So...Pittsburgh

So...Pittsburgh

In light of the senseless acts of violence that were perpetrated by a coward, I feel the need to express my love for my favorite city.

I started going to Pittsburgh on a regular basis as child in love with the Pittsburgh Pirates. As a child with a verbally abusive father (we made up, eventually) I looked at Jim Leyland, Barry Bonds, Bobby Bonilla, Spanky Lavalliere, etc. as role models. So when I got the chance as a member of the Knot Hole Gang (remember Hills department stores yinzers?), I did it.

I sat in the cold, sterile, cookie-cutter Three Rivers Stadium nose bleeds and felt like a Rooney in the owner's box. This was my team, my stadium and my city.

I remember vividly waiting for HOURS in the Three Rivers Stadium parking lots (my 9 year old self may still be there). I remember breaking my first law (*this is not an admission of guilt) when I walked down to the river to pee. I was nervous the police would catch me until at a later game I saw a policeman peeing in the same river (Yinzers rule).

I remember the first time I came thru the Fort Pitt tunnels...just breathtaking. Nothing else needs to be said about that.

I remember chasing dinkus all the way to Pittsburgh for an adult kickball league (um...how many championships did your team win before I joined, dinkus?). I went down expecting a typical beer league played for fun. I do not know why I thought that. This was Pittsburgh, where nothing supercedes sports and our love of them. This was a serious league with real athletes. Blood, sweat and, yes, beer was spilled on those fields. That being said all the players had respect for each other (except for that one player and you know who you are).

My greatest memory with that abusive father took place in Pittsburgh...at a Pirate game. I encourage you read about it here. Thank you for that opportunity Pittsburgh.

My first job out of college was with the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review selling ad space in that grieving neighborhood, the very unique Squirrel Hill. I met hundreds of people in that neighborhood and some really didn't like the Trib, it was the conservative paper and Squirrel Hill is a liberal neighborhood. I knew some of those local owners would never spend a dime with my paper, but it got to the point that I just enjoyed bull shitting with them (it was always sports...always). I pray for those people.

I am sure people think their city is different, is one one-of-a-kind, is the greatest...but you are wrong (kinda kidding). My city full of pierogie-eating, putting fries-on-salad, pop-drinking, buggie-pushing, Italian, Polish, Black, German, Catholic, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Methodist, Quaker men and women is better than yours (and yinz can take'at to the bank).

So...just one thing

So...just one thing

Today I was talking with Dinkus, my beautiful and much smarter wife, and she might have changed my life (again).

I was telling her that all I wanted to do was go to Sheetz (if you don’t have one, you are missing out…WaWa can suck it) and house a couple protein bars or a bag of cashews or a protein shake (apparently I am convinced that eating “healthy” cheat foods isn’t wrong) to completely destroy my caloric consumption for the morning, truth be told I would probably do it after lunch too, when I told her I needed some help keeping the craving at bay (what bay btw?).

Her response was amazing and I want everybody to prepare to have your mind blown…seriously…did you put on a shower cap for easy clean up? She asked me if having a healthier lifestyle, better diet, less guilt was worth just one thing, in this case a snack stop. She made it so simple.

Simple is good for me as I am not the brightest tool in the tree. I tend to overcomplicate things and become very overwhelmed to the point that I give up and feel guilty (coughblogcough…coughworkingoutcough) or that I get so stressed I feel the need to wallow in my own filth, er…self-pity.  Her saying that it was just one thing weighed against everything I want made it very achievable. Is that one (or two) protein bar worth the guilt later, or the extra lbs on the scale, hells to the no.

I can not believe how this changed my view in an instant (think of a viewmaster). I mean…damn…I can use this with pretty much everything. Put off my writing another night and sit on the couch…weighed against the stress of wondering what could have been, that one thing is not worth it. Don’t want to get outta bed and brush your teeth at night because you “forgot” again and want to sleep…weighed against morning breath and added trips to the dentist, that one thing is not worth it. Let the beard (if you can call it that) go another day (or six)…weighed against looking like a homeless man who talks to squirrels and later eats them (not that there’s anything wrong with that, is there?), that one thing isn’t worth it. You get the point (and if you don’t, what that f*** is wrong with you?).

I am sure there are a few (ok less than a few) of you still reading this and saying “uh…no shit it is called making good decisions”, but for me, and those like me (God save you), my mind does not make easy connections at times.

Basically it is good that I had Dinkus boil this down to a 5^th grade level. For that Dinkus, I am grateful.

So...nostalgia

So...nostalgia

Nothing is as addictive as nostalgia. Do not believe me (I wouldn't), look at all the reboots on TV, Will and Grace, Murphy Brown and others I assume. Look at the shows now set in the 80s, Stranger Things (it's like Goonies for Horror lovers, oh and my phone corrected things to thongs...huh) and The Goldbergs (it's like The Wonder Years, only shitty, but it has that one guy from that thing).

No matter where you turn we are seeing nostalgia pushed on us...and I LOVE IT! Nothing is as syrupy sweet as seeing Alf pop up in an episode of Mr. Robot (don't google the dad from Alf) or the Delorean show up in the movie Ready Player One (not to be a snob but the book is 1000x better, excuse me whilst I dine on endangered species meat with my diamond encrusted salad spork).

I mean I watched Netflix documentaries on toys...TOYS people and not just the stuff I played with either. I watched about Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, etc. because I loved seeing the real clips from the 80s (no really, that's why, seriously).

I mean this stuff WAS my childhood. I remember getting Ram Man from the world of Eternia and then still being excited when my Aunt and Uncle got me a duplicate. I had a bunch of Star Wars toys, that yes had I kept them in their packaging and never played with them, or chewed on them, or melted them (don't judge me) they would be able to pay for my kids' college tuitions. That said this blog post is not about the tens of thousands of dollars that I could use for a vacation in the middle of the ocean...wait...where was I?

But my go to, the one toy I had the most of was GI Joe. I had the action figures, no doubt, but I had vehicles. Vehicles that would make the Pentagon jealous. I had snow mobiles with mounted (and actually firing) rockets. I had tanks (you're welcome). I had (get on the) choppers. Man I loved playing with those guys and I took care of them too. Luke and Vader could get buried in the dirt and left outside, but no way was Shipwreck or Roadblock going to suffer that fate.

I cannot say why these 3.75 inch pieces of colorful plastic hold such a spot in my nostalgia craving mind, but they do. There are times (more than I think are healthy) I find myself wondering what Scarlet and Duke are doing. Does my mother have them somewhere in her house? Are they fighting Cobra in a landfill? Did they finally resolve all that sexual tension between themselves? Really it doesn't matter because they will always be in my memories...right where I left them.

I just hope they do not make some crappy movie about them and cast Channing Tatum...sigh.

So...dreams

So...dreams (slippy* lil buggers)

If the idea of achieving your dreams were concrete (and maybe your dreams involve concrete in some way, who am I to judge)mine would be as elusive as my two year old avoiding bedtime with a bag of M&Ms in her system (thank you to her grandmother), as confusing as someone on Twitter admitting they were wrong and would be as clear as mud in a blender full of protein powder.

I have long wanted to be a novelist, that is my dream. I have started quite a few projects (I like the word project because it makes feel like I am building something) but I have finished exactly zero of them (at least I'm consistent). I get so into the idea, tear into it like a frozen Kit Kat (two of them are well over 20,000 words),only to have it melt all over the dash of car. Sure I notice it later, but it is just mainly realizing I have to clean melted goop.

I tend to be very motivated and then I just fade away...kinda like this blog thingy (next entry scheduled for June 2020). I could say it is because life gets in the way (sorta true), writer's block (definitely true), fear of success (hahaha), fear of failure (nope) but really what it comes down to is actually doing it.

Sure I have an amazing family I like to spend time with, a solid job, household responsibilities but to say I do not have 10 minutes a day to jot dahn* a note or an idea that needs fleshed out, handwriting or typing a few paragraphs in between the constant "Daddy, can I have <insert stupid request here>?" or to research on the Google machine is absurd. Of course I can do those things, but I am more interested in why I am not doing them.

What the hell is wrong with me (aside from the obvious)? Why won't I keep chasing my dream? If I weighed all the time I decided to just "relax on the couch" (why did I put that in quotation marks), all the time I flipped thru the Netflix options and all the time I have used to peruse Twitter, well it would weigh nothing, but damn even using just 10% of that time I would have finished 10 novels.

So I am going to do my best to chase my dreams using just 10% of that truly irreplaceable time...starting tomorrow of course.





*Pittsburghese

So...stress

So…Stress can suck it

I am so stressed out by stress.

There are days when I try to figure why I am stressed and that stresses me out, not necessarily because I do not know what has stressed me out, but because the list can be endless. Who needs all this stress, well apparently, I do, actually I do not, but I will not stress out about that, or will I?

I try to do what I can to control stress: therapy (yep), writing (yep…no not on the blog but elsewhere, gosh you are needy), meds (definitely yep), eating (triple scoop yep). With all that I still have stress. I actually have stress over how to control my stress.

You see, that is because I am an idiot. My physician recently decided she did not want to write sleep aides (of which I have a yearly script of 30, that’s right I use less than 30 pills a year but now I can not even get that) or clonazepam for anxiety attacks (another med I use less than 30 pills a year) so now I have stress about either finding a new physician or trying to deal with the few times I would need these pills. Arrrrrrgh!

I used to workout twice a day, but now I have three kids which require five times the effort and seven times the money with one third the energy and half the time (somebody do the math on that). What that convoluted sentence means (it sounded funnier in my head) is that I have been neglecting my workouts, ok I have not worked out regularly in three years. So now I stress out when I do not work out because I know what I am doing to my health (physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, culinarily) and on the occasion I do work out I stress out over what I could be doing at home or how I may be putting my wife (what…dinkus married me?) out. This shit sucks…oops I have a kid reading over my shoulder…I mean this stuff stinks.

I have been told the best way to control stress is to let go, but I am also reminded that if you love something let it go and if it comes back…you know what, who cares?

I really, and I mean really, want to control stress. Crap (I am a learning computer)…now I think I am stressing out over wanting to control too much.

So...concerts or weed or friends or I don't know

I have no idea how to really go into this memory, but it came up in conversation with a friend this week and I definitely wanted to share it. Fair warning…this has no underlying meaning, so if anybody tells you it does (like when people try to say Star Wars has some underlying Republican/Democrat meaning) they are wrong (especially about Star Wars).  Think of this as a guilty pleasure entry, like when Dinkus watches Down Below or when I watch Rick and Morty (still not as good as The Simpsons).

Many moons ago I used to go to Dave Matthews Band concerts all the time (do not judge me)…like I spent way too much money, time, petro (that’s Australian for gas, I’ve really been listening to a lot of Australian-based podcasts…Do Go On and The Weekly Planet rule!) and anything else associated with DMB (again, don’t judge me). One of these concert trips was…interesting…to me at least.

So my friend and I were on the road to Star Lake Amphitheater outside of Pittsburgh (Lets go Pens) and he got into this real deep philosophical discussion about how he was going to be a better person. That meant no more alcohol, no more weed, no more being a douche (that would be the hardest, if you knew this guy…I kid…not really), etc. He had already gone a couple of months without smoking. He was passionate about this change. He was animated. He had convinced me this was going actually happen.

We both talked about being in our early twenties and how we needed to finally start growing up a bit. We were in committed relationships, we were starting real careers and we were paying bills on a semi-regular basis (eh…maybe not). We started to reminisce about previous concerts, stupid college (or University for those across the pond) antics. For me, it was a little bit of a somber conversation. We were basically admitting that our youth was slipping away (people in their twenties are stupid, especially me and most especially my friend, more on that soon).

We pulled into the stone and grass parking lot prepared to hang out and then enjoy several hours of jam band fun (by the way DMB plays for three hours, Steve Miller Band played for like an hour…you suck Steve Miller Band). This is important…go back and reread the last two paragraphs, I can wait. Seriously, reread them and the epiphany-type conversation we had. Ok, on with the story…

As soon as we pulled into our spot, and I mean my friend wasn’t even completely out of the car, two Phish head Beths (you know the kind; dirty dreads, faded hemp clothes, wreaks like weed and body odor) offered him weed. He immediately accepted. He looked over at me and with the straight face that only he could conjure up he said “Well, I guess those couple of months of not smoking are over.” I just laughed and walked to the trunk of my 2001 Alero (Oldsmobile baby!).

As he walked around the front of my car to meet Phish Head Beth #1, she was already handing him a bowl. I can say this without any doubt, his hand was a mere few inches from accepting the bowl when out of nowhere (actually it was from further down the parking lot) a Phish Head Bob came sprinting down holding some tattered tackle box. He got lit up like a Christmas Tree  in the Eat N Park commercial (trust me watch that link) by an undercover police offer…on…the…hood…of…my…car (like five feet from my friend and Phish Head Beth #1 holding a bowl between them). They, along with everybody within a 20 foot range, froze to watch the proceedings.

After the cop cuffed Phish Head Bob (remember it’s on the hood of my car) and wrestled the stinky burnout back to an upright position, they went on their way.

My friend turned back to the two Phish Head Beths and said “You know what, I’m good.”

Now, that is not quite the end of the story because in life there is no fade to black or dissolves to end a scene. You see after the Hemp Star was arrested we were still beside these two women. After they smoked in their car, they reemerged to join the rest of the world and talk to us.

Not ones to let an opportunity go by for a laugh, we decided to mess with the glassy-eyed disasters whose parents clearly failed. They asked us how we met, we said college. They asked which college, I said NYU and my friend UPJ (I think you see where this going). They asked if I wanted a beer, I told them I was a recovering alcoholic and rattled off some random number of days I was sober. In their best sleepy voices they told me it was amazing how recovering addicts always knew the exact numbers of days…probably said three or four different days of sobriety to them.  We told them we were brothers (we look nothing alike…he’s an Italian Stallion and I’m a Norse Force…teehee), after telling them we were friends.

These girls were toast…I mean that.  Totally and completely burnt to a crisp (how I like bacon!). I don’t even remember how our conversation with them ended, maybe they are still there (if you see them, tell them to go home and bathe).

That is it, I do not have a good way to end this one. So…um…good bye, for how…I guess.

So...Beau

One year ago my Dinkus lost her best friend, her 10 year old boxer Beau.  While on the outside she handled it well, I know her well enough to know she was absolutely torn up on the inside.  This one is for her (and me, because I miss him too).

Beau was the least behaved dog I have ever met...really. This guy would jump on you no matter what you did to him, or no matter what you were doing. Hands full carrying groceries, boxes, babies...he was gonna jump. Sleeping on the couch, bed, shitter…he was gonna jump. Wait, did I just type sleeping on the shitter? This guy got to the point that if he did not jump, we knew he was feeling a little under the weather.

Beau once ate an entire pizza (pierogi too…those from the Pittsburgh area know how big of an offense this is) off the counter. I walked upstairs when he was snout down in the middle of the box. I. Did. Not. Get. A. Single. Piece (come to think of it, maybe he was sending me a message about my diet…ignored that one). Beau’s reaction was what I would come to expect anytime you caught him doing something he was not supposed to be doing…he looked at you and wagged his little stumpy tail while somehow looking like he was smiling. That was Beau.

This was also Beau. He would go nuts if you left him alone for anything over 1.2 seconds. He chewed up a railing, two doors, a step, a door frame, ruined a chair pillow by standing on it so he could see out the window for our return (I still look up at the window expecting to see him there) and who knows what else he destroyed that we blamed on the kids. 

Speaking of the kiddos, I actually miss them crying out "Dad, can you get Beau outta my room?!?!" (although it is slowly getting replaced by "can you come get Noah?").

The bed..oh lord…the bed. Moving him was impossible. It is easy to see how God fit so much love into that crazy canine when you tried to lift him…dude was solid. I somehow think he got heavier when he jumped on the bed (physics be damned). I can remember sleeping on the couch because I could not move him (and not because Dinkus was ever mad at me).

I also think he knew Dinkus better than I ever will. On more than one occasion he would come lay next to me or sit with me. It drove Dinkus crazy. I think Beau knew what he was doing; he wanted to make her jealous. He wanted that extra special loving that only a puppy mom can give, and of course it worked.

I think Dinkus tried to use Beau as a deterrent when I first started flirting with her. Little did she know that Beau and I had formed a pact. I would help take care of him, provide him with the best puppy brother ever (Colby you are missed my friend), and I would love Dinkus with all my heart as long as he helped me with my flirting. It worked. Beau was the best wingpup ever.

Beau was the reason we could not have people over. As I said before, he jumped all the time so he would annoy the guests. You could not put him downstairs, due that aforementioned separation anxiety. He would knock you over and trip you. He would shed constantly. He was a drooler (kinda like me), so you might leave our house with a wet spot.

And you know what…I would not have traded him for the world. He was Dinkus’ Beau, but he was my friend.

 Miss you big guy…now, get off the damn bed!