Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Oh Mandy, You Came And You Built Me A Garage

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and sturdy is the bra that supports the boobs...

*actual ad from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

How disappointed am I that a new Miss One-Day Garages has been selected without my knowledge?  Very.  VERY disappointed.

Once again, I missed the pomp and the pageantry that is the Miss One Day Garages competition.  Let us pause for a few seconds to remember the glory that was last year's Miss One-Day Garage, the lovely Katie Marsh and her fabulous, hardly-fake-looking-at-all, rack.

But, out with the old and in with the new, I always say, so a hearty HELLO to Mandy.  Sorry I couldn't be there to see your coronation, honey, but I know you'll serve us well.  (And should circumstances dictate that you can't fulfill your duties as Miss One-Day Garages, I'm sure whichever bimbo was 1st Runner-Up will fill your shoes quite nicely.)

As a public service, I've transcribed Mandy's answer during her question-and-answer session from the pageant.  It's obvious to see that this is what put her over the top for the victory:

Q.  Recent polls have shown that a fifth of Americans don't have garages.  Why do you think this is?
A.  I personally believe the U.S. Americans are unable to have garages because, uh, some uh...people out there in our nation don't have cars, and, uh, I believe that our auto industry like such as South Africa and, uh, the Iraq everywhere like, such as and...I believe that they should, our drivers education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. err, uh, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our garages for our children.

Rock on, Miss One-Day Garages.

UPDATE:  A quick google search revealed the image below. 

Giddyup!

Bowels of the World Unite -- You Have Nothing to Lose But Your Lunch

Short on time today -- but I've been meaning to share the latest trend in names that have hit my spam box: (Now updated to include even more fabulous names...)

If I was ever to become an adult film star, I would SO use "Ranching G. Gladiator" as my nom-de-porn. 

In Which I Sink to a New Low

Nobody can ever accuse the P-G of not taking advantage of the multimedia benefits that the Web offers over the dead-tree edition.

Specifically, enjoy the sound of leaking natural gas from this story about a gas line break at The Point.  Or, if you would prefer, I can transcribe for you, as follows:

SssssssssSSSSSSsssssSSSSSSS!

Not to be outdone, we here at SWSMMM have managed to score from live audio -- once again, of leaking natural gas -- that was loosed during this meeting between Governor Rendell, Lt. Governor Charles Noll, and Tom Murphy.  Enjoy!

(Picture stolen with impunity from the delightful PittGirl.  We mention PittGirl here in the hopes that if we mention PittGirl enough times, PittGirl will not be overly upset that we have stolen a picture from PittGirl.)

(P.S. -- PittGirl.)

A Nativity to Relish

Bob says:

While most of you will have to wait until December 25th to open your presents, I've already received a lovely gift from the fine folks at Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe.

I've discussed my love of the Brighton Collector's Cups before -- here and here, for example.  There's something about kitschy 70's tv characters who have been transmogrified into hot dogs and who are also EATING hot dogs that, to me, symbolizes all that is right with America.

And speaking of America -- at long last, thanks to Brighton Hot Dogs, the birth of our Lord and Savior, Hot Dogs, the crass commercializion of Christmas, and jingoistic Americanism have all been combined into one piece of 12-ounce polymer perfection.

Ladies and gentlemen, dear Subdivided Meets Marathon readers, I give you -- the 2006 Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe Christmas Collectors Cup:

Mere words cannot express how much I enjoy this cup.  The fact that the Wise Men are hot dogs -- and that Balthazar appears to have replaced his gift of gold with the gift of mustard -- well, that's a stroke of genius.  Santa, too, who as we all know was present at the virgin birth, is also hot dog.

Which begs the question -- why not go the whole nine yards and make Mary, Jesus and Joseph into hot dogs as well?  I suppose you could make the argument that hot dogs aren't kosher, but last time I checked, Hebrew National made quite a fine frankfurter product.  Jesus could've been one of those little tiny appetizer-sized weiners, and they could have wrapped him in a swaddling crescent roll.

And Old Glory waves proudly over the stable, proving once and for all what we already knew -- Jesus is an American.

Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man returns on January 2, 2007.

This Is What It Sounds Like When Skanks Cry

(Credit for that title, and for alerting me to this particular news tidbit, goes to my pal Chris.)

"I, like, cry when I listen to it, it's so good." -- Paris Hilton on her new cd.  If there's a more nauseating, talentless figure in the past quarter-century of pop culture, I'm not sure who it is.

K-Fed, perhaps?

But enough about pseudo-celebs.  Let's get the inside dirt on Mary Worth.  Apparently after 60+ years, Mary is an overnight sensation -- and she owes it all to Aldo Kelrast.

Overheard on Your Right

The sun dapples through the trees above the open weekend road early Sunday morning in Rock Creek Park, an oasis of shade and greens and browns and stones and water in the middle of the divided city, as I start out on a 12 mile training run.  No cars, no traffic, wide open lanes, an occasional jogger, a baby stroller, a skater.

Early morning's the best, but a 12 mile run takes up a space of time in the day, and soon the early morning stretches to mid morning and the surroundings get noticeably more crowded, more intense, less serene.  The rolling stream, the breeze, the clap of feet on the road replaced by the whir, the creak, and the forceful, urgent, insistent, jarring voice from behind:

"ON YOUR LEFT!"

Cyclists in multi-hued full body Speedos speed past within a foot of your life.

Why does the warning shout from the passing, roaring cyclist often sound less a friendly verbal cue of "Excuse me" and more like an order to "Get the BLEEP out of my way?" 

The open Rock Creek lanes are dominated by cyclists on the weekends, traveling alone or in packs, many decked out in form fitting highly advertised Tour de Ponce gear. I have to say it makes for an edgy time in what otherwise might be a peaceful, solitary training experience for me, and the road, and the iPod, and the sore knees, and all the other foolish runners on the weekend long run. When the inevitable and honestly unnecessary call comes (We can hear you pedaling and wheezing quite clearly from a quarter mile away, oh intense cycling warrior), whether it's "On Your Left," or "Passing on Your Left," or "Watch Your Left Man," or "Mind Your Left," it leaves me hunting futilely for a sharp, witty, non-threatening, unspoken but thoroughly cutting retort.  I've considered these:

"Ignoring You on the Right."

"Chafing on Your Right."

"Admiring Your Balls.  On the Right."

"That's an Awfully Slimming Outfit from My View. On Your Right."

Then again.  You catch hints and whiffs of pricelessly clever cyclists in conversation as they whip by that it makes the experience worth it.  I overheard these little seriously delivered snippets just this weekend, well worth the "On Your Left" hassle just to listen and enjoy:

Male Cyclist A:  "You'd think by the sound of the site that it's a porn site, but believe it or not: It's not a porn site!"

Female Cyclist B:  "I'd like to see the results of YOUR doping test, see what they'd turn up after last night."

Male Cyclist C:  "I tell you...three men in one bed.  That's spells one volatile situation."

Indeed.  But perhaps less volatility than one finds in the eternal weekend road struggle between bicyclists and...oh, the rest of the free-wheeling world.

Let the Yiffing Begin

I can't believe that I hadn't heard about it until today.

Friends, especially my fellow Pittsburghers, today is a monumental day.  We, my friends, are about to be host to Anthrocon '06.

And what, you may well ask, is Anthrocon?

Only the BIGGEST AND BESTEST furry convention on the East Coast, that's what!  Yes, that's right -- this very weekend, furry lifestylers will be getting yiffy in giant furpiles throughout our fair city.

It's a monumental event for us.  You can have your baseball All-Star Game.  For my money, nothing makes me prouder of our fair city than to find out that we've been labelled furry friendly. 

I'm hoping against hope that this guy makes it:

Only in America is Meat a Condiment for Meat

Hot on the heels of yesterday's discussion of KFC's disgusting new Famous Bowls comes news of the latest from the fine folks at Hardee's, the people who brought you the 1,400+ calorie Monster Thickburger...

Now, say hello to the Philly Cheesesteak Thickburger:

No, your eyes aren't playing some sort of cruel trick on you.  You're looking at a charbroiled 1/3 pound beef patty, topped with a cheesesteak.  And I imagine there's probably rich creamery butter in there somewhere, too.

930 calories, 570 of which come from a whopping 63 grams of fat. 

In yesterday's comments section, Joe proposed that he and I begin our new joint blogging venture by sampling some of these delicious deadly newfangled fast-food creations.  I'm a little unsure -- while I feel safe in saying that I would eat that cheesesteak monstrosity and probably enjoy it, I've spent some considerable effort lately in trying to become a little bit less of a monster thickburger my own self.  Plus, there's that heart attack thingy from last year.

Aww, what the hell.  Joe, c'mon up for a visit.  There's actually only one Hardee's in Pittsburgh, and it's just down over the hill from our house in -- you guessed it -- Millvale.

(For the benefit of you readers who aren't a member of the Kelly family, the Kellys came for a short visit a couple of years ago -- and for some reason that I'm still unable to explain, we spent more time in Millvale during those two days than Julie and I have spent there in our nearly seven years of living in the North Hills.)

But enough about Hardee's and their felonious food -- you need to know that Felony Foreplay is performing at one of Pittsburgh's fine nudie bars this weekend.  If, perhaps, you're on the fence about attending, know you that Ms. Foreplay has been rated a "hot newcomer" by the guy who wrote the copy for the teeny-tiny ad that appeared in today's P-G sports section.  See you there.

Also, I hope to see you at the Raul Malo show at the Point tomorrow night.  Am I stupid enough to take two very young children, by myself, into a mass of thousands of people on a hot summer night?  We'll see.

Update:  Malo has a cool tribute to Buck Owens up on his site.  Check it out, if you like.  On that same page, on an older entry, he calls Pittsburgh "one of the coolest cities on the planet."  I knew I liked that guy.  We're a hit on musicians' blogs, apparently.  For example, see David Byrne's journal entries of a couple years ago, in which he discovered a whole lot of funky things about our little town -- including the Maxo Vanka murals at a church in -- you guessed it -- Millvale.

Ride 'em, Cowboy

The last time I was over at my dad's, I went up into the attic and pulled down a box of books that has been up there since I was ten years old.  (That's 33 years ago, for those of you keeping score at home.)

Sad to say, but my books...my beloved childhood memories...are, for the most part, pretty awful.  Oh, a few aren't bad, and some have some neat artwork, but mostly they just stink.  And I think I speak for Julie when I say that I hate reading them -- which of course means that the worst of the lot are Adam's favorites.

Currently, he's stuck on what I consider to be the worst book we've discovered yet -- a 1959 abomination (from the Cat in the Hat-approved "Beginner Books" series, no less) titled "Cowboy Andy."

Really, it's painful to read.  Except for one page -- the one that features this illustration:

I can't quite put my finger on it, but everytime I see that drawing I start giggling like a little schoolgirl.  It takes me a couple of minutes to regain my composure.

Anyway, that picture needs a caption -- so have at it.  (If you need some reference material, the Cowboy's name is Cowboy Sam.  The little boy is Andy, and the grizzled 1890's prospector in the bed is named Shorty, although we never find out how he earned his nickname.  Well, we the readers never find out.  I have a feeling that Andy probably has a pretty good idea.)

God, I Hate Cranberry

We interrupt our regularly-scheduled "I Read Leviticus" entry in order to present the following rant, which is likely of interest to no one but me, but nonetheless we present it anyway, in spite of the fact that when I say "we" I really mean "I," as the views that follow represent my opinion and mine alone.

---
Whew.  Now that that's over, I invite you to read a piece from the Sunday Post-Gazette that I enjoyed more on an ironic level than I do Mary Worth, and that's saying something.

Now I've been meaning to bring up Joe Grata's transportation column for quite some time -- or, to be technical, one small recurring bit of his column.  Overall, I think Grata's Sunday column is pretty good, and should be required reading for anyone who drives this region's roads.

But every Sunday, he ends his column with cutesy little personalized license plate sayings.  This week, somebody spotted a car with a"MOV2PGH" plate.  Whoop-dee-friggin'-doo, Joe.  Jeebus. 

It's my belief that Grata's "Plate du Jour" bit is one of the five pieces of the Post-Gazette that could be dropped tomorrow, unannounced, and not one soul would care that they were gone. 

(The other four, in case you're wondering, are "Cat's Call," "Munch," the "Frank n' Earnest" comic strip, and Tim Menees' incomprehensible "Scorpio" column.  Neuter the fax dog, I say!  Die, Max, DIE!)

Anyhoo, those are all rants for another day.  Today, let's focus on the fiction presented in the Sunday Grata column, in which Cranberry is lauded as a model of traffic management.

I work in Cranberry, or near-abouts enough to call it Cranberry, anyway.  That whole area is one big blob of suburban sprawl, and who knows where one municipality ends and the next begins?  Not me, matey.

As I was saying, I work in Cranberry.  And friends, let me tell you -- Cranberry is one farkin' nightmare of a shiathole in which to drive.

It's frankly hard for me to believe that Grata has ever even visited the town, if he actually swallows the b.s. slung in that article.

I grew up in Monroeville, lived on Washington Road in Mt. Lebo for a couple of years, spent some time in Regent Square, and currently live a stone's throw from McKnight. 

My point is, I know crappy traffic conditions -- and believe me when I tell you that NONE of those compare to Cranberry.  The town ought to be plowed under and given back to the cows who were the predominant form of life there just 15 or so years ago. 

I have never -- NEVER worked in a place where I felt so landlocked.  I work in the Thorn Hill Industrial Park, and while working in an industrial park is soul-sucking in its own right, it could be made bearable if lunchtime provided a refreshing respite.

Not Cranberry, though -- from my office to the closest place to eat, which is a journey of probably no more than two miles -- that's a 15-minute drive, at a minimum.  And all because the lights on Freedom Road and Thorn Hill Drive are, by my estimation, operated by Satan himself.

Julie works a mere 4/10 of a mile from me.  A lot of the time, we're able to ride in together.  If I drive on a particular day, and leave at exactly 5 pm to pick her up, I arrive at her office at 5:20 -- at the very earliest.  Usually it's a little longer than that.  And that's all because the traffic light in front of American Eagle headquarters is the beneficiary of "smart timing."

In summary, Cranberry blows.