Oh, It's You.

Oh Pittsburgh,
The story is the same. It has been played out in countless romantic comedies and in those varied parts of our youth all over and over again. You are that friend, the girl, the best friend. You are understanding. You are kind. You sit with me in the coffee shop while I aimlessly poke and prod my waffles, covering them once more with syrup just for something to do. Unhungry. Inattentive. The audience, of course, they get it. As I sit there dwelling on her, drawing her memory out into the open so many times it has been faded by the Pennsylvanian sun, they see you for how beautiful you are. You may not be like her, but then again who is? Who could ever be? But they see it, the audience does.

"Oh she is so nice..."
"Yes, yes. Always there for him, that one."
"There is something inherently charming about her own self-consciousness, almost like Lord Byron..."

There is a Rolling Stones song, somewhere, about exactly this.

*****

The rain killed me tonight. I am always lacking in my preparations. The bus took almost a full hour to show up. I live right around the corner from the bus stop. I could have gone back for an umbrella. I should have just taken the damn car. Instead, I waited. I sat there smoking Camel Wides and watching these bizarre clouds sweep over Lawrenceville. The Arkansan in me peering into the soul of each of them for that funnel that would make them something extraordinary.

When the sky fell I was almost to my stop. I ran and hid beneath one of the convention center walkways, hoping that it would let up enough for me to meet my girl for the Gallery Walk. I spent about a half hour chatting with Jim, the parking lot attendant, about the various dangers of living in any city in this great country.

When it let up, I met her in a room full of grade-school children's art work listening to what appeared to be a bunch of frat kids play some of the best bluegrass with some of the most beautiful harmonies I had seen in a spell. We went to the culinary institute ($1 dishes!) and filled up for about six bucks, then went to the space next door for some free not-coors light and avant-avant-avant-garde artwork, the best of which was thus:




It was accompanied by two bean bags, each of which had a pair of headphones that played a looped portion of Axel Rose on the end of "Don't Cry" ad infinitum. (You know the part 'ayyyyyyy-eyyyyyyyyeyyyeyyyeyye'). It never ended. I must have sat there, drinking my not-coors light, and chortling to myself for at least ten minutes. It was great.

We hit the Harris theatre for free screenings of a handful of local shorts, which were really funny and really cool. Downstairs had some great photographs and a bottle of Rebel Yell with a tin cup attached to the handle with twine. We missed probably a half dozen other galleries all along Liberty and Penn.

The do this every month here. If you look hard enough you can find anything.