Pittsburgh Dish

P-G closes D.C. bureau

Starts hipster chick beat.

The P-G scrapped their Washington, D.C., bureau last month to focus its efforts on topics gleaned from myspace.com general interest pages. Today's piece follows on the heels of a story about the popularity of Roller Derby among young women. Insiders speculate that the P-G and other print media are hoping to "trade in its fuddy-duddy briefcase image for one that carries a vintage lunchbox."

A source close to the P-G says that columnist Tim Menees was fired after he agreed to wear a Sleater Kinney t-shirt but "drew the line at being unabashedly myself."

The P-G plans to cover several events this summer including a Suicide Girls audition, a Claire Fisher look-alike contest and a regional Stitch 'n Bitch marathon.

Cherry D: Pluck in traffic

Dish's girly girl found herself in a Pittsburgh jam.

Can someone please explain why this city would schedule Light Up Night to begin at exactly the same time that us poor schleps are trying to get home from work? I make an effort to be a decent citizen of Allegheny county, I really do. So please don't take away my right to get home, eat precisely a half canister of cheese Pringles (waiting for a microwave dinner is simply too long) and watch the Golden Girls.

On that fateful Friday, I, along with the rest of the Burgh's thousands of working stiffs, sat in traffic: a cluster of metal boxes as far as the eye can see looking up Penn Avenue and down 6^th street.

Since I didn’t have a punching bag handy whilst sitting in my little sedan to alleviate the frustration of the tease of a 5 p.m. whistle only to be trapped a half mile from my office, my options were limited. Since I guess I’m just like many a gal out there, I primped.

I would truly wash the feet of the person who executed the idea of placing  a mirror on the driver's side visor. If you must go with the old (and somewhat annoying) saying of when life hands you a lemon, make lemon aid, then sitting in traffic is a great time for the Norma Desmond in all of us to take over.

And if you're a narcissist stuck in Pittsburgh traffic, you do what any self-respecting narcissist would do: Primp, Pluck and Polish.

With one brief glance, I realized that I had been plucking my eyebrows according to the Frida Kahlo School of Beauty. So I pulled out one of several emergency tweezers from my cruddy make-up bag, and hacked voraciously for approximately six minutes. Next I focused on my eyebags. I read somewhere that water helps rid the puff, so I reached under the seat and found some Desani backwash from over the summer. I swigged and waited for the results.

Samsonite, thy name is Cherry.

Bored with the progress of both motor and magnificence, I fished out a half stick of Juicy Fruit from the abyss of my Mary Poppins satchel. It was stale but oddly refreshing. Bored stiff, I rifled through a fist full of crumpled receipts: National City withdrawal--denied, lack of funds. Tossed it. Giant Eagle--cookie dough and calamine lotion--tossed it, but not without appreciating the combination. Bored to tears, I grabbed the High Priestess du Communication--the cell phone. I deleted the name of a chick that I entered into my contacts whom I recently met in the ladies room of Sanctuary and who I swore at the time I had just made a friend for life while talking about how much we love Sephora. I then changed the ring tone to a kicky tune.

The car in front of me moved about four inches. And stopped. But oh the kinetic elation, however short-lived.

I searched for my next project.

The only one thing left to do was a pedicure. After all, my foot wasn't moving.

Cherry D.: Dish's new dish

Dear Journal,

Why should I keep a journal?

Am I suffering from short term memory loss and need to be reminded of the times I felt bloated, got dumped, wrecked the car on the Boulevard of the Allies due to applying eyeliner in the rearview mirror while driving considerably over the speed limit? Do I need to record my feelings about the checkout boy at Giant Eagle or that "On Monday, I developed a corn on my pinky toe?"

While I'm no Dr. Wilbur, I bet most psycho killers out there probably kept journals (and still keep fresh ones under their pillows in the clink). I bet Son of Sam would be normal (whatever normal is) but the fact that he kept a log to keep him in touch with the voice in his head that instructed him to kill the neighbor's dog made him crazy in the first place. I bet Trudy Chase (the woman with (reported) 90 different personalities) kept a journal. OK, having 90 different personalities may not be so bad: I would never feel lonely, there is always someone there to tell me if I’m looking chubby or if my hair color will scare the neighborhood squirrels. But unless I have to record communications with my brain buddies, why would I want to reflect years later upon a journal entry when, really, all it does is remind me of my deplorable writing skills?

Maybe because we single gals are supposed to. I mean, all we do all day is lounge around in marabou-trimmed negligees eating bon-bons, right? What else are we to do beside muse over the bowl movements of our cats and record our fat mass a la Bridget Jones?

Still, I do stub my toe on the doorstep of Hallmark central casting. And I don't know why. I'm like a Stepford wife with a cookie recipe. I can't resist those perky little journals with pretty ties and crisp, blank pages. I love to peruse the aisles of my local "paperie" (snooty title for stationery store) for pretty journals. Often they are designed some sort of cloth tie. Perhaps it’s (insert NPR voice here) to keep the words from sliding off the page and onto the floor of obscurity (exit NPR voice), like a meatball on top of Old Smokey. The fact that the ink has been absorbed (see paper is not just attractive but it’s efficient as well) isn’t convincing enough to the author. The words must be trapped in and tied, like a Thanksgiving Day gobbler or secured firmly with a pearl button to fend off snooping party guests.

The reality of it is, it’ll get old, the paper will rot, and eventually that prescious log of precious thoughts will become landfill when the new owner of the house throws out "that box of smelly junk" in the basement. Nobody's going to unearth my journal in 20 years and make a Merchant-Ivory film out of my boring life. OK, maybe if I develop psycho killer tendencies in the middle of Kaufman's, my journal might inspire a Lifetime movie (not so bad if Valerie Bertinelli is still around).

So Dear Journal, even though I like journals and even seek them out, please tell Santa not to get me one. But I'm a single girl in the city. I'll probably get four.

Photo: Journal from Fred Flare.