Pittsburgh Dish

Sister City advice?

Spooky parallels

New Haven, Conn. (Dish's old stomping ground) is considering setting up a 311 complaint hotline like the one in Pittsburgh. New Haven Independent editor Paul Bass (Mrs. Dish's pal & former taskmaster) talks about the program today in his "News from the Compost Heap" vlog. Has Pittsburgh's 311 hotline been successful? Let him know in comments.

Also, Bass reports on New Haven's first ever Zombie Fest charity walk this weekend which was inspired by the Burgh and organized by Dish photog Jeff Glagowski. Have any goulish advice for their walk?

CMU coed cohabitation

An angry old man's perspective

So, Carnegie Mellon University's going to let the boys and girls share a room on campus. Well, isn't that lovely? Convenient coitus for everyone!

Back in my day, if a fella wanted to get a little hay for his donkey, he had to leave the dorm. Even in the winter, a young buck interested in sowing his wild oats (back in my day, we mixed metaphors anyway we damn well pleased), had to leave Residence Hall A and walk across campus, uphill, in six feet of snow, with a live Grizzly on his back, bereft of footwear and with a sign around his neck reading, "Why, yes, I am heading to Residence Hall B to make illicit out-of-wedlock love to Wendy Battlemeyer, who's 4'11'', 349 lbs. and has less-than-clear complexion. Oh, yes, the odors ... Why do you ask? Is it the bear? Of course I'm drunk."

And when the deed was done, we had to do the walk-of-shame under circumstances similar to those delineated above: snow, shoeless and uphill (both effing ways!), but with a couple of important differences. The bear was replaced with 27 angry stoats, carried in one's trousers, and the sign now read, "Yes, I did Wendy Battlemeyer. Man, am I hungover. That's just a cold sore."

Now, on CMU's Oakland campus, revved up young adults will be able to do dirty things with each other's nasty bits while having to expend no more effort than simply strolling across the suite. Today's generation of students are a spoiled and soft lot. Never will they know the unholy terror resultant from accidentally locking themselves out of their dorm room shoeless and frostbitten, exhausted from having surmounted the omnipresent hill, besigned and stoat-mauled.

Pansises. Feh!

Sincerely,

An Angry Old Man

P.S. And while you’re at it, stay off my lawn.

A decision? You bet!

The Gaming Control Board's about to make the call. What are the odds?

UPDATE: We were totally wrong. It's PITG. Still, read our predictions. They are marginally amusing.

We'll tell you. At this late date, within an hour of the GCB's announcement, Dish has obtained the odds, freshly posted in Vegas, for each of the three contenders hoping to make serious bank off the citizens of Pittsburgh and its environs.

Pull that lever and hope for three bars.

Forest City Enterprises (the Station Square proposal):
About that of a one-legged man winning an ass kicking contest.

PITG Gaming (the North Shore folk):
Equivalent to a snowball maintaining its frosty integrity within the less-than-chummy confines of the sulfurous pit known as Clairton. Just kidding, Hell.

Isle of Capri (Mario Lemieux's last hope to become a multi-multi-multi-millionaire rather than just a run-of-the-mill multimillionaire):
Nick Perryesque. In the neighborhood of the Pennsylvania Lottery coming up 666 on April 24, 1980.

News Analysis: Keep it in your pants, Lt. Weeniewagger

It's wrong to get drunk and pummel people (who aren't Ravens fans) at Steelers games, even if you are functionally dimwitted.

Lt. Martin Sanders Jr. is in deep kimchee.

The Pittsburgh firefighter was arrested Oct. 15 at Heinz Field during the Steelers/Chiefs tilt after displaying his majestic fire hose d'amour to a concession stand employee and engaging in fisticuffs with several stadium employees, cops, etc. as he was being escorted out of the arena. He faces charges of aggravated assault, a felony, as well as simple assault, indecent exposure, disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. If convicted of the felony charge, Sanders will be canned.

Dish, consistent with its mission to be the most helpfulest online newspaper in the entire known universe, will endeavor to set forth guidelines that will assist you, reader, in avoiding Sanders ignominious fate.

The Cardinal Rule: When drinking, it's important to either retain enough of one's sensibility to recognize that displaying your hang-low in public and punching random strangers is not a good idea or to down so much booze that you black out and are rendered harmless. There is no middle ground. Consequences of disobeying The Cardinal Rule:

Do you realize that your mom has to face those gossiping harpies at church? Do you?

People might begin to suspect you have a drinking problem, which not only will be a blight on your reputation but could result in your being sent to rehab. They don't have IC Light in those places.

You could ruin things for the rest of us. The Steelers could stop selling beer at halftime, jerkwheat.

Daycare centers will be reluctant to hire you after you get canned from your firefighting job as you have demonstrated a propensity to display your twig and berries to those who have no interest in them.

You will be the object of derision wherever you go. People don't forget this kind of stuff. Might as well sew a scarlet "WW" on your clothes, weenie wagger.

Art Rooney Sr. just shed a tear in heaven.

Photo below found here.

Pittsburgh pink lung law passes

Mike Gillis says don't stop there.

Good morning, and smoke 'em if you got 'em Pittsburgh.  I can't figure a way to defend smoking or subjecting others to second-hand smoke without sounding like an idiot.  I'm in favor of helmet and seat belt laws, so I guess I'm a hypocrite if I say it's a personal choice to smoke so get out of my business.

This is just the beginning, so buckle up your chin straps-here it comes. New York City officials want to tell chefs what they can and can't use in their recipes. My favorite part is this "...trans fats can easily be replaced with substitute oils that taste the same or better..." Now a government is deciding what tastes good? Let's flesh this out a bit. Since we are incapable of making the right choices, let's come up with a list for our governments:

Mandatory stress tests before entering Morton's or Ruth's Chris.

Proof of healthy cholesterol counts to be kept on file at pizza joints, to be updated annually.

A nation-wide ban on all-you-can-eat buffets.

A two-drink maximum at all bars, restaurants, and private clubs.

No hot dogs at ball games.

National standards of portion control.

Grocery stores will be forced to provide information on our purchases, tracked through those discount cards, and customers will be prohibited from buying unhealthy items once their "limit" has been reached.

I wish I owned a bar in Cranberry or Peters.

O'Connor hates information, curtails Internet use

Mayor replaces employee PCs with pacifiers.

by Mike Gillis

So, the City of Pittsburgh has decided to limit web surfing by employees. Good, you say. Employers have the right to expect that, while on the clock, employees are working. Fair enough. Simple, straight-forward, shoulder-to-the-wheel, an honest day's pay for an honest day's work logic. Who can argue with that? Well, I'm your huckleberry.

I'm not sure where to start. Clearly this is an attempt to shake things up in city government now that Bob O'Connor finally has his chance to run things his way.

We're likely to see many examples of change for the sake of change, like the recent upheaval in the top ranks of the Police Bureau. After all, there's a new sheriff in town, and things are going to be done differently on his watch. Fine. That is Hizzoner's prerogative, and perhaps he's right, given Pittsburgh's recent governmental and fiscal woes. But the decision to limit employees to three, 10-minute windows of web access daily begs several questions.

Has city government work not been getting done? Nowhere have I read or heard that work has been piling up while city employees are shopping at amazon.com or checking stock quotes or downloading gazpacho recipes. If that were the case-if city employees are screwing around and not doing their jobs-take appropriate action. Retrain. Discipline. If necessary, terminate employment. In other words, make managers do their jobs. That's how meaningful change takes place. Implementing a policy which addresses a problem which may or may not exist is foolish and myopic-in other words, business as usual.

If the work is getting done, and city employees are still web-surfing with abandon, then that suggests that there isn't enough to do, right? Does that indicate staff reductions are in order? That employees need to have their job responsibilities broadened? That they should be re-trained and encouraged to take on additional responsibilities?

Nope, of course not. The only clear course of action is to assume that adults are abusing their privileges-that they are incapable of comporting themselves professionally, and that, given the opportunity, will choose to do as little as possible- and then to draft a policy which restricts an individual's ability figuratively to step away from their desks. Not that people need to take a break every now and then. Or need to attend to personal business which can only be done during (drum roll, please) BUSINESS HOURS. Well, guess what? I can guarantee that the work environment will deteriorate rapidly.

People will be expected to show up on time. Exactly on time. Show up too early, you're trying to get ahead. Show up a minute late, get written up. No, it doesn't matter that the T broke down or that your kid threw up on your tie. Late is late, it says so right here on page 33 of your Employee Handbook. Morale will plummet and absenteeism will skyrocket. Walk away from your desk because you wanted a cup of coffee? Get the coffee, but don't ask Bill if he thinks Zack Duke should start the opener. What's that, the coffee's brewing? Get back to your desk and work. What's that-the coffee will be done by the time you get back to your desk, so what's the point? Stop making sense. And it only takes 45 seconds to urinate-what were you doing for the past two minutes? Employees will do precisely what their jobs require and not one scintilla more. And less will get done in more time.

See, this mismanagement decision is an easy one. It's rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Never mind the latest drive-by, Mary just got an email from her 13-year-old daughter that she's home safely, AND SHE RESPONDED TO IT!! Productivity!! Bandwidth!! This is the third time this week, and it's only Wednesday. Smithers, drag Mary in here so that I can lecture her for an hour about wasting City time. And then schedule a staff meeting for tomorrow morning at 7:30. Yes, I know that everybody's start time is 8:00 a.m., but this'll show 'em who's boss. The topic will be efficiency in the workplace.

How does limiting surfing help the city budget? It was reported that Pittsburgh pays $1500 a month for web-access. For God's sake, my wife and I pay Comcast $50 bucks a month for high speed Internet. So the City pays as much as 30 Comcast customers monthly? And trimming this amount is somehow going to help the bottom line? OK. In the meantime, Ralph Falbo is being courted by the Mayor as a possible player in the Fifth-Forbes ongoing saga-the same Ralph Falbo who owes over half a million bucks in overdue taxes to local taxing bodies, including the city. How much workplace web surfing does half a million represent, Mr. Mayor?

Like many of us, I worked for a large downtown corporation-a health care insurer with a giant rectal thermometer at the top of it's building-and perhaps that's colored my opinion here. For example, I was in a meeting and someone asked why, as adults, we were not permitted to use a phone to call a doctor or to check on a child. The manager's response-I swear to you-was that the company permitted employees to use one of two public pay phones in the building's lobby at the employee's expense and only during the employee's 45-minute lunch break. So for all of us who have suggested that governments should be run like businesses, well, careful what you ask for.

Happy "Hope I Didn't Give You The Clap" Day

What's love gotta do with it?

by Yvonne Hudson, single gal reporter

My boyfriends have always managed to win my heart just after St. Patrick’s Day and serve my walking papers around Labor Day. I haven’t had a date on a major holiday since Sonny met Cher — unless you count Arbor Day and the World Series play-offs. Most of my girlfriends have collected shiny trinkets of love over the years. Gems and cameras — stuff you can hock. I’ve got a shoebox full of Pirates stubs and a bear wearing a Steelers shirt.

This New Year’s Eve I was the dateless poster girl, all dolled up in a fur stole, a black vintage dress, long gloves, Marilyn Monroe-sized rhinestone earrings and a purse covered in gold macaroni. Lauren put a gimlet in my hand and crowned me with a glittery party tiara. All I needed to complete the picture was a bubble machine and Dean Martin. I could have been sliding off a vinyl bar stool at the Pango-Pango lounge, plunking down nickel after nickel to hear “One More for the Road.”

New Year’s Eve is a pretty frightening holiday to spend alone. I mean, face it, planting a kiss on your best friend’s boyfriend at midnight in a room full of smooching couples is humiliating and, well, pathetic. But it only lasts 30 seconds at best, your pals are tipsy, and the sympathy can be cozy. In the morning, the sting of spending the evening without an escort is dulled by a sparkling wine hangover and your dress wrapped around your head.

I know: You’re already feeling sorry for me. Your mind is racing ahead to Feb. 14, to a sad vision of a dateless deb (me), washed-up and waiting for the florist’s van to pull up. Well, wipe those thoughts right out of your head, chicky. The truth is, I’d rather be single on Valentine’s Day. I’d rather twist open a Champale for one and raise a toast to that unopened box of condoms. I’d rather lock myself in the bathroom and shave my legs while making crank phone calls to ex-boyfriends than be half-a-couple on Valentine’s Day. Because love and Valentine’s Day do not go together.

Think about it: Who suffers more than couples on Valentine’s Day? It should be called Holiday for Break-Ups. It could drive a wedge between Barbie and Ken. It could make Juliet greet Romeo at the door with curlers, cold cream and the business end of a rolling pin. And it’s all because Feb. 14 is the one day of the year when American women (sensitive flowers that we are) can demand, and expect to receive, Everything We’ve Ever Wanted From Our Chosen Male.

It’s a reality vs. fantasy tug-of-war. We can’t help ourselves. When we girls get to thinking about what we really want, it’s as if someone slipped us a mickey. Our heads fill with quixotic notions of cherubs floating down from Loveland to cast spells over our men. Magically they will hate sports. They’ll know how to order wine, drizzle melted chocolate on our tongues, cha-cha. They’ll drape strands of pearls across our pillows while crooning like Mel Tormé. Awakening from our reveries we see, instead, a big lug snoring on the couch, one meaty paw wrapped around a Budweiser.

We realize that our lives aren’t lush and sexy but drab and mundane. This makes us mad. And whom do we blame? Him.

Men, in turn, aren’t really sure what they’re being accused of, but they know they’ll have to pay, and pay big, to get themselves out of it. Retailers love this. Big heart-shaped boxes of chocolates sit in storefront windows, winking at hen-pecked husbands. Jewelers cram their displays with perky little diamonds in the hopes that boys will stumble into their shops and slap down a couple of car payments in an effort to get their pouting girlfriends to speak to them again. And somewhere on the top shelf at Walgreens is a giant, poke-your-eye-out Valentine waiting to be purchased and presented with the 14 little words every girl is yearning to hear: “Honey, you know I love you — it was the biggest one in the store!”

For girls, it’s a day of disappointment. (“Dear Diary: He got me the biggest card in the store. Again. It had a picture of Garfield on it.”) For boys, it’s is a festival of guilt and shotgun sentimentality. At 8 p.m., in every town in every state, there’s a future ex-husband in an El Camino screeching into the handicap spot at Rite-Aid just as the sales clerk is shooing away the last customer and flipping out the lights. Watch our hapless hetero, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, as he searches for anything heart-shaped, red, left. Vroom, pluck, sign, lick. Off he dashes, wagging his tail as though he’s just won a big-screen TV. “I’ll get laid fer sure,” he thinks, as he races to the finishing line.

He’s wrong, of course. His last-minute heroics, instead of being met with kisses and forgiveness, will be greeted by arctic glares and cold meatloaf. Because his honey, overcome with Valentine-induced dementia, has been dreaming of an oiled hunk who owns his own tuxedo, makes perfect martinis and has a line of credit at Cartier. The kind of man who exists only in Danielle Steele novels, or gay bars. She’s awash in a stew of dashed hopes. It’s not just the big card or the day-old roses. It’s her life: She envisions tete-a-tetes at the La Foret, but always ends up with a two-fer at The Olive Garden.

Another ride through the Tunnel of Love has turned into a four-car pile-up, and it’s all because of Valentine’s Day.

I understand all of this because 1) I’ve lived it, and 2) nobody’s more romantic than me. I’ve been known to dress up my cats as dinner dates and greet them at the door in a flimsy negligée. I’ve seen Sabrina 17 times. Red things are my life — lipstick, sloe gin fizzes, Radio Flyers, maraschino cherries. I love all gifts of the d’amour variety, even if they’re tawdry trinkets, and I especially love gifts that I haven’t had to send to myself. But I refuse to walk into the Valentine’s Day leg hold trap, that holiday disaster waiting to happen. This year, this Valentine’s Day, I’m going to be chillingly realistic about fact vs. fiction. I’m going to remember that men are not from around here, and where they’re from there aren’t any good stores. In fact, the whole month of February I plan to carry the following list in my purse (the one with the gold macaroni).

Clip it, girls, and keep it dear; it may see you through another Valentine’s Day Massacre.

On Valentine’s Day, women dream of champagne and Cary Grant. Men are glad they made the liquor store.

........................................................................................................................

What we want                                                                          What we get

Champagne                                                                            A Schaefer

Breakfast in bed                                                                    Breakfast at Eat 'n Park

“My Funny Valentine”                                                            “Highway to Hell”

A love poem                                                                          A “Love is...” clipping

A tux                                                                                     Sweats

A limo to the Met                                                                  A cab home from Deja Vu

Chet Baker on a jukebox                                                       A Michael Bolton dedication on DVE

Hand-rolled Swiss chocolates                                                 Zagnuts

Slow groovin’ to Marvin & Otis                                              Humping to Beavis & Butthead

A red cocktail dress                                                              A tee-shirt from Hooters

A one-night stand                                                                Crabs

Diamond bracelet from Harry Winston’s                                Heart-shaped keyring from Sheets

Chanel No. 5                                                                       Jean Naté Splash

A love letter                                                                      Classified in the Post-Gazette

Strolling violinists                                                               Mimes

Hey, that little man kicked a touchdown

The story of a football neophyte.

Story by Drew Cucuzza; Photos by Kathleen Cei.

This Sunday men around the country will be pounding each other on the back and shouting at large screen TVs. They’ll drink beer, order apps and savior the glory that is the six foot sub. I’d bet cash that a few lucky shirts will be worn. What will I be doing while America’s men are waiting to see the new Bud Light commercial? More than likely cleaning out the litter box while listening to Roxy Music, or checking out Eames clocks on eBay. Let’s just say I won’t have much to talk about at the water cooler Monday morning. And I’m sure to hear some crack about “What kind of guy are you?”

I have a rule about drinking. I will only drink what Robert Mitchum would drink. That means beer, Scotch, wine, maybe a screw driver or an old fashioned. No “slippery nipple” or “sex on the beach." The only time I’ll ever drink any shot other than Jack Daniels or whiskey is when a woman suggests something else. Yeah, a nice rack can make me pretend to enjoy Southern Comfort or something that looks like a Frappucino. I never let women pay and when I buy a round of drinks, if a guy orders something stupid , I tell him I’ll buy him the single malt Scotch of his choice, but there’s no way I’m ordering something called “Red Death” for a man. But I’ll get a woman a “White Zin” all night and never let her reach for her purse.*

I also drive a 1966 Chevy Bel Air with a 327 that I’ve been known to describe as being “Cherry." I love Clint Eastwood movies and can tell you the tagline of all five “Dirty Harry” films. A friend of mine once cleaned my bathroom at 2 a.m. because she was so horrified by it: “Anyone who thinks you’re gay would see this and know you’re not."

I’ve taken extraordinary measures to get a second look at an especially spectacular butt.

But I couldn’t care less about football or any other sport. My dad is from Sicily and would rather talk about Fellini and De Sica or Louis Armstrong than Astroturf. I doubt he even knows what an expansion team is. And I think I set a record for consecutive number of times being last picked for teams in gym class.

I've always dreaded this time of year, although at least it’s better than the World Series, which lasts at least four nights instead of the Super Bowl’s far more merciful one.

I’ll be in the elevator at work, minding my own business, when some guy will get on and ask what I thought of last night’s touchdown (or interception, or pass, or whatever). What am I supposed to say? That I not only didn’t watch the game, and don’t know who was playing, but at the same time the game was on, I was watching “Mildred Pierce”? And then decided to look up Ruth Welcome’s “Zither Magic” on the internet?

John Waters once said that he wanted to hop into a cab and ask the driver what he thought of the new Fassbinder film. I sometimes think I should respond to these guys with something like this:

“What’s your take on the new Ramones box set? Do you think that by trying to give space to their later, post Dee Dee, post Sire Records stuff it ends up giving short shrift to their earlier CBGBs years, which, after all are punk’s ground zero? I mean come on; the Pistols and the Clash wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the brudderz from Queens, let alone stuff like Green Day, Rancid and all that Emo crap. And really, isn’t the whole Emo thing just a wimpy version of what the Huskers did better over 20 years ago? But the box really did get it right with those EC inspired covers, don’t you think? The outside cover reminds me of some Al Feldstein’s work before his editorial duties cut into his time too much. And the cover of the booklet is a perfect Jack Davis cop, even if the inside artwork varies a bit too much between underground commix, Archie stuff and the non-Marvel/DC stuff from the ‘80s for my tastes. You know, it’s funny how much in common the independents of music and comics from that era have in common, like the whole “Love and Rockets” connection or the ironic use of cartoon iconography…”

Now you know how I feel when sports fans talk about a “scrimmage," whatever the hell that is.

Nevertheless I’ll be watching and rooting for the Steelers this Sunday. Pittsburgh is a great town and they’re a great team--far better and nobler than the Seahawks. Plus I like their logo more.

*The author wishes to point out that he does not think that all women drink sweet drinks with popsicle colors, merely that he has far more tolerance for a woman drinking such concoctions. Indeed one of the few people who can drink him under the table is a woman. Who orders Guinness.

Photos: Natual progression: The author learns that a Towel is not just a towel.

Arsonist Burns Wrong Structure

According to the Post-Gazette, an arsonist set fire to a playground in Lincoln Place on Monday. The playground equipment, purchased in 1998 for $134,000, was very expensive and not condemned. Of all the structures that need to be burned in the city, this lavish set of playthings was not one of them.

by Mark Weimer

Pittsburgh’s efforts to develop dilapidated could be aided by more strategic fires which target unstable buildings instead of overpriced playthings. Nevertheless, the amateur arsonist’s actions were most likely not intended to be as destructive as building removal, but rather a simple Halloween prank. Needless to say, his or her services would be politically appreciated in several areas on the North Side, give recent developments concerning eminent domain.

The assistant director of the city’s Department of Public Works noted that clearly an agent was used to set fire to the structure, as a match simply was not capable of the feat. Although not explicitly noted, it is believed that combustion was involved in addition to fuel and a match or lighter.

No comments were made concerning why playground equipment is as expensive as a house though lacking electricity, usually plumbing, phones, and other expensive services. The Department of Public Works expects the playground to be fully functional in the spring, when buses will not run and parking garages will be closed.

Heterosexual yinzer-mocker plans to leave Burgh

What follows is another shopworn tirade against Pittsburgh. This one written to Dish by a guy named CJ applauding an anti-Pittsburgh rant in the City Paper.

But first, please allow Dish a few words:

According to CJ, if we stopped liking the Steelers and spent money we didn't have (Chum, the cliché you're looking for is "you've got to spend money to make money" and it is to be applied to business, not individual household economies), we'd be living in Shangri-la. Forgetting that cities that CJ would probably prefer to Pittsburgh--New York, Boston, Dallas, Atlanta, Chicago--also have, if you get right down to it, rather annoying accents, CJ chooses to blast the yinzer (A point with which Dish concurs to a degree. Charming at times, but chiefly grating is the "pants-n-'at crowd. That said, Dish doesn't feel the need to implicate the humble yinzer in this city's economic struggles. It's just not fair ... n-'at.)

And CJ, buddy, go to West Haven, Connecticut, if you want abhorrent hairstyles. A mere 70 or so miles from NYC and neighbor to Dish's former hometown, New Haven, this sizable town is the mullet and Trans-Am capital of New England. People like football there as well, even "the gays." The point? Many of the problems, especially the insignificant ones CJ hurls out as if they actually meant something in the grand scheme of what's problematic about Pittsburgh, are present just about everywhere.

Howling like an infant about the Steelers, the yinzers and the mullet doesn't really address the legitimate problems the city faces. Possible bankruptcy, a difficult business environment, leadership that is, um, not exactly forward-thinking. CJ, try getting involved. Do something. Or move. That's probably easier.

One last thing: Dish has yet to meet anyone proud of the weather or the potholes. Both suck. And neither is exclusive to here. Bon voyage, CJ. Dish hopes you find your happy place ... n-'at.

And now, CJ:

I could not agree with this guy (Tony [Del Prete]) more.  I have lived in this area all of my life.  I do not like the Steelers (not gay) or any football for that matter.  I'm sick of this "one for the thumb" crap too.  Who cares!

I also cannot stand the accent, and have fought my whole life to not use it.  I hate "n'nat-ers"! I would rather listen to an infant screaming all day than hear one of these river rats ramble for ten minutes.

I have TRIED to run a business here for the last 8 years, and have barely managed to keep my head above water.  What Pittsburghers don't understand is if they want more money, they need to SPEND more money.  That's how an economy works. As an asphalt sealcoater, I make what someone ANYWHERE else would have made back in about 1975.  That's right about where this economy is stuck.  Pathetic.

  No, Pittsburgh is dead and it's not coming back to life.  There is nothing anyone can do about it either.  The recovery effort would have to be nothing short of a miracle.  And look at the majority of the people here anyway!  Mullet-sporting losers insisting that nothing is wrong with their region.  They are actually PROUD of their potholes, gloomy skies, black-hole economy and tacky, pathetic Steeler black and gold crap.

  I don't care anymore.  I say "f" pittsburgh.  Let it rot.  The rest of the country wouldn't even bat an eye if the whole place just ceased to exist.  It's a black hole.  A fading memory.  And all that remains is a crusty, polluted dump filled with morons who didn't leave when they had the chance.  Me included, but that's soon to change.

Pittsburgh progress afoot

Shoe trend a boon for Pittsburgh's pedantic pinky toe.

Dish sits idly at Dish HQ, staring, just staring, at Dish's suede bucks. A tear rolls down Dish's cheek. Then another. And another. Dish weeps until Dish's kielbasa and kraut sandwich is nothing but an even saltier pile of soaked bread and cold, cold sausage and fermented cabbage. See, Dish's footwear, as likely is yours, is to blame for Pittsburgh's lousy economy, unreliable public transit system, short-sighted political leadership,
disfunctional educational system, population exodus, crappy weather and lousy pizza. Were only Dish's tootsies swaddled in Crocs! Had Dish only known. Had Dish followed actress Jennifer Garner's lead and purchased 16 pairs of the rainbow coaltion of hip kicks, all this could have been averted and we'd all be living in Shangri-la. Or at least Manhattan.

See, on C-7 of today's Post-Gazette, Bob Batz Jr. writes:

"The so-cool-they're-hot shoes were born near Boulder, Colo., in 2002 and hit
Next-Big-Thing-status this summer. By July, Crocs Inc. had sold nearly $37 million worth this year alone and was cranking out 1.2 million pairs per month for this country and a growing list of 20 others."

Batz continues:

"Pittsburgh is -- here's a surprise -- toward the tail end of the Crocs trend ..."

Heven forfend! Toward the end of the Crocs trend? How will we blend in with
the cool kids in all the other cool towns with cool shoes. If we're not with them, or at leastshod like them, we're surely against them. And what will they think of us then?

Hurry up, all. Go east, go west. L.A.-bound you must fly. To New York, Seattle (Is it still cool? Or is it Portland now?), Hotlanta, San Francisco, Chicago, Montclair. Get out now, you must go there. To where the hipsters have chucked their Uggs for Crocs-wear.

Pick out the next trend, there's nothing to lose. Bring it back home and let us all choose whether to wear leopard-print babushkas or the next must-have shoes.

Photos: Crocs above, Uggs below.

Inscrutable Metaphor Scruted: Or, the Parsing of the Absurd

A developer's (wet) dream.

On Oct. 21, the Pittsburgh Business Times reported the same thing that just about everyone else has: American Eagle Outfitters is setting up its corporate headquarters at SouthSide Works, in what’s called the Quantum II (Has it a flux capacitor?) building.

That’s swell. The clothing hawker will not only occupy the 186,000-square-foot edifice (Hey, isn’t the speed of light 186,000-miles-per second? Coincidence? Perhaps it does have a flux capacitor.), the Amiggle will also build a new structure next door. Hooray for development!

So, there you have that. Then, here comes the odd part, the PBT quotes a developer named Damian Soffer, who apparently had something to do with bringing Amiggle in from the suburbs. Addressing a crowd of Amiggle employees, Soffer is quoted as saying, “I just got the Pamela Anderson of companies to move to Pittsburgh. You’re my dream date.”

Here, Dish is bewildered and reduced to asking the following questions:

1) Amiggles corporate dirty pillows … bigger than, say, GM’s?
2) Is Soffer really man enough to date the hundreds who work at Amiggle HQ?
3) Is Tommy Lee at all upset about this situation, or has the pain subsided?
4) Were Mr. Dish not married, would Amiggle consider going out for a beer or something?
5) Did Mr. Soffer really aim for Victoria's Secret and uttered a Freudian slip?
6) Could Soffer do something about bringing the Julianne Moore of companies to Pittsburgh? Mr. Dish would like that very much, thank you.

Top photo swiped from Rick Santorum's website (Do you really want the address? Didn't think so.). Soffer is the guy with the mustache. Not pictured: Pam Anderson or her development.

City cops: A sidecar named desire

City cops balance struggling budget on three wheels.

by Mark Weimer

Despite a struggling economy, Pittsburgh, much like the Bush Administration, seems to always find a way to flush its scarce funds.

According to the Trib, city police who traditionally ride a motorcycle are to receive an upgrade to a tricycle. Estimated cost of the conversion is roughly $4,000 per unit.

There is a multitude of ways in which Pittsburgh has sought to battle its economic insecurity. The city boasts nine “green” buildings, elevating it to the upper echelon of cities with environmentally friendly buildings. Pittsburgh is ranked number 19 by SustainLane, which attempts to encompass quality of life in US cities. It has made strides to alter its traditional industrial image, seeking to attract new companies in more technological fields. Yet in stride with this progress are the small decisions which make one step back, sit down, and express confusion with slightly furrowed brows.

Motorcycles and tricycles are common recreation vehicles in warmer months, when risk of hypothermia is minimal.

Economically, a motorcycle saves on gasoline and a tricycle would follow suit. The primary reason for the conversion cited was that a tricycle has better traction in winter months, which is a somewhat mute point relative to the temperature. There should not be cycles in the winter, whether three wheeled or two, simply because of the icy death that one risks. 65 degrees presents a cold cruise on a bike, let alone the frosty blasts of winter. We also must not forget the tendency of people to lose control of their vehicles… or at least claim too during these months of possible no-traction-regardless-of-how-many-wheels-or-tire-size.

Perhaps it is best for the well-being of Pittsburgh’s dwindling police force that police remain in road yachts during the winter. If one is going to defend the conversion to trikes, please don’t cite winter traction as the primary reason. Such a premise is a red flag for a silly notion.

Vegas on the Mon for Mario

The quest for a new hockey arena in Pittsburgh hit another snag as poorly structured families explained their poorly structured ways.

By Mark Weimer

The most realistic development that could bring a new hockey arena to Pittsburgh is revenue from slot machines which could exist in Pittsburgh by 2007. Despite the promise of increased revenue, some speak out against the plan citing their former spouse’s addictions and idiocy.

According to the Post-Gazette, a meeting was held at the Regional Enterprise Center concerning slot revenue and the finances for a new hockey arena. Two men brought forth ideas, along with a binder containing 26,000 signatures of people who supported the Penguins’ bid for slot revenue. A wide variety of topics were discussed, with the idiots focusing on the devastation of gambling.

One person illustrated the ill effects of gambling, explaining that her ex-husband lost over $50,000. Such loss caused hardships for the family, which seems evident with a divorce. "It blows my mind. How can we destroy lives for money?" she asked. Although nobody responded with such retorts as Operation Iraqi Freedom, outsourcing, or Wal-Mart, it seems clear that gambling was on a different circle of Dante’s hell. Idiotically, this may be true. Nevertheless, in order to justify her presence at the meeting, she added that should gambling exist in Pittsburgh, it should also put revenue towards counseling, college scholarships, grief support, childcare, and other services for loser families.

No blame was placed on the husband, who entered the gambling facility, was checked at the door, walked about for an undisclosed amount of time, and knowingly lost a sum of money.

Another obstacle for a new arena concerns the state of Mellon Arena. Much like a parking lot, frozen pond, street, or driveway, a speaker stated that Mellon Arena was “still adequate” for hockey. Although this statement does not differentiate Mellon Arena from the skating rink and in short articulates nothing, it is not an unpopular opinion. Many idiots believe that Mellon Arena, the oldest, smallest, crappiest arena in the NHL can be the home of a revived Penguin franchise, which struggles to suit fans needs due to its size. The Penguins, despite astronomical ticket sales, are set to lose money this season. To be brief, a new arena would offer more seats, leading to better prices, thus drawing larger crowds to fund a team that has laid the foundations for a hockey dynasty. Leave it to the idiots to destroy hope and promise.

There is no doubt Pittsburgh is in a financial funk. However, at heart Pittsburgh is its culture, its sports teams, its arts, its aesthetics, and its history. Slot machines will be a huge draw to the city and will generate revenue which can be used to improve the other aspects of the city. Atlantic City? Nothing. Everybody, at heart, knows the Penguins need a new arena. There won’t be hockey in Pittsburgh without a new arena, and that will be a greater loss for this town than that which slots can generate.

The Pittsburgh Prim-Gazette

A terrible Miss(Mr., Mrs. and Ms.)take

Dish loves the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, for it is truly One of America’s Great Newspapers. That cheeky Reg Henry gives Dish a thrill. The heartfelt yet hard-hitting neighborhood reporting of Diana Nelson Jones is grand. Bob Smizik is delightfully grumpy. Bill Toland is devilishly handsome. Torsten Ove has an odd name. All this is good.

Then, not long ago, came the Invasion of the Courtesy Title. Stan Jablonski of the South Side Slopes has, on second reference, become Mr. Jablonski. Helen Madigan of Millvale? Mrs. Madigan. Grade schooler Tiffany Onuksa is Miss Onuska. And so on. Whither just Jablonski, Madigan and Onuska?

Is this your work, Mr. [editor David] Shribman? Trying to fancy up the old fishwrap, eh? Trying to imitate the Old Gray (Now with color photos and graphics!) Lady? Well, Dish is here to tell you it ain’t working. Not only does it smack of pretense, Mr. Shribman, it runs interference to the eye trying to scan the well-crafted words of your editorial staff. And, Mr. Shribman, did Dish mention it finds the practice pretentious? Did it, Mr.
Shribman?

Cease and desist immediately, Mr. Shribman or Mr. and Mrs. Dish will continue to gripe, and you don’t want that, Mr. Shribman. In the event that a boy is ever called Master ______ in your august pages, Dish will gripe even more loudly. This Mr. and Mrs. Dish promise, Mr. Shribman. Dish would cancel its subscription, but the paper is stolen from Dish’s stoop so often that it would only hurt the thief, neither Dish nor you, Mr. Shribman.

Stop, please, Mr. Shribman. Mr. Shribman?

Breaking News: Gays and lesbians watch all sorts of TV shows

New network, HeteroTV, in the works.

From the New York Post:

WHAT do gay people watch?

Well, now we know — surprisingly — that they like "South Park" every bit as much "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."

A new study by Simmons Market Research on the media habits of 19,000 gay and lesbian adults over the last year found that gay viewers do not always match up to stereotypes.

For instance, "South Park" ranks right behind "Queer Eye," with about 25 percent of gay men and lesbians saying they watched it in the past four weeks, compared to eight percent of the total population.

Lesbians, it turns out, watch "Law & Order: SVU," "Golden Girls" reruns on Lifetime and Spike TV's "Real TV" in far greater numbers than the general population, the study found.

On cable, gay men are most likely to watch — in this order — Comedy Central, Discovery, Spike TV, A&E, Bravo, Sci Fi, CNN, Lifetime, Fox News Channel and HGTV, it said.

Gay women show distinct preferences for pay-cable channels. In order, they said they watched HBO, A&E, USA, ESPN, Discovery, Lifetime, Showtime, Bravo, TNT and Starz, a premium movie channel. — Post staff writer

Happy Boss's Day Pittsburgh

The Day of the Boss is nigh. Sunday in fact. Yes, the day set aside to honor the person who gets paid more than you, who gets more vacation time than you, seems accountable to no one and will absolutely not stop fondling your buttocks when you're just trying to get them damn TPS reports done.

By Joe Miksch, Jody DiPerna, Ryan Caione, Colleen Van Tassell

But what to get the guy or gal whose blazing mediocrity put them in charge of your accounts payable department? We don't know, either. However, Dish staffers and chums thought a bit about those in charge, particularly those in charge of Pittsburgh institutions, and what they merit for their year's worth of making sure you're not actually happy at work. Remember, enjoying one's job is like stealing from the company.

The results:

For Kevin McMahon, President of the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust: a game of Monopoly. And a lifetime supply of passes to the Garden Theatre, since they'll never get their hands on that. -J.D.

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For Terrence Orr, artistic director of Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, a collection of zombie musicians that he wouldn't have to pay. -J.D.

A one-man band or, failing that, a really nice Bose sound system. -J.M.

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For Jamie Dixon, Pitt basketball coach: a recruiting class that includes a player with Chevon Troutman's heart, Chris Taft's height and Brandin Knight's brains. Oh, and a copy of Ben Howland's playbook. -J.D.

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For Pitt athletic director Jeff Long: some boxer shorts filled with 'nads to make some daring hires at the head coaching positions in both the football and basketball programs.

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For Jim Tracy, new manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates: a power-hitting right fielder. -J.D.

A couple of bottles of scotch and some valium. He's going to need it.-R.C.

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For Bill Cowher: season ending injuries to both Tom Brady and Peyton Manning. -J.D.

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To William Johnson, CEO of Heinz: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes DVD. -J.M.

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To Alain Belda, ALCOA head: A platinum-handled can crusher. -J.M.

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To the Convention and Visitors' director: Conventions and visitors. -J.M.

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To Mark Roosevelt, Superintendent of Schools: A child, left behind. -J.M.

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For Bishop Donald Weurl: A child's behind, left alone. -J.M.

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For Allegheny County Chief Executive Dan Onorato: Regardless of the outcome of this reassessment debacle, a blind eye to the value of Dish HQ. Dish doesn't have a roof, plumbing, heat, floors, walls. The whole thing ain't worth squat, Danno. In fact, the place doesn't even exist. Bother the neighbor about that sort of thing. He'd be glad to pay. -J.M.

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For Chris D'Addario, co-owner of Just Ducky Tours: Anything not duck-related. And a relatively painless consummation of his as-yet-unrequited mancrush on Tom Brady. -J.M.

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To Michael Cohen, co-owner of Just Ducky Tours: Bucca di Beppo gift card. -J.M.

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For Mayor Tom Murphy: The firefighters union. Oh, he got that last election? Ooops. -J.M.

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For Seen editors: A whoopee cushion, a hand buzzer and chattering teeth, for no good reason.-C.V.T.

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For Whirl editors: same as above. -C.V.T.

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For City Paper readers (It's hard, we know, because CP editors follow the alt-weekly 101 rule book): One issue free of stories which include one or more of the following topics: Bike activism; tattoo arists; Yinzer put-downs; Pittsburgh is a cultural void; Food stories that bash a restaurant but end with a phrase similar to "but it's worth the trip" hoping the owner won't get pissed and not advertise; We're smarter than the Post-Gazette; Self-congratulatory rants by white people living in black neighborhoods; a one-name artist who works with metals "exclusively"; Performance art; "Feminist" art; Vegetarians or vegans (subcategory: wiccans, drum circles, Food Not Bombs and belly dancing). -C.V.T.

Photos: Lucky bosses found on Google images. One guy got a bunt cake. He must be a really good boss.

Dear Jerome: An Open Letter to The Bus

Sports Editor Jody DiPerna and Rick Fleck* send a little Love and Respect to Mr. Bettis.

Apparently, Jerome Bettis is upset about his perceived treatment in the media and by the fans. Um, I thought these guys didn't read that stuff and didn't listen to those talk shows. Well, except for Curt Shilling, but that's a whole other ball game. But the Bus? Jerome’s a smart guy and I would expect him to know better.

On Monday night, following the Steelers-Chargers game and Jerome Bettis' stellar performance, the Bus let on with reporters that he felt dissed by many in Pittsburgh saying, "The frustrating part for me was this last five weeks listening to everybody in the media, the fans talking about if I am going to play, should I play. I think I deserve the respect of being the fourth all-time leading rusher and that's what I am not getting. I was frustrated. The five weeks I wasn't in everybody was asking will you play, are you playing. I think I deserve better than that.

"After I got hurt you read articles, you heard commentary, you heard people, fans. I have people betting I am not ever going to touch the field again. It was just a bunch of garbage."

Apparently Jerome's not reading my columns because if he was, he would have seen that on the night he was injured in the preseason, I wrote, "Then Jerome pulled a calf muscle and I nearly blacked out from pain and anxiety." Why did I write that? Because I believe that Jerome is still the heart of this offense and the Steelers need him for any serious run at a Super Bowl.

He went on to say, "They just figured maybe I was done. It's been like that the last five years. Every year I feel like I have to prove myself or people ask me do I feel like I have to prove myself. I get fed up about it. I am a nice guy and a good guy, but I reached my boiling point these last few weeks. It was good to get back out there and get it over with."

On behalf of the Dish, let me just say, we all believe Jerome and always did. To that end, we’ve written an apology to our dear Bussie, borrowing liberally from the Beatles songbook:

Dear Bettis, won’t you come out and play?/Dear Bettis, what more can we say?

Duce is hurt, and Big Ben too/So naturally we turn to you/Dear Bettis, won't you save another Sunday?

Dear Bettis, peel off a 12 yard run/Dear Bettis, year after year you've made it fun/Some day you'll slow, the towels will drop/But until then you just won't stop/Dear Bettis, in our hearts you're number one

Because Hall of Fame backs don't come along every day. That's why. And I’m smart enough to know that.

*Rick Fleck is a Pittsburgh ex-patriot band wagon jumping Patriots fan who lives in West Roxbury, Mass (pronounced ‘Woo-stah.’) He is a genius with song lyrics.

Bra Rah Rah: Steelers and the baby blues

"There is more stupidity than hydrogen in the universe, and it has a longer shelf life." - -Frank Zappa

Hall of Fame coach Bill Walsh, considered by many to be a genius in his own right, said that in big games, big players come up big. Or something like that.

by Jody DiPerna, sports editor

I remember that there were a lot of ‘bigs’ in the sentence. Anyway, the point he was making was that when you're locked in a vicious dogfight, you bring your best dog. The Steelers coaching staff sensibly put their offense in the exceedingly capable hands of Nos. 7, 36 and 86 and gave the keys to the defense to Nos. 43 and 51. I guess there's nothing left to say but, who's the genius now? Huh? Who's the genius now?!

It's been a long time since Coach Cowher studied under the tutelage of Marty Schottenheimer. And what he learned from Marty has served him well, but Bill remembered what Marty didn't - Marty kept his best dog in his doggie bed for most of the first half and Bill let his best dogs off the leash.

Grasshopper, snatch this hot play book from my hand.

Marty Schottenheimer's face late in the 4th quarter as the Steelers were cooly socking the game away was priceless. He looked like a Mormon who got on the wrong bus in Compton and didn't have the return fare or a cell phone. "Oh my god. Am I on the wrong bus? Where am I? Where is this going? Where'd all the white people go? How am I gonna get home? That big black guy over there looks like he wants to kill me." Which Marty might actually have been thinking had he made eye contact with James Harrison, who is one scary dude in my estimation.

Oddly, on the Chargers first offensive series, LaDainian Tomlinson did not touch the ball at all. In  the second series, it seemed like they came to their senses when they ran LT for gains of 9 yards and 7 yards, but then decided that was too easy, so Marty went away from getting the ball into the hands of his best player, whereupon they were promptly forced to punt. Not that Dick LeBeau didn't have something cooked up for the vaunted Charger offense, but thanks for making it a little easier, Marty. Remember, put your players in a position to ... oh, never mind.

Looked like Tricky Dick LeBeau shadowed TE Antonio Gates with PuPu and allowed James Farrior to just flow to wherever Tomlinson went. And those players executed perfectly. But none of it happens unless the big dudes up front produce and did they ever. Casey Hampton and Kimo Von Oelhoffen just pushed around the middle of the Chargers line, disrupting Drew Brees every time he dropped back to pass in the first half. Quarterbacks, to a man, hate getting pressure in their face right up the middle. One time, Casey Hampton just sort of threw Chargers center Nick Hardwick right into Brees so that Brees fell over. By the time he got back up, he should have just stayed down, because I don't think he really wanted to see Joey Porter. Which he did. Ouch.

And in an impressive effort to take away the best weapon of their opponents, the Steelers defense held LT to 62 yards rushing. But even LT must have been surprised when Pu tracked him down from behind to save a sure touchdown on a 41 yard gain on a little pass from Brees. Think about that. Tomlinson is considered by nearly everybody to be the best back in the league and on a dead run, Polamalu chased him down like a dog chasing a plate of filet mignon. What'd I say about bringing your best dog? And your fastest dog, if it comes to that.

The only low point of the night for me, sigh, was kick and punt return coverage which I can see is going to be a recurring theme. [Y’all thought I was going to talk about Jeff Triplette and his crew's moronic officiating of the game, didn’t you? If my buddy Banyas’ dog had opposable thumbs to hold a No. 2 pencil, I think she would score higher on the SAT’s than Jeff Triplette. And she just ate a box of rat poison over the weekend.] But here’s the thing about special teams - the offense played great and the D had the Chargers completely shut down. Without getting into a ‘coulda woulda shoulda’ kinda situation, that game should have been 14 to zip at halftime, but instead, the Steelers kick coverage decided to breathe life into the anemic Chargers, giving up a return of 48 yards, allowing the Chargers offense to start at the Steelers 47 with about a minute and a half left. Why? Why does this happen over and over again?!

But I’m going to say this one more time, and loud enough so that the kids in the cheap seats can hear it - you put your players in a position to make plays and it’s up to them from there. So, after two weeks of teeth gnashing and rending of garments, not to mention calling for Bill Cowher's job (and various other body parts) following the depressing loss to the Patriots, Bill Cowher and Dick LeBeau did something that the NFL's genius in residence couldn't do - contain LaDanian Tomlinson  and the Chargers offense, with a gentle assist from the Chargers coach Marty Schottenheimer. Genius is as genius does, so go stick that in your vinyl-looking Patriots t-shirt Mr. Belichick.

Sports on the side: The Vikings make waves

Cruising, Minnesota style.

by Mark Weimer

The tough start to the season of the Minnesota Vikings just became a bit tougher according to most major media outlets including Yahoo! SPORTS, ESPN.com, and NFL.com. The football team, most recently heralded as stinking, has been accused of having sex. The coach refrained from commenting on the situation, but acknowledged that a public release of his football team having a sex party on board a chartered boat could possibly be a distraction. 'I'm not happy about it."

Sex, pivotal in reproduction, is most commonly practiced in private. Either on land or at sea.

Mewelde Moore, the Vikings leading rusher, either denied the allegations or sex itself. 'That's crazy. Sex? C'mon." Moore is not known for his communicative abilities and honesty.

Allegations of the incident(s) were brought forward by crew members, who claimed they had to step over and around players engaged in sexual activities. It is not clear whether contracts will be discussed with several of the crew members, whose movements through the horny team surpassed the abilities of all of the Vikings tailbacks. The coaching staff was not present to give the crew members sufficient looks.

On a brighter note, there were women involved.

It seems as though the Viking Sex Scandal, which may prove valuable in producing a good fan base, was brought on by veteran pressure. The chartering of the boat was a gift from the rookies, mimicking something like high school team initiation but with more pleasurable results. Although the entire team was not present on the boat, and not all of those on the boat were engaged in sexual activities, it is good to know that some Vikings players have reason to smile after their 1-3 start. There have been no reports of performance enhancers.

Although the crew was frightened, there was little risk of the ship sinking due to excess fluids. No injuries, barring emotional damage to the crew, were reported.

Tice hopes to bring the team together after its sexual release, as the news will cause an onslaught from media sources and will be the talk of comedians, other football teams, sports analysts, politicians, baseball teams, businessmen, teachers, janitors, electricians, dancers, scientists, health care workers, priests, and others. Tice hopes to strategically use this event to bring his players closer, though it is unknown if it can match the closeness shared on the chartered boat.

There was no list of who attended the aquatic rendezvous, but clearly those involved were a bit dense. There is no word of participation by star quarterback Daunte Culpepper, who hopefully does not take his game to the bedroom. The no-longer-decent quarterback struggled after the off-season departure of Randy Moss and has posted a 1-3 record with four touchdowns and ten interceptions. Not known for being superstitious, it is improbable that in his worst stretch since becoming a pro, Culpepper's forcing of some broad to choke may prevent himself from choking.

Although they search for ways to win, the Minnesota Vikings are finding ways to lose, even at those things at which it is difficult to be beaten.

No comments were made concerning improved playoff chances with a capsize.

Moore photo by Jeff Gross/Getty Images

Breaking News Not Broken By Dish: Ben’s Knee Mostly Injury-Free

Having few resources and virtually no access whatsoever (Though the cops and a few other official types HAVE called Dish back on occasion, thank you very much), Dish reports that Dish was unable to break the news that Steelers’ quarterback Ben Roethlisberger’s knee is not entirely bollixed up after all. Hyperextension and a bone bruise, that’s all. Might even start Sunday, the flexible little Ohioan. Forgive Dish for not getting this news to you first.

Unlike the Post-Gazette, which has many nice sportswriters with press box passes and the like, Dish has just one Jody DiPerna, one heck of a sportswriter in her own right, with a keen eye and a mastery of the language and all that. But she also has a job that pays her and, therefore has something of a monopoly on her time. This makes it all but impossible for her to ring up the Steelers’ headquarters, the Rooney family and/or every orthopedist in Pittsburgh to check up on Ben’s joint. So, seriously, give Dish a break.

I mean, Dish does have a few folks who advertise with us, but that money goes to keeping Penelope the Rat-chaser, Shirley the Docile and Max the Accountant in kibble and such. It’s not like that’s the kind of scratch that could lure Bob Smizik away from the P-G, for Pete’s sake. And even if it were, it’s not like Dish has a place for him to work. Dish has a teeny little home office, not one of those whole building things that the P-G has, with all its desks and phones and computers. Dude, get off Dish’s back.

And while we’re at it, the Pirates gave ex-Dodgers skipper Jim Tracy a three-year contract to manage the team. But you probably heard that already as the Post-Gazette’s Dejan Kovacevic gets paid to report that kind of stuff. Oh, Dish disappoints you, sir? Well excuse Dish.

Dish says good day. Good day, sir.

Photo: High School football team to Dish: "Keep out you hacks."

Of course this means Warhol...

From Hartford, Conn. to the Velvet Underground.

by Christopher Arnott, Warhol guy

Hartford Stage, a major regional theater in Connecticut, just held their annual Brand:NEW Festival of New Works, and one of the highlights was a new script about our Warhol called My Andy, penned by former thirtysomething actress Patricia Wettig. I didn’t attend the reading, but Holly Woodlawn did, of course, as the guest of honor at a post-reading party entitled DRAMA! (What level of the celebrity netherworld have you entered when you are reduced to being seen at parties which are theatrical recreations of parties you were at over 35 years earlier?) The Sept. 17 bash attempted to combine aspects of Warhol’s Factory life with his later, sparklier Studio 54 side; it was held in what was once the landmark Hartford department store G. Fox (in photo), and an actual Studio 54 DJ, Nicky Siano, manned the turntables.

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Haven’t seen Martin Scorsese’s Dylan doc yet, but was reflecting happily that Lou Reed made it onto PBS’ American Masters series years before Mr. Zimmerman. Then I remembered what a Dylan dilettante Lou was on those demo recordings which fleshed out the Velvet Underground box set. And then I heard iconic Greenwich Village ‘60s folkie Eric Andersen’s cover of Reed’s “Pale Blue Eyes” on Andersen’s new all-covers CD Waves: Great American Song Series Vol. 2. And I thought to myself, who do we thank for stripping all those annoying folk pretensions out of Lou Reed?

Reed lived in New York City in the early ‘60s, played acoustic guitar, wore denim, aped not just Dylan’s shades-and-jeans couture but his nasal voice and even his bleating harmonica style. And though it’s clear that Reed’s refreshingly rude awakening was largely his own doing (or a result of his collaborations/corruptions with established avant-gardist John Cale, or an electroshock side effect), Warhol may have been the guy who pushed his and the Velvets’ city-dwelling, street-dealing experimental pop-rock over the edge.

For a former farmboy who cut his artistic teeth in a city surrounded by hills and Amish folk, Warhol oozed urbanity. I’m beginning to believe that he had more influence over the Velvets than he’s given credit for. His favorite songs of theirs was “All Tomorrow’s Parties,” and his sponsorship of the band came when they were establishing themselves not as popsmiths but as social hooligans whose elongated feedback jams would clear clubs. Warhol was a commercially inclined climber who designed department store windows and applied lessons from the industrial revolution to modern art. He was not a coffeehouse denizen; he trained his camera on skyscrapers and fallen high-society waifs. When he sucked the Velvet Underground into his world to soundtrac