Category Archives: Random
1. I’ll be taking the thermometer down tomorrow, but you can still donate if you want to be part of this year’s effort to bring gaming to three units within Children’s Hospital. After tomorrow, I’ll tell Woy, “Hey. I tried to take the thermometer off the sidebar and I think I screwed something up with [fingerquotes] widgets because I accidentally deleted my blog.”
Also, it was reader Brian who won the Pirates prize pack. I’m delivering it to him today!
2. Speaking of the Pirates, they are doing just fantastic this preseason because this is the year, and you’re like, “Last year was the year, Ginny.” And I’m all, “Last year was the year for a winning season. This year is the year for the … WORLD SERIES.”
Let me believe, you dream crusher and spirit squasher and hope hater.
Probably for sure 100% maybe going in this year’s Yinzer Holiday Gift Guide.
4. Also, Andrew pointed out that Bill Peduto had a scheduled 30-minute phone call with Pittsburgh rapper Mac Miller not too long ago.
Because why not?
5. This happened way back on Christmas and I forgot to post it, but I must. A photo of a driver fleeing a Parkway East crash.
Men of Earth, pull up your pants.
6. My self-united bestie Matt Lamanna discovered a new dinosaur, called it “the chicken from hell” and the national media is enthralled.
That’s one way Matt Lamanna describes Anzu wyliei, the species of dinosaur that he and fellow paleontologists unveiled Wednesday.
It’s not the only way, though. Feathered demon also works, which is why Anzu — derived from Sumerian mythology — was chosen as a name. Or you could characterize it, as Lamanna also told CNN, as a 600-pound cross between an ostrich and a velociraptor. And it’s “pretty damn close” to looking like the 6-foot-tall turkey a child famously referred to in the movie “Jurassic Park,” except a lot stranger and meaner looking.
7. Pittsburghers text while driving more than any other city in Pennsylvania, including those bastards suffering their lives away in Philadelphia.
I’m just going to say this to you if you feel you must send a text while driving:
“Siri, send a message to [name].”
“What would you like to say to [name]?”
“I’m on my way be there in five minutes.”
“Would you like me to send the message now?”
“Read it to me.”
“Your message to [name] says, ‘I’m on my way. Be there in five minutes.’ Would you like me to send it?”
“Okay. I sent your message.”
You honestly never need to look at your phone while driving if you have an iPhone. Just talk to Siri.
Unless you’re my husband, whose accent Siri just cannot figure out.
“Siri, send a message.”
“David, say focus for me.”
8. This is so cool. Reader Zachary discovered that if you do street view on Market Square and then drop yourself right in the center of the Square, Google Maps will go from present day Market Square to the old Market Square when the road went right down the middle.
I had fun poking around.
9. Here’s another cool pic, sent by Jarrett Rathke, taken by his father Bob Rathke in 1960. Derailed incline:
STUFF. OF. NIGHTMARES.
10. I wrote a bunch of stuff:
“In fact, a quick search of social media has users describing their coffee, hair and “day at school” as epic. You know what? Unless Barack Obama, Bono and Justin Timberlake were there to lead your trig class in the Funky Chicken before handing out giant bags of cash, I promise your school day wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as epic.”
They used “about half a dozen” to mean five because no one cares about five cars, but you can fool people into caring if it’s “about half a dozen” cars. For the same reason, you’re more likely to pay $19.99 than you are to pay $20 for something. For the same reason you won’t say, “I ate about half a dozen cookies” but will instead say, “I ate only five cookies.” It’s psychology. Or persuasive semantics. Or a sick cookie addiction brought on by those enablers at the Girl Scouts of America.
Perhaps you recognize it as the corner window from the second story of the old Wallace Building in East Liberty that recently was transformed into residential space. It’s painted with “Happy B-Day, Julia” — a sentiment that remained on the window for almost 10 years and became a sort of a public art display for those who strolled past.
That post. You gotta read the comments. Bunch of people lost their shit. And not in the good way. One chick on Twitter was so unhappy with me, she even posted that she would “stab that bitch.”
In honor of once again reaching the Make Room for Kids goal, and surpassing it by a whopping $600 this year, it’s time for me to reveal an embarrassing picture from my sordid past as a Supremely Awkward Being.
I’m still a Supremely Awkward Being, but I’ve learned to internalize it under a candy-coated shell of hair, makeup, drugstore product, and Target clothes.
Underneath, inside, deep down, I’m awkward, shy, weird, odd, uncomfortable … I’m this:
I … I’m sorry. I’ll give you a moment to compose yourself.
I don’t know where to start. Is this Photoshop? Did I really look like this? Dress like this? Believe this to be an acceptable appearance even if it was the 90s?
Yes, 1995. I can’t even use the excuse that I was a teenager. I was 21 in this picture. Drinking age. Maybe I was drunk?
I wasn’t drunk. I’ve only been drunk two times in my life, and this wasn’t one of them.
Maybe it was Halloween and I was going as Slash going as Harry Potter if Harry Potter were in a Mexican street gang? I mean, why is my shirt buttoned all the way up? Why am I wearing a bandana over my ridiculously large hair that right this moment Troy Polamalu is looking at and going, “It’s a bit … much, yes? Maybe some Moroccan hair oils could help?”
Look at my twin sisters. They look so normal. Then look at me. Now look at them. Now back to me. We look about as blood related as you and your dog.
Am I grunge? Am I a Crip? A Hogwart? A Shark? Am I packing a Nirvana cassette, a sawed off shotgun, a broomstick, or a vicious set of musical finger snaps in my belt?
We’ll never know. But we know this for sure … there’s pretty much nothing I won’t do for sick kids.
Thank you for donating, retweeting, sharing, and everything else you all did to make the $10,000 happen.
I can’t wait to show you in April what your donations made possible for Pittsburgh’s sick kids.
Your Pittsburgh Pirates have generously donated to Make Room for Kids a prize pack chock full of goodies including game tickets and an autographed Pedro Alvarez baseball.
And instead of shoving these things into my closet while hissing “my preciousssssssssss,” I am going to be a good person and give the prize pack away to one lucky reader.
You can enter by commenting. I’ll keep this giveaway open until the moment the $10,000 is raised at which time random.org will pick a lucky winner who will receive:
- Pirates Cooler bag filled with:
- Pirates replica BP hat
- Starling Marte Fat Head
- Andrew McCutchen Bobblehead
- Raise the Jolly Roger Flag
- Pirates t-shirt
- Pirates wine set
- Pirates beach mat
- Pirates Tervis Tumbler travel mug
- 4 tickets to a Mon-Thurs game (except Opening Day)
- Autographed Pedro Alvarez baseball
I don’t know what the value of all this stuff would be, but I’m conservatively guessing it’s about four million dollars.
Keep them all for yourself. Dish them out as gifts throughout the year. Let your kids fight like Zappalas and Ories over them.
And since I am being so kind as to give this stuff away, PLEASE PLEASE donate a few bucks so our sick kids in the CICU, trauma, and ortho units at Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh can receive a multimedia overhaul that will bring them gaming and distractions.
If you donated today before we switched the contest to comment to win, no worries. You’re entered! Good luck!
I am freaked out by the thought of demons.
Or angry ghosts.
Hell, a HAPPY ghost could tap me on the shoulder in my house and say, “You’re gorgeous. Have a great day today! Really get out there and seize everything this day has to offer you!” and I would punch that ghost so hard in the throat, it would die again.
Who knows what’s real? What’s imagined? What’s a figment of our fearful imaginations?
I’m easily freaked out by the paranormal, as you know if you’ve been reading my drivel at all for the last eight and a half years. I went on a few dates in college with a minister’s son (we PKs stick together and smoke crack together and hit the strip clubs together. Just kidding, Dad.). He told me a story of his father trying to rid a house of a demon. It was a subtle demon, I guess. Moving a particular ceiling tile each night. Things like that. To this day though, that story, true or not, sticks with me.
I was 100% convinced as a teenager, thanks to my father’s excellent child-rearing, that if I ever touched an Ouija Board, I would summon a demon who would make my head spin and my puke reach previously unrecorded levels of velocity.
I still haven’t ever touched an Ouija Board, and just don’t talk to me about demons. Or ghosts. Or anything I can’t see and feel and punch in the throat if called upon to do so.
So, color me flabbergasted (which is, I think, I nice shade of puce) that ex-county commissioner Bob Cranmer is claiming the house he lived in since 1988 is haunted.
And not just haunted.
PISSED OFF DEMONS HAUNTED. (Although, as I think about it, demons are probably, by their very nature, just generally pissed off at all times.)
BLOOD SPLATTERED HAUNTED.
Check THIS out, Wendy Bell:
It began happening shortly after he, his wife and their four kids bought the house in 1988.
What seemed to be bumps in the night, turned into something more. They began seeing a dark pillar that moved through the house with a repulsive, acrid smell.
“As I called it, a stench,” says Cranmer. “It was a combination of like a burning sulfur or rubber.”
Burning sulfur. Hmmm. Okay. A smell. That’s not too threatening. I’m sure my son has released farts that could be classified under the “burning sulfur” set of smells. No biggie. Let’s move on.
Cranmer says the presence began attacking he and his family.
“It would scratch us at night, bite us,” Cranmer said. “I woke up in the middle of the night, I was completely turned around in bed – my feet were on the pillows, I was under the covers and my head was at the foot of the bed. Things like that on a consistently on a daily basis.”
Clocks would stop, art work would routinely be turned upside down, crucifixes bent, rosary beads shattered and worse.
“This entire house was marked with a blood-type substance that would be on the walls and the ceiling,” Cranmer said.
On the direction of then-Bishop Donald Wuerl, exorcists and priests assisted the Cranmers to rid the spirit, which became more resistant over time.
“This thing did not want to give up,” said Cranmer. “It was a relentless back and forth battle. Where it would prevail, there were several rooms in the house that we could no longer use. But in the end, the power of the Lord prevailed.”
Cranmer says he and his family still have the scars — physical and emotional.
Two of his children were treated in Western Psych for trauma.
But though wounded, he says their faith is now unshakable.
Now he’s written this book – “The Demon of Brownsville Road.”
Readers, we are not going to get into the religious aspects of this. AT ALL. And if you try to start a religious fight in the comments, I will find you and I will throat punch you, because in case you can’t tell, the sub-topic of this post is how much I enjoy throat-punching.
What we are going to talk about is this:
ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME, BOB CRANMER?!?!
Assuming everything you’re saying is true, you had a demon in your home. Scratching your family. Wounding your children. Sending YOUR CHILDREN TO THE PSYCH WARD. Flipping you around in your beds. Filling your house with a pillar of stench. Scarring your bodies. Biting your family. Painting your house with blood.
AND YOU STAYED IN THE HOUSE?
You continued to live there?
I mean, okay, maybe you don’t leave because of the smell. Chalk it up to Indian food farts, which are, in my experience, the worst of the farts.
Maybe you explain away the fact that you were flipped around in bed as just a really restless night of sleep.
But the day you wake up and your walls are painted in blood and your children are scratched and bitten and crying and scared, well, sir, that’s the day you move out. That’s the day you say, “Pack it up. We’re going to Grammy’s house until this thing is gone.”
You don’t stick around for years, or months, or even days. If I suspected for one SECOND that a demon was in my house, I would have exited like the frickin’ Road Runner, leaving behind a circular cloud of dust and nothing more.
“This thing did not want to give up,” said Cranmer. “It was a relentless back and forth battle. Where it would prevail, there were several rooms in the house that we could no longer use.”
You don’t just close the door to certain rooms and says, “Kids. What did I tell you about playing in the demon’s room?! Don’t come crying to me when you wake up covered in blood and scratches and your pee comes out burning of sulfur.”
You don’t wait until you have TO TREAT YOUR CHILDREN IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION before saying, “Demon, we outta here. Have a nice death.”
I’m flabbergasted and stunned and all of the words that mean flabbergasted and stunned.
If my father made me live in a house with a demon, I’d have throat-punched him and made a run for it.
Respectfully of course, Dad.
P.S. If you chuckled at any point during this post, you owe me five dollars and you can pay it via the donate button up there under the thermometer. Every penny goes to the Mario Lemieux Foundation fund this year’s Make Room for Kids efforts at Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh.
P.P.S. This book better have pictures of blood spattered walls.
It all started with a tweet from a reader asking if I’d ever heard of Monongy.
I was like, you mean being faithful to one person? Yep.
And she was like, YOU ARE THE STUPIDEST HUMAN ALIVE.
But, no, I seriously hadn’t heard of Monongy, so I started hunting, only to discover that this rumored river monster was nothing more than a promotional cryptid cooked up to advertise the “Search for Monongy” swim race. Some clever person added it to the Monongahela River Wiki and suddenly everyone thinks it’s church.
All of that, not true.
Let me remind you that former Pirate Chico Lind’s Wiki once said he won a Latin Grammy for a bachata hit about onions. NOT LYING.
Anyway, Monongy never existed, was never really rumored to exist, and you’ll find no mention in any newspaper of any such stories from the 1900s of its rumored existence. Believe me; I spent hours hunting. Some kind soul went into Wiki yesterday and edited that ridiculousness out of the Monongahela River entry.
Shit. Gotten to the bottom of.
But that made me wonder about the true lore (is that an oxymoron? YOU’RE AN OXYMORON.) about the Pittsburgh river monster. So I went hunting. And hunting. I spent hours tracking down the origins of the Pittsburgh river monster lore.
I started with Kennywood, asking their spokesperson Jeff Filicko if the Monongahela Monster ride was named so because of the lore.
The answer? No.
The Monongahela Monster came from the ride manufacturer Eyerly. “Monster” was the generic factory name for that ride type in the 4-seat model. Idlewild still has the “Spider” which was made by the same company and is the 2-seat model for that ride type. Just about any amusement park ride that isn’t a coaster has a generic name used in industry circles. They get a fancier themed name by the park to fit whatever they need. Calling it the “Monongahela Monster” just offered an obvious Pittsburgh twist and fun alliteration, especially with our location right along the Mon.
Shit. Gotten to the bottom of.
So I kept digging and digging, and found references to massive turtles, gargantuan sea serpents, TWO-HEADED DEER-SWALLOWING LAND/SEA BEHEMOTHS…
… and it all began with the Native Americans and a monster they named Ogua.
That’s probably the sound it makes when it’s hungry.
I wrote about the lore for Pittsburgh Magazine. A snippet:
Other accounts refer to the water-dwelling Ogua as more “serpentine” in nature but with short legs that allowed it to move terribly fast on land, where it hunted prey . . . that it swallowed whole. There’s one shady Internet report that states the creature had two heads. I’ve discounted that on account of a 20-foot deer-eating turtle sounding much more believable. Now, it’s possible that Native Americans invented the Ogua in an attempt to scare their young from getting too close to the river’s edge, where they could have fallen in. I mean, what’s more terrifying than being swallowed whole by a monster? NOTHING.
And don’t ever let me hear the name Monongy again.