The more things change, the more they stay the same. (Just know that I could have chosen to quote Bon Jovi here and didn't. I said I was making an effort. There it is.)
I'll save the French chortle, but it appears that Jean-Baptiste and Patrique Mitsche' came to the same conclusion independently, 200-some years apart. I'm not sure where my boy JB was when this occurred to him, but I know where I was, and that's a good start, because I was on the South Side.
Now, the closest thing you'll get to refinement (or France, for that matter) on East Carson Street is a Grey Goose bottle. You go to the South Side for a lot of things, none of which include the word 'think.' However, on this Saturday night, when the line at Jimmy D's was just too long, the upstairs at Local just too crowded and the girls at Mario's just too ugly, a decision had to be made. That's where I come in. Sort of.
On the corner of 15th and East Carson, just past the deli and across the street from the Elixir Ultra Lounge that nobody ever goes to, is a bar called Finn McCool's, and it's where we set a course for next. I would say we stop there every time I appear on Carson Street, but ... well, no, that's accurate. The reason why is near the front, on the right wall, in between the juke box and the bar. How it got there is the subject of many theories, all of which are false, because I'm sure it's simple coincidence that whoever decorated the place subconsciously painted an impossibly handsome male figure in order to attract and/or retain more female customers. Just so happens it looks exactly like me. Go figure, right?
This shot is from a few years back, and thanks to Joe Connor being the only person in the world I don't call 'grandma' without Facebook, it's the only one you're gonna see. Anyway, the real me is on the right (shout out to whoever that girl is on the left duckin' out the way, though she could probably use a few more inches of sleeve), and I struck a nearly identical pose this time around. Joe snapped the pic and flipped it back for me to see. I hesitated.
At first, I thought maybe Finn McCool's had a painter come in and touch up some of the wrinkles on gorgeous up there, because he just looked younger this time. After a confused bartender informed me that this was not the case, I had what Samuel L. Jackson said alcoholics call 'a moment of clarity.' I was just sitting there eating my muffin, when I realized that my beautiful wall portrait hadn't gone all desperate housewives on me and hit the botox clinic, but that somehow that bastard time had come back around and caught me in the shins. Like most inanimate drawings, mine hadn't gotten any younger, and like all people except Keeanu Reeves, I had gotten just a wee tiny bit older (How does he still look the same?! ... Keeanu.)
I don't know what Jean-Baptiste whatever-his-name-is (HYPHENS) did when Leo DiCaprio clearly incepted today's theme into his brain, though the chances are high that it involved a crepe, some other kind of pastry, the hunchback of Notre Dame or the Eiffel Tower. Conversely, the chances are extremely high that upon figuring out that I no longer looked like a college kid I shoved my way up to the bar and slugged a Coors Light. When in Rome, indeed. (And yes, it does apply here.)
The backdrop for this whole mess couldn't have been more appropriate. It was homecoming weekend for your University of Pittsburgh Panthers, and I'll admit, I was kind of feelin' it. Mostly because I didn't have to ask anyone to a dance, take embarassing pictures in front of my parents on some rich girl's staircase or think of how much better it all could be if I were only able to legally purchase alcohol, but also because the college homecoming weekend actually gains significance the further you're removed from college. See, I never had a reason to get amped for any homecomings past, because I either 1. Lived in New York, which is way cooler anyways, or B. Lived in Pittsburgh, along with all of my other recently graduated and still jobless friends, and I was probably tired of seeing them all the time anyway. Before that, I was still in school. So homecoming, to this point, was just an opportunity to resurrect some old jokes about high school, a lot like the ones I started -- and ended -- this paragraph with.
However, another year went down the toilet, I involuntarily moved back to Pittsburgh and have selfishly hoped to surround myself with people who are just as miserable as I am. So when I heard there would be tailgating before what surely would be a highly attended Pitt-Utah football contest and that many old pals who have yet to achieve wealth or fame would be present, I dusted off my backwards hat and got my ass down to Heinz Field to hang out with some buds and do one of my favorite things in the world, and that's drink beer in a parking lot. Jokes were cracked. Insults were hurled, and other kinds of hurling happened, I'm sure. But most of all, it felt like Pitt again, all the way down to the fact that the only looks I got from girls were strange ones. And since people are desperate to get rid of their Pitt tickets, my buddy Craig and I scored a pair of club-level seats for 20 bones each and headed in.
As Craig and I chomped down a pair of footlong hot dogs with the utmost class, I took in the sights of the Heinz Field Club West, where I'd never set foot until some guy decided he'd rather eat half the cost of his tickets than attend a game he'd already come down to (Pitt football, ladies and gentlemen). As people filed in wearing their best Panthers sweats, I chomped down on my hot dog and turned to Craig. "You know," I said, "one thing I love about Pittsburgh is that here, you and I ..." I pointed to his sweatshirt, then back to mine, "don't look out of place."
He laughed, I dabbed the mustard off my sleeve, and we went out to watch Pitt lose. Throughout it all, I cracked a few more jokes at the Pitt players' expense (really, they stink, they're asking for it), drew a few cackles out of the folks sitting around us and befriended the guy in the next row. As we filed out of the stadium, bumping shoulders with other grumbling Pitt fans, a guy asked his friend if Joe Flacco had been at Pitt with Dave Wannstedt (an era defined by a mustache) or Walt Harris (an era defined by a lisp). I chimed in, informing them both that Flacco was indeed a Pitt Panther during Not My Fault Walt's reign, and that I would easily break several laws to have either Joe Flacco or Tyler Palko back as Pitt's quarterback. Then we all shared a hearty laugh and scheduled a fishing trip for the spring. (Haha, not really. Can you imagine?)
Riding home, I listened to a somber postgame show, which my father appropriately calls 'The Excuse Line,' and reflected on all the figurative horse shit I've seen Pitt dump on the Heinz Field turf over the years (Thank God it's not literal horse shit, because the field would be Fern Gully by now, I swear). Oddly enough, it reminded me of something that DOES involve literal horse shit on a football field. I mean ... what are the odds? (There's a point to all this. We're getting there.)
It happened the night before the Pitt game in what I just now realized was a terrific moment of foreshadowing. I drove out to cover a high school football game at Aliquippa, at the stadium they call 'The Pit.' If you've never been there (guessing that's everybody who reads this blog), it's a setting that's as impressive as it is unsettling. The Quips, ever the powerhouse team from the disparaged neighborhood, went on to win, of course, and I drove home through the small downtown that looks as if everybody left when the steel mill closed.
(Hmm? Oh, yeah, the horse shit! Well, I'll transcribe you an approximated version of the radio broadcast coming from a few seats down in the press box:
Red: Annnd we're ready for kickoff here between the Beaver Bobcats and the Aliquippa Quips! Aliquippa with two players back deep to receive, and Beaver ready to kick off.
Hal: Well, now, hold on, now, it looks like ... Well, the Beaver players are coming off the field, ah ...
Red: Well, here come the Quips to their sideline, Hal, so ... haha ... a bit of a delay here to start the game. Perhaps an issue with the field, with all this rain we've had in the last couple of days, perhaps, ah, maybe there's some mud out there that the coaches wanted taken care of, and ...
Hal: The lead official is pointing to a specific area near the 50-yard line, now, and if it is what I think it is ...
Red: Oh, now, here comes someone with a shovel! (At this moment, some poor SOB trudges out from behind the end zone with a shovel and bucket.) So ... haha ... it looks like 'War Eagle' may have made a deposit at the 50-yard line!
Hal: We've seen that before.
Red: For those who are unfamiliar, Aliquippa's 'Indian' mascot traditionally rides out on his horse, 'War Eagle,' and throws a flaming spear into the turf as a challenge to the visiting team. For everyone reading the abridged transcript of our broadcast on Pat Mitsch's blog, if you scroll back up and click the link to the photo of the stadium -- Yep, right up there -- you'll see 'War Eagle' leading the players out onto the field. Just so happened the horse, ah, well ... haha ...
Hal: The horse pooped on the field, Red.
Red: And you can't blame the players for wanting it cleaned up.)
The game at Aliquippa made me think of the Sports Illustrated feature written last year about the town and the team. The Heart of Football Beats in Aliquippa. I liked it so much I kept a copy of the magazine, and I dug it out and flipped it open when I got home. I won't quote too much of it, because I refuse to make my writing look bad on my own blog, but on the last page, the writer, S.L. Price, quotes Aliquippa's own Tony Dorsett:
"Every time I come back, the feeling's there, more and more," Dorsett said in September, steering his Chrysler 300 up Monaca Road. "It hurts me to see it, but this is Aliquippa. This is me. This is where I got everything."
It was after midnight on Saturday, and I had to drive home. I left Finn McCool's and walked back to the car (Re-confirming with every other step that I'd only had two beers) and headed toward the Hot Metal Bridge. I drove up the hill until Bates Street flattens out, where it's now under construction near the house where my friends used to live. I made a left. To go home, I would've kept straight onto the highway. Instead, I turned right, and made the next right onto Forbes Avenue -- back into Oakland and back toward Pitt.
I drove past the gas station on the right, then the Quaker Steak, the Chipotle, Joe Mama's and Panera, the Primanti's, the Five Guys (where Ernie and Pede worked for like two hours), finally saw the Dunkin' Donuts that replaced Boomerang's (sad, but not really), then I circled around on Bigelow, down Fifth and back toward the boulevard.
I watched in the rear-view as the downtown buildings disappeared behind the trees. With the highway guiding me home, I wondered where life will take me next, and if 'where' even matters.
Because coming back this time, I realized, I really never left.
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