Real Pittsburgher Test #1: This is a not a rich person’s work of art

The other day I was reading a piece by Mike Madison at Pittsblog in which he critiqued the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s recent feature story on “iconic” Pittsburghers. Though Madison said a couple of local bloggers should’ve made the list (I disagree), I do agree with him that certain Pittsburghers shouldn’t have made the list.
Usually I think such lists are silly, about as meaningful as the “40 beautiful Pittsburghers under 40” and stupid popularity contest stuff like that. These contests, though, usually are dictated by the editors and writers at the publication listing the “beautiful,” or “up and coming” Pittsburghers. Ballots are not counted because there usually are none, and old favorites are shoe-ins for the list.
Madison seems to disagree with who gets to say who is truly Pittsburgh in his or her character, and he also seems to disagree with what constitutes Pittsburghness.
By the P-G’s “iconic” story measure, you need to have lived here decades and followed he minor and major figures in local politics to really “get” what is Pittsburgh, and to know these Pittsburgh “icons.” But I beg to differ, though I do know who Jeep DePasquale was and what Lynn Cullen did.
You need to know and understand the connection between the people and the places in Pittsburgh if you expect to be a true Pittsburgher, whether or not you live in the South Hills or other suburbs or in the city.
So Madison gave me a nice idea, without even knowing it. Why not run a regular Barnestormin feature mentioning tests you must complete to be a “real” Pittsburgher? After all, my opinion is as right (or as wrong) as the P-G’s or as Madison’s opinion, I believe.
So here’s your first test, wannabe hardcore Pittsburghers: Visit St. Nicholas Croatian Catholic Church in Millvale and behold the proletarian-inspired murals of Croatian socialist painter Maxo Vanka. I guarantee they will blow your mind and you will be a lot more proud about being a Pittsburgher after you see them. Then make a small donation if you can afford it, please.
You can read more about the murals in this piece I wrote for Pittsburgh Quarterly:
http://www.pittsburghquarterly.com/pages/library/2008spring/2008spring_082ofthewall.pdf
And here is one of several pieces I wrote on the murals for Barnestormin:
http://barnestormin.blogspot.com/2008/05/gift-to-america.html
I'm letting folks know about this as the first of several pieces in advance of the next production of "Gift To America," which will happen in May.
Please support this truly Pittsburgh treasure, created by an outcast for people who were new to this country and on its lowest rung and treated as grist in the mills, flattened to dust in the mines and killed on the battlefields. This is part of America's story, and it is a testament to some of the "true" Pittsburghers who came long before us and helped to pave the way to a better life for all Americans.
To learn more about the murals or to contribute, write to 151 Stonegate Drive, Leechburg, 15656; or call Diane Novosel at 724-845-2907. http://www.vankamurals.org/

Faced

Growing up years ago in Bellevue, we had a saying for when we’d show up each other: “I faced you.”
The phrase quickly evolved into simply, “Faced.” You would say it to your friend and put a hand like a baseball glove over your face as a sort of exclamation point in gesture form.
My mind is a sprawling attic full of seemingly useless artifacts, but sometimes these objects serve as props. I bring up the “faced” thing because I recently joined Facebook, after avoiding joining for a while. I joined because, as I’ve said here before, I tend to get a bit reclusive sometimes and connecting with others more just helps in many ways.
Point is that I’ve been having fun with it, though my “wall” is pretty bare since I’m not the greatest at using this tool just yet. But one of the cool things that I’ve been enjoying about FB is that I’ve been able to connect with longtime work connections, childhood friends, and many folks I’d like to know a little bit better.
A lot of people have been kind enough to “friend” me or to accept my friend request, so thank you all very much. Some of you know my work and me pretty well, so it’s natural for us to meet up virtually. And some of you have followed my work, or even read Barnestormin. I am especially grateful for you folks and your friendship.
Perhaps an aging dog can learn a new trick or two from time to time. After all, even in the dead of winter, it can be good to shake off the cobwebs and make a few new friends or renew old acquaintances, even virtually.

Watching My Dark Side on the Jersey Shore

I remember Sylvia Lucci. She was tall for a girl back in middle school, and very thin with long wavy blonde hair, blue eyes and a beautiful smile that captivated me, as we chatted for hours at the intersection of Brighton Road and Lincoln Avenue, just a half-block in either direction from our homes.
That was before I raised so much hell I had to be shipped off to boarding school… I had a huge crush on Miss Italian-American Sons and Daughters Debutante and I’d walk her home from school and we’d talk for hours at that corner. Sylvia was lovely—fair-skinned and as I said very thin, but naturally so. She was one of the sweetest girls you’d ever be lucky to meet.
I mention Sylvia by way of explaining a recent nasty little vice of mine involving a certain bunch of young, slightly insane Italian-Americans. Yes, I’ve become a Jersey Shore cumpie, a wannabe Seaside Heights paisan. And I haven’t felt so strange about a similar fixation since Growing Up Gotti.
Before I go further, I’ll explain the connection—the Italians I grew up with in the North Boroughs much more resembled the Lucci family than they did any of the over-tanned kids on Jersey Shore. So, in a way (this is how rationalizing happens), when I watch the show I am really making a cultural field trip.
Truth is, for me watching the show is like rubber-necking a train wreck that keeps on going. Seeing the tapestry of idiocy unfold in front of me on that show makes me feel much better about my crazy childhood growing up in a family of 12 Anglo-Croat-Irish-Norwegian-Welsh-Scots-German kids. As a kid, the combination of my insane youthful highjinks and my wild family could lead at any moment to a front-yard fistfight between a couple of Irish-mad 200+-pound brothers, like my brother Scott and me. So I must say that part of me resembles this nutty TV show.
I have gotten hooked on the Shore way too late it seems, since it is almost over. The seaside train-wreck has grabbed my dwindling attention, fixating my prurient interests.
And though Jersey Shore is almost over, I have so many pressing questions, like:
-Where the hell do the guys on the show get their haircuts?
-How come all the guys on the show have skinny waists and the girls seem kind of fat?
-Does The Situation do anything in the gym besides curls, triceps and posing?
-Will Snookie ever get a boyfriend? (She might want to stick with the Irish.)
-Can Ronnie get a handle on his roid rage?
-Will Jwoww get some help with anger management (and will her boyfriend grow a pair)?
-How will the network follow this show? Will we have a bunch of trash-talking Pittsburghers living in a Mt. Washington house with a hot tub and a nitrous tank and lots of balloons and Iron City Beer?
-Or maybe there’s room for a show based in the Outer Banks, with a bunch of drawling, drunken white-bread Southerners on the horizon?
Stay tuned. And no bathroom breaks—you might miss a fistfight.

Penn Lincoln Hotel Uses Studied by PHLF

Walking with Mario Noce around the Penn Lincoln Hotel in Wilkinsburg 4½ years ago, I was struck by the beautiful art deco light fixtures, wrought iron railings and the spacious ballroom that once hosted weddings and other affairs.
At the time the 70,000 square foot building had been empty for 13 years, but Noce was undeterred, and was having workers renovate the building’s lower floors. Since then, Noce has sold his stake in the building to Wilkinsburg nonprofit Deliverance, Inc. Under the direction of Pittsburgh History and Landmarks Foundation and with $75,000 in funding from Allegheny County, the three groups are working together on a feasibility study to see what can be done with the historic building.
PHLF has been involved in the effort for about a year and recently selected one consultant for the study, which will be done in about six months, PHLF director Arthur Zeigler said.
The hotel project came out of discussions PHLF has had with borough stakeholders about the town’s various assets, Zeigler said.
The hotel is just one of the projects the foundation is working on in the borough. PHLF is working to revitalize structures along Hamnet Place and also along Holland Avenue in the borough. The hotel building was built in 1927 and hosted the Pitt Panthers football team in the 1950s. Back then, the team would stay at the hotel on Friday evenings before home games.
“It is the largest and one of the most historic buildings along the main street in Wilkinsburg,” Zeigler said, noting that Penn Avenue in that area also was the former Lincoln Highway.
The feasibility study, contracted with PHLF by the county, will include architectural, engineering, environmental and marketing evaluations of the building. It also will determine possible uses for the structure, which Noce previously had hoped to convert to housing for senior citizens.
"This was a nice place," Noce said when I met him at the hotel years ago. "I saw Mike Ditka [as a Panther] coming out of here." Noce's sisters had their wedding receptions in the hotel's 1,600-square-foot ballroom years ago, too.

The Truth about Donuts and Journalism

I am unveiling a trade secret: I have my addiction to donuts to blame for some of the stories I pull out of my old hometown of Bellevue. I stop into the town with some regularity to get donuts from Lincoln Bakery, where as a kid I used to buy a dozen glazed donuts after delivering the Post-Gazette on Saturday mornings, then take them home and eat several, gorging myself with the sweet dough, washed down by large glasses of cold milk.
To me, Lincoln Bakery’s donuts—all of them—are like the cookie and tea were to Proust—the sight, smell and texture all combine in the first, second and third bites and sips that take me home again, to being a worriless kid finishing up my paper route on the rain-swept streets of Bellevue. Wherever I am, just a bite of one of those sweet Lincoln donuts and I’m home.
So I stop into the old hometown when I am in the North Hills area and occasionally for work visits. I was dropping into town for donuts several weeks back when I parked my car and ran into Sam DiBattista, owner of Vivo and former owner of the now bank-owned (it was foreclosed upon) former G. C. Murphy Building. He was coming out the building’s front door as I was walking across the street to go to the bakery. Sam has been a great source for stories for me in the past and I consider him a friend whom I wish well, so of course I stopped to talk with him.
I knew and know that though I might not always agree with Sam, I can trust him to plainly speak his mind. This time I spoke with him, though, Sam wasn’t in a good mood, having lost the building and having his own troubles with his restaurant, where he said business has been slow. We talked for a while and later I phoned him and we talked some more. He had a cold when I spoke with him over the phone, and that interview was part of the basis for the Post-Gazette story I wrote titled “What to do about Bellevue.”
Another journo trade secret: In walking through my old hometown, or in walking through any town where I might find stories, I have my news radar on. If someone walks up to me and tells me a story, as Sam did, I naturally pull out my notebook and start writing. That’s what I did when I talked with Sam on the street.
Some of what Sam told me at the time was disturbing, so I followed it up by speaking with a couple of merchants across the street from the old G.C. Murphy—Lincoln Barbershop owner Aaron Stubna and Larry’s Collectibles owner Larry Wilson.
“You would laugh,” Sam said ruefully of Wilson’s alleged struggles with the zoning office.
I went across the street, but Larry had so much to say that I had to call him later to get more of the information from him. While we spoke in person, Larry told me to talk with his business next door neighbor—Stubna.
Aaron told me about his then-plan (now instituted marketing device) of giving away two beers to customers as a way to draw in new business. A couple weeks later, the Post-Gazette’s John Allison wrote a little ditty about Stubna’s beer give-away. Allison got the idea for the piece from a PG photographer who was in Bellevue and had read a sign regarding the promotion on the front of the barbershop.
The negative comments coming from the three aforementioned merchants weren’t ad-libbed by me in either of the two stories I recently did about Bellevue's business district. The second piece is “Revitalization plan first step for Bellevue."
The merchants said their pieces and I recorded them, because that’s what reporters do. I have been criticized by some who believe I needlessly criticize Bellevue, but I am just doing my job.
The fact is, though, when we reporters are taken from the evil machines which conceive us out-of-wedlock, we are implanted with small devices behind our left ears that repeatedly offer helpful suggestions, like: “Listen to the little guy’s comments, no matter what,” and “If there is a crazy-man in the room, make sure you quote him.”
Trade secret three: We rabble-rousing reporters do it all because WE CARE—about getting our names into print. After 2,000 stories published in my name, I can’t get enough of it. For a writer, seeing your byline is like another hit to the drug addict, and we want the fix to never end, so we’re always looking for more stories.
We reporters learn early on that when everybody in the town council chambers says all is hunky dory and one little lady stands up to beg to differ with the crowd—Presto! We have a story!
Part of the reason is because the crowd is rarely entirely right, which is why the dissenting voice always should be heard, if not thoughtfully considered, simply because these folks are right at least part of the time.
That’s how some of these stories come together. They often are a “found art” sort of process of discovery.

A Christmas Production, by Danny O’Leary

Self-absorbed writer's note: I wrote this holiday piece a couple years back and posted it here on Barnestormin, but I was reminded of it this summer when I had the pleasure of going to a Northgate High School reunion (though I didn't finish there, and graduated from Kiski School). I ran into a lot of childhood friends, including Dan O'Leary, whom I hadn't seen for many years. It was like coming home, in a way. Dan and I are in the picture--we met for lunch in North Side after the reunion.

When I was an adolescent we used to go Christmas caroling. If it was snowing, with large snowflakes blowing wildly, it was an even better time to do so. Back when we were about 13, a group of 10 or 12 of us would walk around Bellevue, sometimes from door to door, singing carols to raise money for charity. Some of the times the money would go to benefit Pittsburgh’s Children’s Hospital, where my younger brother Pete had recuperated after being hit by a car and nearly killed six years before. That fact alone might have been part of the reason why I was so easily suckered into going caroling, when I would’ve rather have been raising Cain somewhere. The other reason I was so easily convinced was that the girls were involved. Danny O’Leary, who lived a few blocks away from me and whose mom was our Cub Scouts den mother, seemed to always be the ringleader of our caroling expeditions. Like some salesman of the art of performing, Danny would talk a bunch of us childhood friends into doing something selfless and fun for Christmas. For a time, he always succeeded in getting us to go caroling, and now I look back at the memory as sort of a quaint reminder of a bygone era—back when milk was delivered to our doorsteps in the morning, and when kids delivered the daily newspaper. Even back then, at least some of us thought that caroling was corny, but Danny could sell it. “It’ll be fun!” Danny would say, wide-eyed and grinning, his enthusiasm reminding me of how he had led our childhood games of Planet of the Apes years before, hanging off of tree branches and acting the perfect monkey. “And we’ll raise money for charity! It’ll be great!” Danny’s charm would invariably talk me into going, and soon I’d be singing harmony with Penny Balouris, Kim Stewart, Karen Ehlinger, Pete Sourlas and other kids I’d known since kindergarten. We’d walk up the steps to the front porches of the old Victorian homes in Bellevue and ring the doorbells, sometimes anxiously beginning to sing just after we rang the doorbell, other times waiting for the homeowners to open the front door before we started. Bundled up in out thick wool coats and scarves with the soft snowflakes falling, we almost looked like a greeting card scene as we sang “Hark the herald angels sing” and other well known tunes. Most often, people would hear us out for our first song, then we’d tell them we were singing for charity. Usually, they’d give us a donation and we’d sing another song or two. I can still recall the kindly smiles on some of these folks’ faces as they watched us sing, noticing how our harmony was perfect and our delivery was nearly professional. For some of the old ladies, it was no doubt the first visitors they’d had all day—a sad fact that we realized as we moved from home to home, spreading our Christmas cheer. Danny had a lot to do with the entire productions. He would warm us up and go over a song plan before we began to carol. We’d loosen up a bit as we began to sing together, hearing again how well we harmonized. “We sound good,” Danny would coach us. “They’re going to love us.” Danny went on to study musical theater at Point Park. Last time I heard about him, years ago, he was working as an actor in off-Broadway productions. Back when we were Christmas caroling, though, Danny was the star.

R.I.P., Honsman

Wow. I used to enjoy his angry scowl on his TV show on weekday mornings, taking pleasure in Fred Honsberger’s displeasure at all sorts of things. I rarely agreed with him, but sometimes I actually found myself nodding along with the Honsman, finding something he said to be on-target, all my leftie views be damned.
So I guess I am one of the last to learn of the death of local radio/TV personality Fred Honsberger, whose angry conservative indignation made Rush Limbaugh look like a wimp. Allegheny County Executive Dan Onorato's office let me know, with Onorato stating:
"This region has lost a broadcasting icon and a great independent voice for our region. I had the pleasure and honor of working with Fred my entire political career and whether you agreed or disagreed with him, he was always fair and a consummate professional. We will all miss Fred and our thoughts and prayers go out to his family.”
I liked the Honsman, though a lot of his politics weren't to my taste. In fact, one of the first blogs I ever wrote was about calling in Honsberger’s talk show. I posted “Joining The Conversation” in June 2005, so I guess you could truly say that Honsman actually inspired me. In homage to Honsman, I have reprinted the piece here:
Joining The Conversation
Under the influence of too much coffee in the morning, I sometimes say or write things I wish I hadn’t. The other day it wasn’t the coffee that had me out-of-sorts—I think the late dinner I’d eaten the night before had made me fuzzy.
So while tuning into Fred Honsberger Live, which is my favorite television show to hate, I acted a bit impulsively and called up “The Honsman.” I called despite my better judgment, and despite the fact that I never call talk shows.
While I disagree with mostly everything Honsberger says on-air, and I have been known to pitch a liberal’s fit while listening to him talk, for some time I have taken a perverse joy in occasionally watching his show. I can only attribute that enjoyment to a desire to hear people yell at each other in argument, which brings back warm memories for me, because that’s how I grew up eating dinner with my family.
Also, I had covered Lynn Swann’s press conference the day before, and I wondered what Republicans thought about the possibility of Swann becoming a gubernatorial candidate. Not having a Republican sibling handy to ask about a Super Steeler governor, I called Honsberger. Perhaps it’s not surprising, since I recently started my own weblog.
* * *
I capitulated. I got tired of all the attention bloggers have been getting, so I started my own.
A couple weeks back I joined the blogosphere by getting my own punk pulpit. I now am a member of the dorky world of webloggers, and I can’t say I’m exactly comfortable with my new affiliation.
My friend Geoff confirmed my discomfiting suspicions when he responded to my e-mail announcing the launch of my blog.
“You e-writing weenie!” he wrote.
As a journalist, I have learned to check out blogs to look for news tidbits, but I have been wary of joining the blogosphere. I will admit that I have been thinking about it for a long time, though. I just didn’t like the idea of being part of the world that enables people to make unfair personal attacks on individuals. I didn’t want be considered like one of those nerds who lambastes others on his blog, using the medium against those he hates.
Leaping into the blogosphere was an act of faith, because over the years I’ve developed a mistrust of blogging. I have been insulted online by at least one blogger who personally attacked me in a few instances.
Full disclsure: I was attacked for having been in public relations at one time, and also for supporting the plan that built two sports stadiums on the North Side. Some people in Pittsburgh can’t get over the fact that those stadiums were built. Because of my stance on the issue, I have been called everything from a “hack” to “unethical.”
Still, I figured a blog would give me a place to publish essays that I have been writing that wouldn’t fit into other publications. I felt that a blog also hopefully would, to some degree, bring me into the ongoing conversation happening in the blogosphere.
While I was commenting indiscreetly on a blog titled “The Conversation,” an anonymous poster attacked me. This pusillanimous poster tried to smear me with the same lies that another blogger once had employed. The right-winger Honsberger treated me more respectfully than I was treated by a fellow blogger who also is opposed to the Drug War, but afraid to sign his name to the statement.
* * *
Maybe it was the mind-addling effect of too many pasta calories still dumbing me down from the prior evening that made me call. I can’t really explain it, except to say that for some strange reason, I couldn’t resist jumping into the argument.
My call was patched through almost immediately.
“I’m from the left side of the world…” I began, in a voice softer and more timid than I expected, realizing suddenly that I was out of my element. I asked Honsberger what he thought of Swann, an “incredible athlete,” possibly running for governor, and if he thought the former Steeler had much of a chance of becoming governor.
Honsberger responded sneeringly that he also thought Swann was an “incredible athlete” and that Swann stood a good chance of winning if he decided to run for governor.
“What do you think of him running?” Honsberger asked me.
“I think it’s interesting,” I said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. He went on to complain about how lousy the governor had been performing, and about how many people Rendell has pardoned since he took office.
I realized Hons wanted a fight, but though I am pugnacious by nature, I didn’t feel so confident, since television and radio are his “neighborhood,” so to speak. I let him talk, without adding much, and I thanked him for his thoughts and hung up.
I had joined the conversation and become one of those “cranks” that you hear on the radio or television. It was a natural step, after starting my blog.