Setting: The Office of That’s Church in Dunkin’ Donuts in Market Square.
Mayor Luke Ravenstahl enters, spies the Secretary packing up her office into boxes.
“Her office” = donuts. “Boxes” = her mouth.
Mayor Luke: [sighs]
PittGirl: “Pick your shoulders up, Champ. There is a very very good chance this is the last time you’ll ever visit my office.”
Mayor: [eyes brighten] “Really?!”
PG: “Really! But before we hopefully say goodbye to the Office of That’s Church — the office of truth, of snark, of ‘telling it like it is no matter what,’ we need to discuss how INCREDIBLY, EPICALLY, MONSTROUSLY STUPID YOU ARE ON TWITTER.”
Luke: “I hate you.”
PG: “I bet you do! Have a seat.”
Luke: “Have we met?”
PG: “Fine. Stand.”
Luke: ”I will.”
PG: “Do you know that I used to hate your politician-speak? That weird ‘myself and others like myself’ vernacular you used to spout like a robot? I used to call it Politicobot 2000 or something like that. I hated it. You took 30 words to say something that could have been communicated in five words. I thought if we stripped away that important-sounding facade, we’d find you normal. Dare I say, likable. A regular Pittsburgh guy just trying his best to do the job he was, in some ways, thrust into. Are you seriously giggling because I just said ‘thrust?’”
Luke: “Shut up.”
PG: “I will not. So now your political aspirations have been snuffed out like a candle in the wind, Elton, and along with those aspirations went your Robot Politician Facade, and guess what was behind that facade? Guess. Go ahead. I’m telling you to guess. Say words.”
Luke: “What’s a fac–?”
PG: “BZZZZZ! Time’s up! What we have found behind the facade is what some suspected all along — a weird fratboy/meangirl hybrid with the grammar of a first grader and an addiction to useless hashtags.”
Luke: “Oh! Fratmeangirlboy!”
PG: [headdesk] “I hate you.”
Luke: “I bet you do!”
PG: “So you took to Twitter to publicly whine that a city police officer uses his off-duty time to ref NCAA basketball games and the media doesn’t care, but they bug you mercilessly about your schedule. You, in your holy righteous indignation, salivated as you thought you were about to make the media feel so so foolish. You linked to a schedule of his games and wrote. ‘Imagine if I was out of town this much!’ You hashtagged it with #justsayin — which, that alone is enough to make my bitchslapping hand feel kinda itchy, Luke. You manufactured this controversy mere DAYS after tweeting about how terrible it was that the media manufactures controversy. You also missed an important thing: that if city police officers are doing things you feel they shouldn’t on their off-time, YOU AS THE MAYOR SHOULD HANDLE THAT. THE FINAL BLAME FOR THAT SHOULD REST ON YOUR SHOULDERS. The irony of this is just about killing me, Lukey — like an anvil is going to fall on my head at any moment.”
Luke: [looks up hopefully]
PG: “What are you? Right at this moment. What are you?”
Luke: “A fratmeangirlboy!”
PG: “Lieutenant Scirotto is a police officer. YOU ARE THE MAYOR OF A MAJOR METROPOLITAN CITY. This is beyond apples and oranges. This is bikes and pumpkins. The Pope and Kim Kardashian. POOP AND DIAMONDS. You’re trying to compare how much the media cares about a cop versus how much the media cares about the mayor. It’s LAUGHABLE. The media doesn’t really care where Lieutenant Scirotto is during his off time because he’s a police officer. However, the MAYOR OF A MAJOR METROPOLITAN CITY answers to we the people. His schedule should be public. He should show up. He should lead. He should be as transparent as air. He should work so hard he ages before our very eyes. He should not, at any point in time, giggle at the word thrust.”
PG: ”I hate you.”
Luke: ”I hate you to infinity no backsies.”
PG: [headdesk] [headdesk] [headdesk]
Luke: ”Are we done?”
PG: ”No. I’m going to need you to hand over any hashtags you have on your person.”
Luke: ”Even #7yearsofsuccesses?!”
PG: ”ESPECIALLY #7yearsofsuccesses.”
Luke: “Fine. But I’m keeping #noclue.”
PG: “Knock yourself out.”
Luke: “Now are we done?”
PG: “My God, I hope so.”
Luke: “Bye. #itsbeenreal.” [turns to walk away]
PG: [rises, runs, tackles Lukey to the ground and rips the hashtag from his hands]
1. The other night, while listening to my son read his book-report book aloud (if I don’t make him read it aloud, he’ll skip chunks of pages at a time on account of laziness), he got to a part where one kid calls another kid a jackass. The look of pure joy on his face as he, without getting yelled at, uttered the word jackass three times … well, that’s the true meaning of Christmas.
I’m kidding, Dad. I know what the true meaning of Christmas is.
PRESENTS! DIAMONDS! CASH DOLLAH BILLZ! [makes it rain on the strippers]
And my phone will be ringing in three, two–
2. The winner of the Yinzer Gift Guide giveaway was notified and has accepted the prize. Shop the guide here!
3. It drives me insane — PURPLE MINION INSANE — when people refer to the Roberto Clemente Bridge as the Sixth Street Bridge, so I wrote about it for Pittsburgh Magazine, hoping to convince these lazy butts to stop being such jerkfaces:
This is not Snoop Lion Doggy Dogg Hedgehog Owl changing his name every time he moves his bowels. This is not the year of our Lord changing its name every 365 days. This is an iconic bridge whose name was changed once more than a decade ago. At this point, if you’re still calling it the Sixth Street Bridge, you’re just stubbornly refusing to put forth the same effort you do when writing the correct year on a check in early January.
4. Barebones Productions has to be having a hell of a time advertising this play in the local media:
“Things are starting to look up for recovering alcoholic Jackie and his girlfriend Veronica…until Jackie spots another man’s hat in their apartment and embarks on a sublimely incompetent quest for vengeance.”
I’m a big Patrick Jordan fan.
Can’t wait to see it. Tickets here.
I kinda love ‘em. Gonna do a giveaway of them soon.
(Not a paid ad.)
6. Interactive map of Pittsburgh’s lost inclines! Historygasm.
7. Community Human Services Holiday Gift Card drive is underway. It’s so easy to just buy a few gift cards for those in our city who need them the most. Check it out here.
I’m going to try to get my butt to the Hough’s party again this year.
8. Just me, putting a bug in your ear that in early February I’ll be begging you for some of your dollars to donate to the next phase of Make Room for Kids with the Mario Lemieux Foundation and local Microsoft folks. We are going to be outfitting two units at CHP with gaming and other tech distractions … the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit (CICU) and the Trauma Unit. More soon on that. Just do me a favor and set a few bucks aside for it. LOVE YOU!
9. Shut up! Fallingwater has a satellite holiday gift store downtown for the holiday shopping season!
I’m so there.
I like this one too:
11. Let’s check in with Jeff Reed on Twitter:
12. Has anyone heard from Shaun Suisham lately? Did he get the trash I left for him on his lawn?
Not at all.
UPDATED to include three new items donated by their respective shops: The Xmittens, the Alternate Histories print, and the Yinz mug!
It’s here, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here!
The 2013 Yinzer Gift Guide is up at Pittsburgh Magazine and look at all these gorgeous things I’ve hunted down for you. Affordable Burgh-made or Burgh-inspired gifts guaranteed to earn you some serious hugs and smooches this holiday season. Click the picture to be taken to the list, or scroll down to see which items I’m giving away because I love yinz like pigeons love pooping.
I’m giving away a few items from the official list, and one from the UN-listed list.
One lucky winner will receive:
– Heinz Christmas Pickle ornament, $15, paid for with my own moolah. Give this to pretty much anyone in your life:
– Heinz Ketchup ornament, $15, paid for with my own moolah.
– Moop Tiny Clutch No. 1 in charcoal and blue, $31, donated by Moop AFTER I picked them to be on the list. Perfect for moms, wives, sisters, friends and the like.
– Moop Tiny Clutch No. 2 in grey and orange $31, donated by Moop AFTER, etc.
– Fear the Beard socks $10, donated by Fresh Factory AFTER. Perfect for a Steeler fan:
– Penguins earrings from Perfectly Simple, $8, donated by Perfectly Simple AFTER. Pens fans will love!
– SmallTower Pittsburgh Skyline Print, $30, donated AFTER:
–Alternate Histories Monongahela Monster Print, $20
– Pittsburgh Pottery Yinz Mug, $20
– The wildly popular Xmittens, $35. You may receive a different color than that pictured.
That’s a retail value of $217 bucks saved on your gift list! If any other vendors from the list offer up a few goodies, I’ll update this post and the same winner will receive those items too.
To enter: Leave a comment, one comment per valid email address, and so you have something to say, you can do any of the following in your comment:
1. Shout out which item on the 2013 Yinzer Gift Guide is your favorite.
2. Shout out a locally-made or Burgh-inspired gift not on the list that you think I should consider for next year’s list.
3. Leave a generic comment, preferably one in which you say nice things about me.
4. Type the word “toot.” You’ll understand why when you go read the list.
You have until next Friday, November 29 at noon to enter, at which time Random.org will pick the winning comment number. Since none of the items are too big or heavy, guess what? If you’re not living in the Pittsburgh area, I’ll mail the prize pack to any of the contiguous 48 states.
If you live in Portland, I’ll probably include a little handwritten note that says “SUCK IT.”
[swishes cape and runs off in dramatic fashion]
My 2013 Yinzer Holiday Gift Guide will be up this week over at PittsburghMagazine.com, giving you plenty of time to get orders in to be delivered in time for the holidays.
This year’s list was especially hard to compile what with so many great Burghy gifts entering the market since last year. As you know, the goal of the list is to show you gifts that are either made BY Burghers, ABOUT Pittsburgh, or IN Pittsburgh.
Suck it, China. And for the hell of it, you too, Portland.
While these items didn’t make the list this year for one reason or another, I still wanted to share them with you because they’re all worthy gifts:
Category: ABOUT Pittsburgh
Why it’s not on the list: Holy pricey, Batman! I have trouble recommending you spend $80 on a pair of socks unless those socks have a 50 dollar bill inside of them.
Why it’s awesome: Most black and gold gear looks like Steely McBeam either puked or died on it. Not at Slaterzorn where classy, upscale team-themed apparel is available to gift to the people in your life who love the Steelers, Pens, and/or Bucs, but who wouldn’t wear a bedazzled hypocycloid even if you threatened to take away their country club membership.
Here’s a sampling of the pricey, but oh so gorgeous gear for men and women:
Want. I don’t know. I might include the scarves on the official list. But still … $85?! Wah.
Category: ABOUT Pittsburgh, BY Burghers
Why it’s not on the list: It’s a PG-rated magazine.
Why it’s awesome: [snicker]
Category: ABOUT, BY, and IN
Why it’s not on the list: I chose different jewelry to feature on the list …
Why it’s awesome: … but these are funky and adorable and come in a crazy cute variety. The mustache ones are just knocking my socks off.
Category: ABOUT, BY, and IN
Why it’s not on the list: I featured their 2012 fundraising ornament last year, and wanted to put a different non-profit-benefiting gift on the list this year.
Why it’s awesome: This ornament, like last year’s, was designed by one of their program members. There are only 500 available, so get one while you can for a suggested donation of $20. $25 if you want them to mail it to you.
Category: BY Burghers, IN Pittsburgh
Why it’s not on the list: ALL. OF. THE. DOLLARS.
Why it’s awesome: I was hunting for a watch made in Pittsburgh (I feel like some Burgher somewhere should be Kickstarting a line of steel watches or something. Get on that.) These watches are local and they are incredible. AND ALL OF THE DOLLARS! So if your middle name is McMoneyBags, these are for you, ranging in price from a bit over $2,000 to ALL OF THE DOLLARS:
Seriously gorgeous. Seriously out of my budget.
Now I’m off to spend my day at the History Center, the Incline gift shop, Wildcard, and possibly the Pittsburgh Public Market for one final hunt for cute Burghy gifts that I might have missed, and then the Yinzer Gift Guide will be ready to go.
Be prepared to repent of covetousness.
“Nine. One. One. What is your emergency?”
This past summer I sent my kid to summer camp in North Carolina with his cousins. After a week, my husband, me, my daughter, and my niece visiting from Cancun went to my sister Ta-Ta’s house in Richmond, Virginia to await the boys’ return with my brother-in-law who had served as the camp nurse.
The next day, we set off for Pittsburgh from Richmond with six people in my six-passenger Mazda 5. Realizing we were going to need extra storage space for the overnight bags and for the boys’ sleeping bags and suitcases, I purchased a soft-sided rooftop carrier from Amazon prior to heading for Virginia. It had four and half stars. It was one of those carriers you could use with or without a roof rack. They said.
Without a roof rack, you could run the straps inside your car doors and secure them safely inside the vehicle. They said.
My husband was skeptical as he and my brother-in-law double checked the straps prior to us setting off for the Burgh. They tugged and yanked at the straps to be sure.
My husband was like, “I don’t know.”
My brother-in-law was like, “It’s secure. It’s fine.”
Off we went. The clouds grew dark. We hit I-95 AKA the Highway of Satan’s Doom and my husband picked up speed … nervously.
“I just don’t know.”
Have you ever watched one of those based-on-a-true-story-made-for-TV movies about an airplane crash and one pilot is all, “I don’t know about this. Something’s off.” and the co-pilot is just smacking buttons and flipping switches all, “It’s fine. It’s fine”?
That was me and my husband as we went up to 70 miles per hour.
“I just don’t know.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s FINE. Say ‘focus’ for me.”
Then the rain started falling lightly and he got more nervous. Slowed down to 60.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine,” I said as I adjusted the radio, the air controls, the sun visors, the vent direction, my seat position — busy like the co-pilot of a doomed aircraft.
We sped along. My son and nephew in the back seat with headphones plugged into their electronics. My daughter reading in the middle seat next to her cousin who was busy with her phone. My husband softly muttering, “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Me in the front passenger seat adjusting controls like a NASA mission commander preparing to dock with the ISS. The warm rain sprinkling against the windshield.
What was that?!
The carrier is gone.
Right there on I-95, the straps had torn and sent the large soft-sided carrier hurling through the air. It plopped onto the highway behind us as my husband, muttering all of the Spanish swear words, hurriedly maneuvered the car to the side of the road.
All six of us twisted in our seats and craned our necks just in time to see an 18-wheeler the size of Jupiter kerthump a few of its enormous tires right over the bag.
We simultaneously turned to face forward again. Stunned.
Then my daughter burst into tears.
What do we do oh my god we are all going to die someone call the cops how are we going to get that back everyone just CALM DOWN Spanish swear words let me just adjust all the controls here what are we going to do what is the number for 911 are we going to jail mommy Spanish swear words I knew this was going to happen are we just going to leave our stuff back there we can’t just leave our stuff back there I am going to give that thing one star on Amazon dot com.
“Well, that bag is gone forever,” said my husband.
“No,” I said, “We have to go get it! Everyone’s stuff is in there! EVERYONE STOP SCREAMING SO I CAN HEAR MYSELF THINK! IT IS GOING TO BE OH-KAY!”
I turned to my husband. “Go get the bag.”
I said it as if I were simply saying, “Go pick up a gallon of milk at the Iggle.”
He stared at me. “You want me to go get that bag that probably weighs more than 150 pounds? That bag that’s in the middle of the busy highway full of speeding 18-wheelers? That bag?”
“You gotta go get the bag. I’ll call 911. You go get the bag. You’ll be fine. Just look both ways.”
SPANISH. SWEAR. WORDS.
It was decided. By me.
My husband exited the car and headed the 70 yards or so back to the bag which still lay in the middle of the far right lane on I-95 near Richmond, Virginia as beach traffic careened around it.
“Nine. One. One. What is your emergency?”
“Yeah. We’re on I-95 — EVERYBODY STOP CRYING, SCREAMING, OR LAUGHING RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR SO HELP ME GOD — and we lost our rooftop carrier. It’s on the road. I’m worried someone might hit it and get hurt.”
“Okay, ma’am, what is your location? Okay. Okay. Got it. Okay, ma’am, we have a car nearby. Please, ma’am. Do NOT ATTEMPT TO REMOVE THE BAG. Do not enter the road. We will be there, ma’am. Again, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO REMOVE THE BAG. Do you understand, ma’am? Do not enter the road … for your own safety.”
“Yeah, about that…” I turned in my seat to see my husband had already managed to drag the bag to the side of the road and had hoisted it onto his back and was now trudging slowly down the side of the highway, in the rain, bent over at the waist, with the enormous bag containing three suitcases and various small bags resting on his back like Atlas carrying the weight of the world. The bag was so large it looked like he was carrying two bodybags on his back.
I ordered the children to STAY like good obedient dogs and got out of the car as my husband neared. Step. Step. Heave his shoulders to readjust the bag. Step. Step. Heave. Step. Heave. Rest. Step. Heave.
I imagine there are many pictures of him on Twitter and Instagram all, “Look at this dude carrying a rooftop car carrier on his back in the rain. LOL.”
He gave me a look that I couldn’t place and then let the bag fall into the high grass with a thud. It was then I looked closely at him. Not only was he sweating in the light rain, but he was covered in brown powder and smelled strongly of cinnamon.
I looked at the bag, flattened and a huge hole ripped into it, and noticed it too was covered in the brown dust.
And then I remembered that I had found a huge canister of my favorite cinnamon-infused Mexican coffee in Richmond and had tucked it into the carrier at the last moment. It had exploded under the weight of the truck tire and sifted onto my husband with each step and heave he took.
He was shooting me Palpatine-esque death looks as we began picking through the bag to see what was salvageable.
Just as I reached down to open the carrier bag, a spider the size of Chris Farley’s face crawled out of the high grass and right onto the top of the bag. I’m pretty sure it reared up and hissed at me.
And that’s how the Virginia State Police found us as they pulled up behind us with their lights flashing.
An angry Mexican, coated in cinnamon coffee grounds that were gradually turning to sticky syrup in the warm rain, muttering about his wife not giving a shit whether he lived or died, shoving sticky cinnamon-y suitcases into any crevice he could find inside the vehicle. His wife, her hands covered in that same cinnamon syrup, screaming maniacally and using her now-removed flip-flop to repeatedly pummel a ripped and flattened soft-sided rooftop carrier. DIE DIE DIE DIE! Four children, all in various states of hilarity and panic, inside the vehicle. Two ten-year-old boys laughing hysterically at the situation. A six-year-old crying and screaming, “STOP LAUGHING! THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!”
Minivans of families passing by, slowing down, snapping photos all, “HASHTAG CRAZY MEXICAN FAMILY!”
With each child sharing a seat with a bag, and with suitcases taking up every spare inch in the car, and with the entire car reeking of a putrid witch’s brew of rain, coffee, sweat and cinnamon, we prepared to re-enter traffic. My husband and I using the last five wet-wipes to de-stickify ourselves as best we could.
We were safe. No one had been hurt. My husband and I looked at each other — he browner than his usual brown. Me still shaking from my scary spider encounter. My daughter swallowing her sobs. The boys swallowing their laughter. My niece writing in her diary about the crazy Americans.
And we burst out laughing.
“STOP LAUGHING! THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE!”
It’s a drive we’ll never forget and he eventually forgave me for stupidly risking his life like that.
My point is this, though: Soft-sided rooftop carriers that claim you need no roof rack … ZERO STARS.