nah pop, no style

When you’re unemployed like certain of us, every day is like the weekend. But for the rest of you, the real weekend is fast approaching, and there are many things to do with yourself during this time, none of which is a Steelers game.

Tomorrow evening I may well end up downtown at the gallery crawl, even though I don’t know much about what’s going on there (other symptoms of chronic unemployment include apathy, lethargy and a general tendency to not pay attention). Built to Spill is also playing, at Mr. Smalls, but that’s in Millvale (not public transit-friendly, or particularly bike-friendly) and I didn’t get a ticket, and I’m getting stingy in these dragging weeks of incomelessness) (WHICH REMINDS ME, I get my last paycheck tomorrow, despite not having worked a day or this month, because the paychecks are so delayed at my former place of employment).

Saturday, Medications are playing at Garfield Artworks with Allies and some bands I don’t know. I suspect I will go to this show. This is after the IMC meet thing, where I will see you. Also, AIR is having an all-day fundraiser show event thing with lots of bands, from noon till midnight. $10 donation for that.

Sunday, I think we’re probably finishing up the mixing for the long time coming split LP (the label, who is also my roommate and landlord, is threatening to drop us if we don’t hurry up), and/or I might head to the parents’ house to indulge their need for someone to do physical labor. That’s still to be seen.

This morning I woke up with what felt like a bowling ball or something in my gut. A big nervous knot that felt like it might explode and send bone shrapnel all about the place, piercing passerby. Throughout the day, some less-than-desirable things transpired, but the bowling ball sort of disintegrated in the process, and that, at least, is good.

Some more desirable things transpired, though, including Jo pimping my ride as a birthday gift. Holy goddam. That bicycle is ready to be ridden.

Also, there was a power outage in the afternoon, and in the evening the traffic lights at Friendship and Pearl were freaking out, going from red to green at three-second intervals and at times going solid red with green blinking at the same time. Until right now, this did NOT make me think of my earlier post about traffic anarchy in the Netherlands, but now it kind of does. Monderman’s anarchy is the IWW type, though, and this was like, Anarchist Cookbook shit.

(As an aside, you really ought to come to the Indymedia Meet-N-Greet described below on Saturday, both because it will be interesting and because I feel like a jerk about missing out on some publicity opportunities because I was/am being a lazy fool and I want people to show up. Hopefully maybe there will be food. And you get to talk to me.)

In pleasant Internet-related news, I spent some birthday money recklessly and we now have a (fully functional) wireless router of our own, so it’s back to dispatching these reports from places like the kitchen, my bed, and the john.

I trolled about the commercial strip of Monroeville this morning, purchasing things like picture frames, a fall sweater (Seriously. It looks like something that would be worn in an ad for the Clarion Autumn Leaf Festival), and a triple EXXXTREME razor, important as I have shaven my face again. I did not go into The Dreaded Music Store again, though I shuddered as I passed it. I didn’t even go in the nice one.

I have a job interview on Wednesday (finally!) (I can’t believe I’m sort of looking forward to a return to the 8:30-to-5, but I’m aiming to have at least half as much to do with my days as the people I care about have) and I’m also hoping to read Ulysses finally, or at least put a dent in it, since my mom got me a sort of accompanying text that explores Dublin’s cartography at the time of the novel.

And I saw the family yesterday (some of the little ones a bit hyped up, but generally in good shape), and the Steelers lost (but it was close!) (I have such a muddled relationship with football, which perhaps I will explore one of these days), and I’ve eaten much too much in the way of sweets lately.

Time to find some self-control, it seems, for a lot of reasons.

So for my birthday, The Girl and I went to see Corpse Bride, which was cute and short, the way I like my movies. (Insert stupid joke about women here.) The way movies (and books and any sort of narratives) treat death and afterlife and zombie-ism or whatever always interests me, so, even though it’s a kid-oriented story, it made my wheels turn.

Also, we read some Jews for Jesus pamphlets (source of my post title . . . I never said they weren’t clever) and ate a white pizza at Aiello’s, which resulted in her becoming rather sick-ish. But not before getting the old tattoo-related talk from the guy who works there with the funny braided goatee a la Scott Ian.

(We ran into Tyler whilst reading the J4J propaganda, and he mentioned that they had “gotten him” the night before. I asked if they converted him, and he said that they had gotten him to become a Jew, but didn’t succeed in pushing the Jesus part.)

Today I return to that place whence I came (well, not really, but that place whence I went to high school, and where my parents call home still) for some family action. I’ve been promised that my 3-year-old nephew will be hopped up on drugs still following an allergy incident earlier in the week. That should be amusing.

I missed this. I mean, I knew I was interviewed, but I didn’t pick up a City Paper last week, because I’m unemployed and don’t do anything, and for whatever reason neither did my roommates. Then over the weekend someone said “Hey I saw you in City Paper!” and then I forgot about it again.

So here: me, fully aware of the irony. (Mr. Mock shares with me the trait of being a reporter who knows his angle on a story and structures his interview to reflect that. I don’t mean that as a criticism, although it could be one — I think he, like other good reporters I’ve encountered, has a good enough head on his shoulders to do it well. Whoops. Did I just say that? I mean, DOWN WITH THE CORPORATE MEDIA!)

Just so you know:

This weekend is Little Italy Days in Bloomfield.

This weekend also contains my birthday, which I share with the Model T, Nirvana’s “Nevermind,” The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Blood Sugar Sex Magik,” Linda McCartney and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

All I want for my birthday this year is spam comments on my blog.

So, all of the shows I’m booking this fall (as far as I know, at this juncture) just happen to fall on one weekend at the beginning of November. Thus, Andyfest 2k5, November 4-6. Here’s what I have for you so far. More details forthcoming.

Friday, Nov. 4
facedowninshit (Stoner metalcore from NC, now on Relapse)
Sequoia (Stoner riffage from Pgh, now on Myspace)
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God (Locals who will kill it)
one more tba
@ Roboto
7pm, $5

Saturday, Nov. 5
The Close (Adorable indie rockers from Atlanta, Goodnight Records)
A couple locals tba
@ Quiet Storm
9pm I guess? Price tba

Sunday, Nov. 6
Bellafea (Sweet girl and sweet guy playing sweet dynamic indie, from NC)
the sea, like lead (That’s my band)
Other locals tba
@ Modernformations
7pm, I guess $5.

If you happen to be interested in all three shows, let me know, we can work out an Andyfest Pass package deal or something.

So, this evening The Girl and I went to Thai Cuisine, where I hadn’t been in quite a while, despite its proximity to home. I’m usually really into it, more so than Thai Gourmet down the street, which is also pretty good. I had a little bit of anxiety about it after I ate there once last fall with the roommates and Charissa and ended up, through no fault of the food, vomiting up and down Millvale Avenue a few hours later. It was a stomach flu, but poorly timed.

I’ve been back since then, though, and tonight we went only for me to find that the Pad Thai has changed. Not a lot, but it has changed. There is now broccoli, which is okay since I like broccoli, and there is a little bok choy, which is not okay since I despise bok choy. And the carrots, which used to be grated, are now chopped into little stars and stuff, which is cute, but not the way I like my carrots.

So, I was a little disappointed. Then I began to poke around for my vegetarian chicken ham. And I didn’t see it. And I poked more. And I found one little piece, sort of a heel of chicken ham, kind of like the end of a sausage link. I ended up finding one more piece. I was peeved.

Then The Girl saved my dinner by bumping her water glass over, causing it to shatter across the table.

Since it was possible that shards may have gotten into my meal, I was made another dish. And this one had the right amount of chicken ham. And despite the bok choy and other aesthetic changes, it was pretty good. And the service, as always, was excellent (I’m usually stressed by restaurants because the servers give me more attention than I want, but not so here!) And, as usual, it was pretty quiet even though there were a fair number of people there.

So, a good grade for you, Thai Cuisine, once again. You nearly lost it this time, but you (and I) got lucky.

(By way of a quick PS — I was always endeared to Lou Pappan, of the now-defunct Pappan’s Family Restaurants of the Pittsburgh area in the ’80s and early ’90s, whose tag line I steal for this post title. However, I learn now that Lou and his family were responsible for the launch of the career of “Disco Bob” O’Connor, city council a-hole and heir apparent to the rough scene known as the mayor’s office. Lou is no longer endearing to me in the least. Your whimsical sloganeering does not outweigh the grave offense for which you are responsible, Old Man Pappan.)

I went to the post office today to get a book of stamps (Antique Toys, if you must ask) and there was a line. Behind the backs of the people in line there was a machine. This machine was like one of those machines from which you get your can of pop or little bag of Cheez-its. But this machine dispenses stamps. Books of stamps.

So, figuring I was the target market for this particular device, I decided to go for it. I located the number for the Antique Toys and began to load my cash into the device.

*BZZZZZZZ*

It began to take my $5 bill.

*ZZZZZZZB*

It spit it right back.

This continued a few times until I gave up and realized that I would have to either approach the counter or bring out the big guns, which is a bad metaphor to use in a post office, but which simply refers to my $20 bill.

Out came the guns, and out of the change dispenser came my change: 12 dollar coins (6 Sacagaweas, 6 Susan B. Anthonys), 2 quarters and 2 nickels.

Twelve dollar coins.

I feel sort of like I did after the couple of times when I sold my textbooks back to the shady truck dude on Bigelow after the semester and he gave me loads of $2 bills. What do I do? The dollar coin. An exercise in redundancy. A step backward from lightweight, easy to transport currency back in the direction of precious stones and metals.

The dollar coin is so superfluous, the U.S. Mint’s official Dollar Coin webpage features the motto, “It’s money. So use it.” If you were a food company with a product whose tag line was, “It’s food. So eat it.” you’d probably be on your way out of business.

Not to say that the U.S. Mint isn’t headed there itself.

So, here I stand, a pocket full of ways for the Treasury to say it honors women’s roles in U.S. history without running the risk of dissing any dead presidents or Ben Franklins. I will let you know when and where I use them, and what kind of reaction I get from the person on the other side of the transaction.

Until then, I will continue to remind myself: “It’s money. So use it.”

I am now officially TURNING OFF COMMENTS.

This was the last straw:

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