Pregnant women are obsessive about staying away from REGULAR smoke, so you can imagine how much they would try to avoid marijuana smoke. And I’d probably freak a little if I thought my kids were inhaling second-hand marijuana smoke.

This is the Holiday Inn after all, not the Ritz Carlton. It’s not the right place to pull rock star attitude and thump your chest and say, “I will smoke what I want. I say who! I say when! I say who!”

I think I’m just quoting Pretty Woman now.

I don’t know. Just grow up, I guess. Smoke your weed on your tour bus and maybe check your checking account because I’m pretty sure you can afford better than the Holiday Inn.

Was Howard Johnson’s full?





Oh em gee double you tee eff bar bee que

That press release from the Mayor’s office that used the non-word inclimate three times has been “corrected.”

TO INCLEMATE!

All three instances of inclimate now say the even WORSE non-word of inclemate!

Oh, Lukey’s staff. You’re down two strikes, but I am so confident you can knock this next attempt out of the park. Just cut and paste okay?

INCLEMENT

YOU CAN DO IIIIIIIT!

I even made a cheer for you.

Cut and paste! Cut and paste! Goooooo paste!

Now, how many of Lukey’s press staff are going to pull a Jane Orie and print out, cut, and glue the word “inclement” to their computer screens?

(h/t CC)





Fruitless running does tire me so … Mr. Darcy

I have a lot of jobs and because I have a lot of jobs my days are scheduled down to the hour and sometimes the half hour.

Half an hour for this job. Half an hour for this one. An hour doing stuff for the restaurant. Write a post for my blog. Write a post for the magazine blog. Meeting here. Meeting there. Oh, my column was due 21 days ago, you say? I guess I should get started on that. Tee-hee.

So my crazy life means I forgot to tell you about my column from last month so you might get to read two new columns at once!

1.  The first is from last month’s edition and it is all about my tour of Clayton, the restored house of Henry Clay Frick — and if you think that sounds boring, you clearly don’t know me at all.

A snippet:

While the other members of my tour group took in the big picture, scanning the rooms with generous sweeps of their gazes, I was absorbing every single inch of your space. I imagined myself as a young belle gracefully descending the stairs to greet a visiting suitor. My gaze down. My demeanor coy.

“So amiable of you to call at such an hour … Mr. Darcy.”

I really can’t explain to you what it’s like for me walking through that house. I was trying so hard to imagine living in it. What it must have been like. What Henry Clay was like at his darkest hours. And he had a lot of dark hours. The deaths of two children, the awful events at Homestead, etc.

Also, a few things that got cut for space (WHY, GOD, WHY DO YOU KILL MY WORDS?!):

I’m a romantic – a closet romantic, I should say. I’ll admit my romantic nature in public as sort of a trifling thing … “Oh, I’m a romantic.” But I have never admitted the excessive degree of my romanticism because I don’t have enough cats to back up such crazy-cat-lady behavior. If I had the time, I would read historical romance novels until I unintentionally began talking like Jane Austen the way Madonna “unintentionally” began talking all British-like.

And

As I read the spine of every book I could in Henry’s library, I wondered, what was he like behind the beard and cold eyes? Did he ever sit there at the desk in his study and mourn the events that took place at Homestead? Did he regret the loss of lives or did he justify the means to an end?

Visiting that house has me currently reading two books about Frick and Mellon and my God, Pittsburgh history is better than any Mexican telenovela EVER. I assume there is a slap fight coming up pretty soon.

Anyway, moral of the story is this: I’d like to do seven minutes in heaven with Mr. Darcy in a closet at Clayton.

Read the column here.

2. This month’s column is all about how I can’t run, where can’t doesn’t mean won’t, it means I suck so bad at it that I just can’t. At all. Like I look at people who run for pleasure and I wonder what exactly is broken in their brains that they find joy in such deliberately sought out torture.

A snippet:

I fared no better in distance races, probably because I considered 200 yards to be a “distance race.” I wondered why there weren’t any water stations at the 100-yard mark. Or why no one covered me with a foil blanket when I deliriously collapsed across the finish line.

“Participant.”

And:

By the middle of the second lap, the barrette that had been precariously clasped around my huge, curly, Chaka Khan-ish mane would burst open with an audible snap and land on the track behind me. So instead of looking like a girl running laps, I now looked like a crazed, asylum-escaped lunatic fleeing her demons.

Go have a read here. And whatever you do, don’t you dare try to convince me that I TOO could learn to enjoy running.

Unless I’m running after a Nutella truck being driven by Mr. Darcy, I just can’t see the end being worth the means.





Criminals are criminals for a reason

Remember in grade school and junior high school when your gym teacher would make you climb that gosh darned climbing rope to see how high you could get before your hands started to bleed or your arms simply gave out and you tumbled to the mat below, landing with a thump and with fresh rope burn marks on your legs? And you would lay there on the mat, looking up at the stupid ceiling and hear your stupid teacher say, “Okay, you climbed a total of one and a half feet,” and you’d say to yourself, “When am I ever going to need to climb a rope in my life ever? That’s just stupid.”

Well, guess what? There is a time when you might need to climb a rope and that time is when you decide to go Mission Impossible on an Ambridge convenience store by lowering yourself into it via a rope after hours, landing hard on your ass before grabbing some cigarettes and probably some Ding Dongs and what not, and then trying in vain to CLIMB BACK UP THE ROPE.

You gotta go watch the video of this doofus here.

I guess our gym teachers made us climb ropes for a reason after all.

[Gasp!] You guys, does this mean I AM going to be asked to solve for X at some point in my life?!

Crap.





Incl-WHAT?!

From the Mayor’s Office comes this press release about Earth Market’s change in schedule due to the gross-ass craptastic weather this week. Click here for the screen-cap because you know his office is editing this as soon as someone sees this post.

The headline:

CITY’S EARTH MARKET SCHEDULE CHANGES DUE TO INCLIMATE WEATHER
Earth Market in Market Square to take place this Wednesday and Friday only

 

The first sentence:

Mayor Luke Ravenstahl’s first Earth Market in Market Square has been cancelled today, tomorrow, and Thursday due to inclimate weather.

The conclusion:

The Market was originally to be held Mon. – Fri. of this (sic), but has been rescheduled due to inclimate weather.

Lukey, you keep using that word, but I don’t think it means what you think it means, because it’s not actually a word.

It’s INCLEMENT.

Snoop Dogg is not your friend, but spellcheck totally is.

Next time, just take a lesson from me and use “gross-ass craptastic.” Or better yet, just approve a press release full of words that aren’t real:

Mayor Luke Ravenstahl’s office announced today that a totalmently overhaul of the 311 system was underway due to great confuzzlement and flustration by Pittsburghers who were supposably calling in pothole tips that were not being reconotated by 311 staff. Gruntled residentialites are forthwelcoming the new analyzation by the Mayor’s office with one residentia calling it “hugemongous awesomesauceness.”

(h/t Triangle)