This is my leg

and my leg is usually in Upper Lawrenceville. That's how this post maintains relevancy about sacrilegous Lawrenceville. Maybe someday, when I have finished this house project, I'll change the name to Sacrilegious Lawrenceville. 

Someday...

My business partner drew the image, I picked it randomly from his sketch books, and Artnoose  poked me until I bled.

When we finished, I thanked Artnoose for the body art; she thanked me for allowing her to draw on me. It's a good trade.

Earth Day on Main Street

If only I had hired a photographer to follow me around and get images of me in the ditch with "Bony Toffee." (Not his real name.) The future ex-director of a community development group in Lawrenceville and I stomped around a sapling to compact the dirt, making sure these folks on Main Street could have their tree and eat it too. 

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So many times, the residents say, have folks on Lawrenceville's finer streets have these newly planted trees been hunted down by unruly, impatient Car Parkers, but these determined residents keep coming back. They keep encouraging young men and women with strong backs (and intact hymens) in the surrounding communities to learn the tricks of the tree tenders, just to keep up with all the Sap-thirsty Drivers out there, bent on making CO-2 and CO-2-making babies, who lust for the disheveled pornography of a tree's branches running parallel to the ground. Why, in the first twenty minutes alone, I witnessed three Driveby Fellings. 

Note: This photo is fake. No trees were harmed in the retelling of this tragic tale. The motives behind driver-caused tree injury, however, are quite real. 

Overheard in a conversation between two drivers when they had to pause and wait for a truck hauling saplings to a new treepark in Lawrenceville:

"I'm not just looking out for the sidewalk-using pedestrians out there--I'm looking out for myself. If trees start pushing these weaseling muskrats who use sidewalks out into the streets, then the trees won't be far behind."

Similar to traditional vampyre folklore, to defeat the beast, one must stamp it out at the root. Vampyres are killed much more swiftly when they are young, stake through the heart, as the chest cavity has yet to develop years of muscle, or as we've seen in cushy, tax-funded Vampyre Reservations in their native Transylvania, layers and layers of garlic-resistant adipose tissue due to ample supply of macro- and micro-nutrient-dense blood. This is what the driver fears: Healthy, mature trees living off the Urban Earth, like a barnacle thriving off the host. To the driver, the stationary tree is a colony of spreading ringworm, dropping its bacteria around it as it grows, while the driver's car is a more host-beneficial flea, coming and going as it pleases, avoiding the dig of the owner's claws and the pipebombs of pesky bicyclists. 

Time and time again, from tree hole to tree hole on Main Street, home owners sang the same sob story about being vandalized by self-professed oblivious drivers, drivers who backed right into these young trees  as if they were mere parked cars on a crowded street. Everyone expects this sort of push and shove, a give and take of bumpers, tail lights shaking their feathers while the next car's headlights change from speed-bump induced nods to horizontal wags of disapproval. The trees get taken out, and the Communist World Party chalks up another victory in the dead baby column.

But why would I show up and plant trees to make the nicest street in the neighborhood Even Nicer when everyone living there is sure our work is doomed for failure? Well, it's just so I can someday stand outside my home on the other side of the neighborhood, directing every move of the strong-backed, hymen-intact volunteers who have changed their work and sleep schedules to come out early on a Saturday Morning in April, rain or shine, so I can sit in my safe, wealth-appreciating home on the corner, worrying about some Fuckwad who's going to back onto the sidewalk and destroy my tree, which by the way, is leaning just a bit to the left. Could you reposition the rootball while I smile and wave for this photo-op from my $10,000 porch?

KThnxBye

Early Insulation Survives the Reagan Administration's Attack on Atheism, scoffs at Urban Redevelopment, saves The Hill District from Flightless Birds

During his stay in Pittsburgh as mayor from 1946-1959, David Lawrence did a lot to clean up this goddamn town. And he did this early environmental work while establishing ties across political chalk lines on the asphalt; he met many Pittsburgh billionaires (mostly Republican) halfway across the 3/4 inch line that signifies children's sidewalk chalk was used when these deliberators met to discuss citywide matters:

"What do we do about all of this smog?" asked Robber Baron Mellon.

"Let's throw everything in the rivers," answered Lawrence, walking that fine line without even a threat of smudge. "And while we're at it, outlaw coal-burning fireplaces in homes--In-home Natural Gas lines for everyone!"

"I'll sign that bill, but only if you bury a provision Banning Atheism deep inside."

In unison, the Pittsburgh locals responded, "Who the fuck would say such a thing? And why wasn't this quote attributed to anyone in the pages of history from which this blog post was born?"

Always the sneaky little weasel, Ronald Reagan authored that quote. Still an actor at the time, Mr. Reagan was merely reciting an oddly appropriately timed line for his latest film, the still prophetic, and eerily Nostradamic, "Mr. Reagan Goes to Washington." Pittsburgh's police force shot the Californian dead on the spot.

Reagan, sporting a period- and race-appropriate flat top, and the local Irish Catholic cops, were, of course, acting; the death was faked, and with his career cliffhanger leaning toward newness and reinvention, Reagan entered politics. Three and a half decades later, Reagan fulfilled his Former Life's Foretelling: He took the White House with the popular vote, living there for eight years, where in 1987, he, with all but The George Lucas Vote ("What about the Force as an alternative to Creationism?") outlawed Atheism in the United States. All of this I outlined in my children's story biography about Reagan, "Ronald Reagan: An All American (Atheist Abolisher)". 

Many folks beyond the Pittsburgh region don't realize that any of this even happened; after all, the Bible Belt grew notches and notches around this progressive beacon of intellectual bile, until it choked our godlessness out of us like a tube of tomato paste. Some of us puked it up, others swallowed hard and forgot; our bottled-up atheism emerged as cancers, racism, and a great need for pierogies. 

But Lawrence, whose preemptive battle against unproductive legislation, such as Reagan's attack on atheism, was well versed on dealing with such Potemkin Tour Guides. Reagan wanted to push all he saw as unsavory in the world under a facade of Christian Actor Utopia in an attempt to impress the Queen (who was later saved by the Sex Pistols' J. Rotten), while David Lawrence wanted to build a cleaner world through regulation, both in the factory and the home.

In the '50s, when Lawrence, as mayor of Pittsburgh, outlawed coal-burning stoves in townhomes, he was imagining what Peter Tosh would later repeat in Bob Marley's "Get up, Stand Up." 
"But if you know what life is worth, You will look for yours on Earth." Lawrence knew that heaven on earth wouldn't look like the shoulders under industry's black Coal Dust Dandruff. The outlawing of coal-burning stoves in Pittsburgh homes changed the air quality in the city immediately. It was like handing out ventilators to everyone in town, but cheaper and less fashionably obtrusive. As part of the city-wide changes, Lawrence partnered with Owens Corning, the building supply giant, to create pourus shingles that encouraged the mitosis of coal particles in the outside air through the roofing material, where the particles met NEW! OWENS CORNING BUILDING FIBERGLAS INSULATION, which trapped the particles for good. 

Kind of like an Ecto-Containment Unit for pollution, but without the intrusion of the EPA's Walter Peck. 
Lawrence used this environmental teaming to make some bigger moves in the literary and sports worlds: He married Rachel Carson, for whom he ghostwrote Silent Spring, the week after Pittsburgh's air was purified; and he watched from the Press Box as the Urban Redevelopment Authority OK'd the Pittsburgh Penguins destroying of the Hill District. (Reagan popped up again as the URA was writing Historic Racism through the Scapegoat of Development and tried ban the inclusion of Black Folks in Hockey, but lobbyists on both sides of the argument informed Reagan that "Black Folks just don't like Hockey." Reagan again tried to press the issue into law when he took Presidential Office in 1981, but decided to put more focus on upgrading Ketchup's status of 'condiment' to a fully recognized 'vegetable.')

But here I am now, in 2009, with some NEW! FIBERGLAS that has grown old. The trapped coal dust, whose capturing from the air has saved millions of Pittsburghers (so they could, in turn, leave for the Sun Belt or other economically thriving regions), is now harmless, the equivalent to depleted uranium in the hands of pacifists. But it's still so filthy! What do I do with bags of Used Coal-Dust Containment Fiberglas? And when I say bags, I mean an entire attic floor covered in bags and bags and bags. And bags.

Does anyone know of any Spent-Up Insulation Recycling programs? Construction Junction doesn't seem to have anything. But if I don't soon find a way to dispose of this, I may soon end up with a critical mass of Past Industry's Ghosts:

(Like this, only dressed like a Chimney Sweep and Covered in Soot.)

Please, Mr. Officer! I'm nearly 26! I have a home! I'm just restless with busy feet!

I dragged my friend Sara along with me to the 10th Ward Lawrenceville Block Watch Meeting tonight. Well, dragged isn't really the right term here--Bribed fits much more nicely, as I gave her two crisp $50 bills just before we walked over to the Church at 53 and Carnegie, right across the street from 5272 Carnegie, a house which I will live in someday, just so long as my occupation of it is right in the lord's eyes. I never thought God would be my neighbor, but Jesus gets a lot closer to some people. You know, like Molestation close. Anyway, here's a picture of 5272 Carnegie:

You can't see the Church in that Photo, but goddammit if you can't feel its presence.

Luke Ravenstahl was in attendance today, speaking for the first 20 minutes of the meeting before running off to another, less-important commitment. I mean, what's more important than speaking to a bunch of old, dying people who are already going to vote for you just because you're young and have sold out your generation? Luke Ravenstahl grew up in a Fine North Side Neighborhood, but he grew up a bit too quickly, if you ask me.
"My grandfather always said, 'Nothing good happens after midnight." I would have quoted Jacob Bannon or that guy who vocalizes for Pig Destroyer; but both would have been innapplicable and a bit too colorful for all the pasty whites and greys and cigarette-stained yellows in the church tonight. (Can you guess which group I'm a part of?)

And so the war on Youth continues, as the Pittsburgh Curfew Center will open its doors in the coming weeks on Dilthridge Street in Oakland. The young people of this dying city are given an ultimatum to stay inside when they're at their most creative (or restless), while their lonely, old family members are conveniently sleeping or dying in bed every evening at the start of curfew. And the next day, both old and young are at it again, with the young wandering around and being exuberant and boisterous, and the elderly wishing for Permanent Midnight.

But are the elderly really that concerned with young people being up late and committing crimes? I think it's a little more complicated than that, but I may just be too tired (or old) to be able to explain it.

But I'll try.

You see, when an old person can see an adolescent enjoying him or herself in the streets, it brings out a nostalgic sensation; when they see these kids on boards with wheels or bikes with flat tires, it makes them remember similar times growing up, except their memories are full of The Great Depression and Gin Rummy and Other Things Old People Like. Although I have no published documents to back me up, I feel with great confidence that the elderly have dropped their TVs and have forgotten about the New York Mets, and are now just staring out their windows in hopes of catching the Youth at Work in the street. Old people don't want to rob the youth of their Night Time Rights--They just don't want to miss out on anything. So they're staying up later to watch lil' Jimmie doing that kickflip off the Cast Iron Jesus in the churchyard. This leads to A.M. crankiness in the elderly, which prevents them from practicing the previous day's witnessed skate tricks while the youth are in school (or asleep) and therefore unable to critique the elders' attempts at re-co-opting the youthful vigor that they sold years before for cheap funeral plots and soggy, yet still challenging peanut brittle.

And that's a similar problem that I have, except that there's too much to do for me to be able to sleep soundly. I keep waking up with the fear that I didn't do all that I could have done the previous day, so I sit in my bed and rewrite classic punk songs until I can get back to sleep. Here's a song about Age, Luke Ravenstahl, and how it all shapes up to creating a better city, sung to the tune of "My Congressman" by the Bay Area band, Fifteen.

"My future magistrate says Luke can set curfew for kids that he hasn't made; He's just one dad."

That would be sending the wrong message.

"Did you ever notice:

On every playground,

in every vacant lot,

in every empty pool,

at every ward meeting--

the message is "Be young but don't do what memories of youth recall

It's not a law enforcement issue, being youthful's a disease."

When the Center is opened, a city-wide curfew for 'burghers 16 and under will be enforced from 11 a.m. to 6 a.m. An extra hour will be given during the weekend.

"Do you think that ever kept anyone from being young?"

There's a chimney under there...

I went manic and tore the plaster off the wall in the downtown side of our second floor living room two nights ago.
The plan here is to clean the chimney brick, poke in a nozzle to fill the columns full of expanding insulation (or not), and repoint the brick, leaving a 120 year old 'chimbley' exposed and ready for judgment.
My friend Dan recently bought two houses in my neighborhood. The seller used the word 'chimbley' to describe the brick and mortar column running up through the center of house 1 of 2. His words live on in Upper Lawrenceville, through us, as we make sure it's known we're better than everyone in 10th Ward Larryville. At the grocery store, on the sidewalk, in our own heads. But we're both unassuming and proud, one of us living cheaply and writing history, the other gentrifying another 20 square feet with every chiseled brick. ...
I'm going to use an old world mortar recipe for repointing the chimney.
Three Parts Fine Grade Sand
One part Lime
This recipe, according to this article on This Old House's site, is appropriate for the age of the brick and mortar in our house. The brick was softer back then, and since brick expands and contracts with changes in temperature, we need a mortar that will be soft enough to allow this sort of fluctuation in mass. Kind of like a belt for you business folk, elastic waistbands in sweatpants for the rest of yinz. Or something like that.
Modern mortar work is done with tougher bricks and, accordingly, tougher, quicker-drying Portland Cement. Using this on old brick can suffocate the brick, putting a stop to its normal push and pull, which makes the brick more brittle and increases the likelihood of cracking and an Early Brick Death Syndrome. Most bricks outlive even the most robust humans in any region. But I'll tell you who a brick wall won't outlive.

That's right. And don't tell me the pyramids are older than Jesus, because I've never seen the pyramids; I've felt Jesus's hand guiding me on the walkway above multiple lanes of traffic. I've felt his presence in keeping me safe when in the company of people who don't look like me. I even found some of his hair in my ancient mortar mix, which is probably even stronger as a fortifier than traditional horse hair. We'll see who's still standing in another 7,000 years: My shoddy wall, a goddamn horse or my lord and saviour.
Yeah, we'll see.