nah pop, no style

In line today at Rite Aid, I saw these:

Do you think they’re, yknow, THAT kind of brownie? The name and general aesthetic of the packaging point to that being the case.

Speaking of which, remember the Detroit cop who made pot brownies with confiscated weed then thought he was dead? I never actually listened to the whole tape.  I like the operator’s use of the term “browniewise,” and also the part where he asks the score of the Red Wings game.

First things first: my DAMN CROSSWORD I WROTE MYSELF ran in yesterday’s paper; it’s available online here for those of you who are out of town, but you’ll have to print that little baby out if you wanna do it, since we aren’t capable of making our own java interactive puzzle things. Please enjoy!

Furthermore, I ate with Ms. Holly G last night at the Green Mango/Noodle Hut on Braddock Ave.; it was literally the first time I’d been there since moving into the neighborhood 7 months ago. Tasty Thai food, though slightly pricier than the Bloomfield joints. I had the Penang Tofu and it was good. I’m intrigued by the “Magic Tofu” dish; maybe next time I’m there I’ll hit it up. Also, I dig the ambience and the tableware (which is usually something I don’t notice at restaurants).

Then I finished reading Jeff Vail’s A Theory of Power, which has been in my Top Serious Things in the sidebar for months (I’m bad at keeping up with that, and I started it then let it go a while then just finished it). I’m into it for a lot of reasons, and have a few qualms, and I’ll discuss that with you soon, maybe in the context of also discussing with you my other current read, which is the kids’ classic, My Side of the Mountain. Suffice it to say, I think Sam Gribley would do quite well in Jeff Vail’s hamlet economy.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I dig a BK Veggie Burger now and then when on the run. I’m not too proud to tell you this. I like a quick bite, I like the fries that are probably tainted with chicken blood, I like the doing something that normal people who aren’t hippies and hipsters do. Go ahead, don your “Murder King” t-shirt and heckle me next time you see me. I can take it.

That having been said, I observed last night the following conversation between two old men who were sharing a meal at the Haymaker Village Burger King, where a gangly little teenaged Andy once manned the burger broiler and the Crestor Cres Cor* oven:

Cranky Old Man #1: My son sent me a Christmas card the other day. I was surprised.

(Note: at this point, I think the conversation is going to turn toward how thoughtful that was, and how his son really cares about him.)

Cranky Old Man #1: These days, it’s so expensive.

Cranky Old Man #2: Yeah, stamps are, what, 42 cents each?

Cranky Old Man #1: And the cards are like a dollar each. For what? You get it, you open it to see who the hell it’s from and you throw it away.

Cranky Old Man #2: I told people not to send me Christmas cards anymore.

So much for sentimentality!

* I definitely meant Cres Cor, as in the brand of oven in which we baked the crossainwiches, but in fact wrote Crestor — a Freudian typo if ever I saw one. If there’s one thing you should always have on hand at BK, it’s some Crestor.

So there’s this new place close to work where I can get lunch. Let me tell you about it.

It’s called DumplinZ Cafe. With a “Z.” And all the things on the menu (this is where you click on that link and see for yourself) have cutesy names that are kind of annoying.

If you can get past that, though, it’s not a bad place to grab a lunch. The menu concept is: things wrapped in dough. Not just traditional “dumplings” (perhaps that’s why the “DumplinZ” moniker — copyright issues with the dumplings people) but raviolis and pierogies and stuff like that. I usually get pierogies, because that’s the kind of thing I like, right?

It’s a tiny bit pricy for what you get, I think, and there could be a little less fixin’s on each serving (I like that there’s sour cream and mushrooms and onions, but maybe a little less of each?) but on the whole it’s halfway decent. The people are pleasant, albeit still experiencing some new-restaurant bugs. The decor is just a step short of hilarious, with pictures of ‘plinz of all sorts dotting the walls (credited to Dumplinz Graphics, no less).

But yeah — three stars out of four maybe, or something like that? It’s something different, which is appreciated. It’s half a block from my building, which also garners it some points. Slightly larger portions and less cutesy terminology would gain it some more (but of course, the menu board and all that are already bought — might as well stick with it now . . .). I hope it survives and thrives on the hunger of ‘plin-starved office drones like myself!

DumplinZ Cafe: 411 Seventh Ave. (the Chamber of Commerce Building, but it’s actually facing onto Smithfield, between Bruegger’s and Duquesne Light). 412-281-6062.

This weekend — went to AIR Saturday for the Fantastic Voyagers shizzy. It was a good time — crashed on an air mattress (AIR mattress?!) a lot of the time, vegged to some sweet sound. A pleasant surprise was Anup Kishore Pradhan, a Baltimorean with whom I was heretofore unfamiliar. He played very pretty things on the guitar. Thumbs up!

I wish I could get away with this kind of shit for my job. Imagine opening up a newspaper and reading things like, “Yeah, this guy’s cool, he plays pretty things on a guitar. Go see him!”

Another highlight was Alexei singing about his cats.

Also yesterday, friends and Andy went to Schramm’s, out near the place of my origin (well, not really, but the place of my high school years). We bought pumpkins and ate fries and drank cider slushees (srsly) and it was a grand time, on a beautiful day. The “pumpkin patch” is a little hilarious because it’s a big open space next to the market where there are a bunch of refugee pumpkins that grew up on another hill then were trucked over for convenience. Also there are a bunch of rotten pumpkins around and it sometimes smells like dead animals. I have yet to carve my pumpkin, but rest assured I will, and it will rule.

Tomorrow I go to see the Whirling Dervishes. That should be something. I have no idea what I’ll be able to report back about that.

The past weekend, in a nutshell:

• Friday night, dined at Taste of India (perennial fave) with friend Alex (another perennial fave) then went to GA to see Eli Keszler and Ashley Paul. Was feeling exhausted and kind of beat-down in most ways, so I feel bad but I didn’t introduce myself or anything. They were really moving and awesome; Eli played drums and did a little guitar work, Ashley played clarinet and saxophone and did some electronics stuff and amazing vocal work that was at times pretty chilling. I liked the sax parts least (especially because they felt kind of crammed-in at the end there) and the vocal parts most but they all worked together well. Recommended if they’re coming your way.
• Saturday, did my (bit) part in the new Wrestling Team episode. Fun times; I’ll let you know when it comes out so you can watch for my big line. Also Jaimie getting bloody eyes.
• Watched the Steelers game with the father.
• Went to the new Half Price Books and grabbed a few books and records. Failed to double check ONE record and it was the one that turned out — no joke — to have the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack within, instead of Hall & Oates’ Rock ‘n Soul Part One. Sigh.
• Made some baked spiral pasta with Gimme Lean faux sausage and mozzarella, and also baked zucchini bread. Made a menu for this week’s dinners in hopes that knowing ahead of time what I want to make would encourage me to actually make dinners. The cooler weather is also inspiring me to want to cook more. Thank goodness for that.

Back in the late ’80s, when I was a wee one, my eldest sister liked going to Vincent’s Pizza Park in Forest Hills, and my mother didn’t appreciate us going there. Beyond the oceans of grease and the legendary cigarette ash topping, Vincent’s was rather shady — I don’t really know how you could fight, or even really get mad at someone, around that much pizza, but I guess there’s also a lot of beer there.

In 2007, there’s not so much in the way of cigarette ash, nor brawling, but Vincent’s is still the place in Pittsburgh for a huge, greasy, disgustingly great pizza. Thus, Friday evening, Brian, Thiago and I headed for the pizza park. (Seriously. Pizza “park”? Who came up with that? I expect a pizza park to have teeter totters in the vomitorium or something, but whatever.)

We split a small, one side with green peppers and the other side with pepperoni. They don’t skimp on toppings here; in addition to the copious amounts of grease, there were probably three green peppers on there, and a couple pigs as well. (Note to good vegetarians: if you split a pizza and get meat on half, the line is going to be very blurred. This goes for everywhere, but especially Vincent’s. I’m not a great vegetarian, so it’s cool.)

On a Friday night at Vincent’s, service won’t be horribly prompt, but that’s not really the main concern. There are a lot of people there, and you’re drinking beer, and everything’s cool. You will eventually get a bigass pizza that enlarges your stomach when you ingest it. You will sit under the old posters and newspaper clippings about local sports achievements, and you’ll have trouble with your Roman numerals when discussing Super Bowls. You will look at that mug shot of a young Sinatra and mistake it for a mug shot of a young Charles Manson and think about how great it would be to open a pizza shop with pictures of serial killers adorning the walls.

And when it’s all over you will take off eastbound on Ardmore Boulevard, rock down to Electric Avenue, and loop around, content with the contents of your belly, wondering why you didn’t bring a camera with which to document this for the blogosphere.

Vincent’s Pizza Park
998 Ardmore Blvd, Forest Hills
412-271-9181

I’ve been jammin’ smoothies hard this summer, keeping the blender out on the counter because half the time I want to make another smoothie before I’ve event washed the blender out. Here are somewhat-vague recipes for a couple fatty, tropical-tasting summer smoothies. They’re both vegan, to boot! (J is in Japan, I have to pick up the slack).

1. Pineapple-coconut nonsense.

INGREDIENTS (all amounts approximate; just guess, basically):

- 1/2 c orange juice
- 1 c chopped-up fresh pineapple
- 3 ice cubes
- 1/2 to 3/4 c coconut milk
- 1 banana, sliced/chunked into small-ish pieces

Blend pineapple and OJ until pineapple is as smooth as it’ll get. Then add ice cubes and blend more; add coconut and banana, blend until smooth. Serve in a big huge frosty glass or two. Serves two normal folks, one smoothie glutton like myself.

2. Avocado malarkey.

INGREDIENTS (all amounts approximate; just guess, basically):

- 1 ripe avocado (that’s not approximate, that’s exact), cut into small chunks
- 1 c pineapple juice -or- 3/4 c orange juice and 1/2 c fresh pineapple chunks
- 1 c low-fat coconut milk, or, hey, fresh coconut juice, what the hell.
- Juice of 1 lime

Blend the avocado and juice/pineapple first, then add the rest and blend till smooth. Put this in TWO frosty glasses; even such a glutton as myself can’t handle all of this one at once.

Last night, I made some eh-okay pasta: penne with chopped up raw tomatoes, mozarella and an olive oil-balsamic-lemon juice dressing. I’ll eat the leftovers, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it again. I think I used too many tomatoes, and I don’t like raw tomatoes a lot in that context anyway. Oh well.

I then dove into Squirrel Hill to flyer for Joe Jack Talcum. In case you wanted reason to think I’m pathetic, I bribed myself into doing this in the rain by promising myself a bottle of vodka from the liquor store on Murray if I did a decent job of flyering. I hit the regulars (warm reception at the Exchange, icy stares of suspicion at Avalon, goofy nice dudes at Te Cafe who were already planning on coming to the show, doorway of Jerry’s) then grabbed a bus and made it home in time to watch the majority of “America’s Got Talent.”

Yes, that’s right. You probably know me as someone not easily enticed by the camp/kitsch/irony of stupid reality/competition TV shows. However, I have become a huge fan of “America’s Got Talent” this year. For this I credit:

1. Living alone without the internet.
2. The variety of acts featured — this isn’t a bunch of assholes who think they can sing.  This is a bunch of assholes who think they can sing PLUS a bunch of people who belly dance, do acrobatics with chihuahuas, break stuff with their butts, etc. etc.
3. A pre-rehab Hasslehoff prone to losing his shit at random intervals.

The guy toward the end who sang the Police song made my heart feel warm. I hope he goes far. Same goes for Boy Shakira. His act was awesome in that it brought out two major cultural issues: mainstream treatment of trans people (you heard the competing cheers and boos in a way that doesn’t happen often on the show — the disagreement was intense), and the double standard inherent in favoring someone who’s attractive performing over someone who’s not as attractive. Shakira and Boy Shakira honestly do the same exact act; Shakira is a hot Latina lady, Boy Shakira is a kinda flabby guy. I’m glad Sharon and Piers moved him through, even if in doing so they moved the Hoff to angry theatrics.

The biggest disappointment of the night, though, was the judges’ dismissal of the Tuvan-style harmonic singing banjo guy. He was charismatic and talented, though I’ll admit the combination of throat singing and banjo ditties — especially self-referential banjo ditties about the origins of throat singing — is a bit awkward. But still, dude isn’t far removed from Arrington DeDionyso. And the judges’ treatment of him was a bit harsh, not to mention ignorant. It’s not easy to sing like that, frog-sounding or not.

YOU: Guy in a white button-down shirt and red hard hat with a shopping cart, giving away little boxes of Honey Bunches of Oats on the corner in front of Bruegger’s.

ME: Skinny dude getting a bagel.

I didn’t want any cereal; you lamented the fact that I didn’t want free breakfast, then warned me that at about 2 PM I’d get hungry and wish I had taken that Honey Bunches of Oats.

Are you an employee or a Yippie or just someone who hates Bruegger’s?

This is in or around Bruegger’s on 7th Ave.
It is NOT ok to contact this poster with further breakfast cereal solicitations.