The Blurgh

Hey Folks! Gretch and I are dealing with various real-life stuff for the moment, but will be back in full swing next week.  In the meantime, check out our lovely cat Luna being especially coy.

Frank and I like to talk about all the ways Pittsburgh’s changed since our parents were our age, and there’s a lot to be said for the city’s development. Good jobs abound, better opportunities leap at you from every corner, you can get from Downtown to the airport in fifteen minutes on the train. But then there are the things that don’t change about Pittsburgh, comforting things that you know you can always come back to, like the kielbasa and cheese at Primanti’s or observing that even during the off-season, approximately 30% of the population is wearing some sort of Steelers paraphernalia at any given time.

The reason I bring this up is because a good friend of mine got married a few days ago. We’ve been friends since high school and were roommates for two years during college. I was the maid of honor and she was a beautiful bride, but going into the wedding I didn’t really know what to expect. I mean, she was really taking a giant step forward into adulthood. Sure, I guess I’m an adult, what with being almost 24 and renting my own apartment and holding down a full-time professional job, but marriage? Marriage just seals the deal, totally solidifies the fact that you are a true adult.

I needn’t have been so worried, though, as usual. The wedding was lovely, everyone was happy, and there were those little Pittsburgh things that kept me feeling like I really belonged there. Things like the big steel tubs of tortellini and roasted red potatoes at the buffet table. Or the fact that one of the first songs played during the reception was “Here We Go Steelers” and everyone in the place knew all the lyrics. Or that, even though I knew only her immediate family, everyone in attendance was good-natured and friendly, striking up conversations with Frank and me at every turn (not unlike the people who ask you, upon arrival at the bus stop, if their bus has come by and then proceed to tell you all about their day).

It made me happy to realize that even as Pittsburgh grows and changes, there will always be those small things that I’ll immediately recognize as part of my roots.

As you may know, in addition to my internship, the other big thing going on this semester is my Directed Study with Dr. Lemley.  The project is on tracing the development of community in the South Side over the past 100 years, and it’s been difficult so far, but interesting.  One of the first tasks I had to do was get census information on the neighborhood going back to 1920. Easy, right?  Not so much.

Well, that’s not exactly true. The census data for modern decades is easily attainable online.  Further back than that, however, and it gets real dicey.  The choices are to either scan through a million and a half scanned records that are unsearchable, or go to Hillman’s microfilm collection.

Now that’s an adventure…

The machines must be 50+ years old, and they look like something out of a really bad late 20th century sci-fi movie.  They’re located in the back room at Hillman, and when I went back there, the employee was immensely surprised to see me.  Oddly enough, people don’t use the machines very often…

We had to look through shelves upon shelves of little boxes to find the right one, and then I had to scan through the film until I found the right information.  It felt like I was in a movie doing research in some weird alternate universe…I can’t believe that at one time people used them a lot.  It’s kind of like when my mom told me about how they used to use some kind of number system to find books in the library, and there were cabinets upon cabinets of little cards that would tell you where the book was.  Weird.

We still have a long way to go before we get enough information to build a good case, but I’ll keep you posted!

When I was in high school, I had a habit of staying up all night just for fun from time to time. I would get these great bursts of creativity, get a whole ton of stuff done, and then be in a wacky mood the next day which didn’t really matter because it was just high school.

Yesterday I found out those days are looooong gone.

I pulled an all-nighter the night before last because I had two essays due and a mid-term that required major cramming. I was very confident that it would be just like the old days; I would get a second wind around 1:30 am and by the time 6 am rolled around, everything would be done. Well, as it turned out, by 3 am I was on my second pot of coffee, I had one essay done (poorly), an outline of the other one (also bad), and I’d been staring at the same two sentences of my textbook for at least 20 minutes straight.

I decided to crash for two hours, and then I somehow buckled down and got everything done. The rest of the day I felt slightly hungover. My body was in full-scale rebellion against my lack of planning, and the confidence I had felt a mere 12 hours earlier seemed like a distant memory.

Since then I’ve pretty much done nothing but sleep. This morning I felt better, but I’m afraid to look at the essays I turned in. Does this kind of stuff happen after college? Does a secret spell come along with your diploma that suddenly makes you organized? I really hope so, because otherwise, I’m screwed.

One cool thing, though, is that for the first time in what feels like an eternity, Gretchen and I are planning on going out to enjoy a night on the town. First we’re going to hit up the new Jamaican place in Bloomfield (have you seen all the crazy new restaurants going up around there?), and then hop the train downtown and catch a show. Although maybe the tickets would be better used as a bribe for my professors..

I should have worn pantyhose under my pants because this thin cloth is just not cutting it.

I hope the office isn’t still out of tea and coffee.

What’s the freezing temperature of snot?

I wonder what it’s called when the wind blows so hard on your forehead that you get a headache from it.

Why did I buy a white coat when all my winters are spent in Pittsburgh? Seriously.

I think that dude just saw me wipe my nose on my mitten and then nonchalantly drag it across the thigh of my jeans. Very classy.

She’s wearing a skirt and boots but no tights. How is she not dead?

Goddamn it, does the walk usually take this long?

This semester has been going really well so far, so well that I’m actually amazed. At the beginning it seemed like I’d be overwhelmed, and I am busy and basically have no time, but it’s been really fun. One class I haven’t touched on much is my History of Peace class, which has been blowing me away.

Given that I’m a History major and a graduating senior, I’ve taken quite a few history classes, and *thought* that I had a pretty good sense of what’s been going on in the world for the past several thousand years. This class, though, has made me rethink everything, and at this point it feels like I need to start over from scratch.

The accepted view people have of history, and the way that the vast majority of the classes are taught, is by viewing the wars/major conflicts as the pivotal points in time, and the periods between as explanations for them. Look at the table of contents of most History textbooks and you’ll see this illustrated very plainly; there will be twice as many pages dedicated to World War II than there will be to the Great Depression or the 1920’s. And after you go back to anything before the Civil War, good luck finding more than a paragraph describing anything that isn’t a war.

According to this class, and to the professor, Dr. Huang, this paradigm is completely backwards. As people say, if we don’t learn history, we’re doomed to repeat the past, but what does that really mean when the history we’re taught is focused primarily on conflict? Are we learning how to better prevent conflict and prolong prosperity, or are we learning how to prevail in conflict and better fight wars? Dr. Huang’s class is based on the idea that it’s more important to discover the “whys” of peacetime rather than the “whys” of conflict, because ultimately, we as a society should be much more interested in enriching lives and culture rather than how to better kill other people. So far, it’s rocking my world.

Today I’m going to post more writing that I did when I was a college undergrad, seeing as how I had my wisdom teeth removed a few days ago and I’m still feeling rather sore and out-of-it. This piece was written when I was a sophomore and it’s part of a larger essay about my father - namely, the fact that he hasn’t been a part of my life since I was about seven years old.

It’s after the jump.

(more…)

This week, I’ve seen my first major triumph and first major defeat at CRR, and both of them happened within 24 hours of each other. If this is what life-after-school is really like, maybe I should start rethinking grad school…

A few days ago, I was out in Polish Hill with a couple CRR organizers, and we were making the rounds in the neighborhood trying to drum up support for the renovation project. Reaction has been mixed thus far, but we have been successful in getting a couple very enthusiastic supporters, so we were optimistic.

We came up to a door and rang the bell, and when the owner answered, we noticed that there were a dozen or so people in the living room. They were all home-owners who lived on that block, and they were having a meeting about different issues effecting them all like street conditions, snow plowing, etc. This was the perfect opportunity for us to make some good contacts, so went full-speed into talking about the project, and we were soon in the middle of the living room taking questions from a very engaged audience. By the time we left, we had a dozen names and numbers, commitments from several of them to speak with their neighbors, and a tremendously satisfying day. The next day, however, was nowhere near as smooth…

Besides canvassing, CRR does a lot of tabling and literature distribution. I’ve had some tabling experience before, and since everything’s been going so well, I was the lone person at a table setup outside one of the local businesses. We always get permission from the businesses before setting ourselves up, and often times businesses offer the space before we even ask because people tend to stop in the stores that we’re outside of.

Everything was going smoothly until a guy came up and started talking about how things would never change, and that a renovation project would never happen in Polish Hill. This was the first time I ever encountered any serious negativity, so I was a little taken aback. It seemed like this guy’s sole purpose in life was to be cynical and bring everyone else down with him, but I decided the best way to handle it was to counter any argument he came up with. He said it’ll never work, and I told him about neighborhoods where it did happen. He said that renewables will never be good enough, and I told him how solar cells these days are cheap and incredibly efficient, and so on.

This continued for over an hour.

At that point, the store owner came out and asked us both to leave. After the guy left, the owner apologized to me, but said that even though he supports us, he can’t allow incidents to happen outside his business. I packed up, and went back to the office.

Everyone there told me that this kind of stuff happens, and that you just have to get used to it. Although I know I shouldn’t have even tried to engage someone who was so obviously just a naysayer, I couldn’t help it. I really felt sorry for him. I personally feel like the definition of depression should be “the absence of hope,” and this guy made it obvious to everyone around him that he was majorly depressed. What he needed was some help; that kind of cynicism is a danger to himself and others.

I strongly feel that amazing things can happen when there’s hope, and when hope is coupled with ambition and opportunity, the world starts to change for the better. I’m just glad I work with people who feel the same way.

This morning, as I was getting to the yellow line station, I was surprised to see a new face at the entrance.  For the past 10 years, the Post-Gazette has been printing a short Metro edition which was distributed free at most of the train stations around town every morning.  It’s been a big success for the PG, and has helped get the paper a lot more readers and advertisers.

As with all business, though, with success comes competition, and this morning I saw a small booth setup outside the station with a representative from the Pittsburgh City Paper distributing their new metro edition, along with some other freebies.  I grabbed both so I could compare the two, and I have to say that I’m pretty impressed.  The City Paper was a little more edgy and included some more off-the-wall content (for example, Alice Cooper turned 80 today), but the PG had more national and international headlines.

It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out, but I’m guessing that both will get better as time goes on.  I’m also glad that PAT has so many paper recycling bins around…and that people actually use them!

Early February during my junior year of college – three years ago today, to be exact. The spring semester (if you can even call it that, since the wind chill regularly hovered around the single digits) had just started and I was already overwhelmed by the classes I was taking. Writing the Memoir? The Politics of Women’s Bodies? Practical Applications of Astronomy? Was I really ready to handle all this?

As it turns out, I was, just not on this particular Saturday night. That night, I was going to relax, watch some old movies with my roommate and maybe crack open a bottle of Muscadet. I had just chosen three of our favorite films when Andi burst through the front door of our tiny Oakland apartment.

“Forget the movies, forget the wine, we’re going out,” she announced. I groaned.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “Uh, have you not heard about my week? I have to read five chapters of that women’s bodies book by Monday and I’m supposed to turn in the first draft of my memoir on Wednesday. What am I going to say, ‘small town girl moves to Pittsburgh and fakes her way through a ridiculous writing class that’s supposed to be about telling the truth?’ No. Tonight is for wine and Casablanca and spending time with your best friend.” I looked at Andi pointedly, trying to guilt her into changing into her pajamas.

I had forgotten that Andi is impervious to my guilt trips.

“Gretch, I love you, but seriously, we’re going out. Nothing major, just a small house party that Josh is having tonight.”

“You’re breaking our date so you can flirt with Josh?” I exclaimed. Josh was her co-intern at the ACLU and I had been hearing about him since August.

“I’m not breaking our date, I’m just changing the location. We’ll be together at the party, you know. And there will be other guys there.”

I sighed and realized I wasn’t going to win. After changing back into jeans and a sweater, we wound our way through South Oakland until we arrived at quite possibly the ugliest house I’d ever seen – green aluminum siding, red shutters and crumbling steps.

“Lovely chateau,” I whispered to Andi, but she ignored me and greeted Josh at the door. He nodded politely to me, then they started talking about the case they were working on at the ACLU. Recognizing a brush-off when I saw one, I headed back to the kitchen to inspect the wine choices, figuring I was lucky if I could find a box of Franzia.

There was another guy in the kitchen, already inspecting the bottles of wine lined up on the counter.

“Please, god, tell me there’s something to drink besides Boone’s Farm and Natty Light,” I said. He grinned.

“Actually, these pickings are pretty slim,” he said, “but I’ll share my private stash with you if you promise not to tell anyone else about it.”

“What did you bring?”

He pulled a bottle from a backpack lying on the counter. “Muscadet. Ever have it?”

“No way! I was going to have a quiet, relaxing evening with my roommate drinking Muscadet tonight!”

“Well, you and your roommate have exceedingly good taste,” he said, twisting the cork out of the bottle and pouring two glasses. He lifted his up. “To quiet, relaxing evenings.”

We clinked glasses and then proceeded to talk about everything under the sun. Pittsburgh city politics, the Academy Awards, the Amish, our mutual love for Marvin Gaye, how it was possible to both love and hate being in college all at once, our families, constellations, summer jobs. It was freewheeling and spontaneous and astonishing and sweet. And I didn’t really want it to end.

But around 2 AM, Andi drifted into the kitchen and said she was ready to go home. I turned to my companion and smiled.

“It was nice talking with you,” I said, “but I don’t know your name.”

“Frank,” he said. “Frank Zielinski. And you are?”

“Gretchen Parker. Want my number?”

He laughed. “Yes, I definitely want your number.”

“Good, because I want yours too.”

We exchanged numbers and polite pecks on the cheek. He called the next day. We’ve now been together for three years.

Does he ever have my number.