The Evolution of The South Side

A few months, a friend, C, and I were reflecting on our summer spent in Pittsburgh. With the coming colder weather and likely slow down of Pittsburgh's night life, we took stock in our summer fun and noticed that we spent far less time bar hopping on Carson Street (which incidentally has roughly 100 drinking establishments between 14th st and 25th st). We also realized that, on those nights we did go South Side this summer, something was missing; the street itself somehow lacked the same energy.

South Side was the place to go to socialize last year. The street composed (and still does) an assortment of small, intimate bars, ranging from the darkest, dirtiest dive bars to quiet cafes to upscale, try-hard wine bars, each with its own character, nuance, and atmosphere. Everyone came here specifically to avoid the loud, isolating club experience, to meet and interact with humanity, and to see if the cosmos might deliver us to our soulmate (or a one night stand). When one bar got boring, we moved on to the next... and so did everyone else. The result was that the street itself became its own venue, flowing with drunken, social groups of people moving from one bar to next, welcoming conversation, warily avoiding each other, or occasionally breaking into a fight along the way. It was crazy, it was chaotic, ...it was fun. And what fueled this torrent, what gave life to the street every weekend was, like all night life, ...women. Every weekend, women would be taking shots from the midget at Casey's, selecting songs from the shitty jukebox thing at Jack's, or yelling out of their car windows as they drove by.

But the scene was already changing by then (when I first started going out here). Midway through last summer, Diesel and The Town Tavern opened, introducing the spacious, flashing lights, loud music, and cover charging element into the mix of our small, intimate bars. I'm told these places are just newer renditions of failures that previously occupied their space, but their success now dominates the street with a gravity unlike any other. The chaotic, charismatic flow of streetlight people is now the line waiting to get in. And, without the girls, the small, intimate dive bar is... well... a hole in the wall with a bunch of dudes.

Not that I'm complaining. Diesel may arguably have the best crowd in Pittsburgh now, and, if they could master a little nuance with that massive sound system, I might get to talk to them for more than an hour. haha. Our nights in the South Side inevitably end at Diesel or Town Tavern anymore. Try as we might to bar hop, the energy, the essense, the life of the street is now centered around the loudest music we can find.

All things changes. We adapt. But I'm glad to I got to witness a bit of perfection while it lasted.

Boardwalk Fridays

Last night, my friends and I were short on something to do in Pittsburgh, a rarity these days. Looking for something different, I remembered The Boardwalk, a riverfront conglomeration of ever-charging night clubs, recently started giving away free drinks and free cover on Fridays.

When we got there, we found out why. The place was DEAD... and probably has been on a weekly basis since the last time we went there (last year). The promotion clearly reflected their desperation for patrons as did the drinks we received... I'm pretty sure there was coke in my rum, but I couldn't taste it. After two, my friend and I were on our asses and got the bright idea that it would be great if we joined the two old women dancing to the band's cover of Usher's Yeah. I think we made their year, but we quickly got bored and left when one grabbed my ass. At one point, I decided it was too hot and I needed to jump in the pool... I was sober enough to ditch the cell phone first.

Moral of the story: the rumors are false. The Boardwalk pretty much sucks in the summer too.

The Health Matrix

A friend of mine, M, is an amazing nutrition specialist and personal trainer. Consequently, my diet and exercise habits of the past years have, by mere proximity, come under his expert scrutiny. What I discovered was that my modest attempts at a healthy lifestyle—avoiding fast food, limiting carbs, and lots of weight training and cardio—was still subjected to "what they don't want me to know."

M showed me an article on High Fructose Corn Syrup, a highly concentrated simple carbohydrate in liquid form that enters the body so quickly that the pancreas strains to produce enough insulin to absorb it along with all the other sugar in the bloodstream (diabetes anyone); cells, unable to consume the abundance of energy, convert it fat; and the consequent decrease in blood sugar causes further food cravings. It's so much less expensive than naturally grown sugar, though, that most profit-motivated companies employ its use, relying on consumers to remain blissfully unaware of its adverse effects on the body. If most consumers believed it was bad for them, they would, of course, avoid it, the reason for which most conspiracy theorists believe the industry moves to keep enlightening research on the topic from becoming mainstream. "They don't want me to know about it."

Armed with my new found tidbit of health information, I set off to my neighborhood Giant Eagle, a grocery store chain with a monopoly on the market in Pittsburgh, in search of foods devoid of liquid diabetes only to discover that, although an entire isle is dedicated to it, not one loaf of bread seemed to be HFCS-free until... finally... one from Roman Meal lacked the ingredient. Imagine my joy.... and later disappointment when M just recently informed me that it contained another adverse ingredient, soybean oil, a magical substance that increases estrogen production; fine for women, but it makes men more docile, weak, and emotional... not to mention the acres of rain forest in Brazil being slashed and burned to grow soybeans in an effort to satisfy America's health craze for soy products.

The slow progression of my diet towards healthier food has inevitably led me to Whole Foods, a coop grocery store several blocks beyond the Giant Eagle, which specializes in organic, local, and higher quality foods at, albeit, significantly higher prices. But the produce tastes better, the eggs are full of Omega-3 and DHA, I found a yogurt with an unbelievably high amount of protein, and I'm losing fat.

I can't help but notice how business takes advantage of my ignorance. In the space where I'm not paying attention, anyone will do the cheapest, crappiest job possible to make a quick buck.

The situation also translates to my field. MySpace, Intel, Verizon, and Microsoft all make the shittiest products in their markets yet "lead" my industry. Facebook offers better social networking. IBM makes better processors. Cingular/AT&T has a better cell network. And don't get me started on Microsoft. Most people, though, flock to these companies' products because of prevailing standards, compatibility issues, or popularity.

Perhaps it's the same everywhere, but I have to wonder why the cheapest, most cost-effective means of production aren't ever good for me?

I'm Just Not What?

Pittsburgh has three bookstores within a convenient distance of my apartment. Borders happens to be the closest within walking distance, which allows me to indulge a passing whim and engage a certain spontaneity. Squirrel Hill and the Waterfront both have a Barnes & Noble, superior only in as much as they let me simultaneously satisfy my Starbucks addiction. On the rare days when I get a moment, I go, grab a book and a cup of coffee, and read for an hour or two.

You might be wondering, what kind of books does he read ...women's self help, of course. Ha. Who isn't intrigued by titles like Why Men Love BITCHES, Why Men Don't Have a Clue and Women Always Need More Shoes, and Let's Face It, Men Are $$(%&$: What Women Can Do About It. Clearly, these authors have scoured the depths of the universe, the psyche, and the soul to find the end all, be all human truth and condense it into a 200 page, easy to read, step-by-step guide ... that yet almost always requires a sequel publication. And, hey, if you see a guy lounging in a bookstore reading Why Men Marry BITCHES with a smirk on his face, aren't you going to wonder what he's thinking.

The latest, which I finally got around to picking up, is He's Just Not That Into You. Where I was expecting it to contain the same amount of misguided bullshit as every other book, this one actually surprised me... to an extent. The general message, like any other trashy self-help book, warns of lying, manipulative, or abusive guys but, more than that, advises women not to waste their time and energy pursuing a guy who doesn't display a certain amount of interest in her, which I would agree with in principle. Most guys aren't worth the time, and by further demanding nothing less than what a girl thinks she deserves helps to develop self-control, self-respect, self-assurance, confidence, emotional maturity, stability, and a certain selectivity with guys is EXTREMELY sexy. There have been a rare handful of girls with this kind of personality who've come into my life, all of whom are or were friends I consider myself privileged to know.

The issue I take with the book is the amount of attention they expect the guy to give. The assumption is that women are perfect, and guys would be stupid not to drop everything else in their life to pursue a woman to the end of the earth. If the guy isn't giving the girl every indication that he's completely interested (and what guy wouldn't for a perfect girl), he's just not that into her and she shouldn't waste her time.

If most guys are so badly flawed, so much so that women need to enforce rigid standards of behavior, it's only fair to consider that women are flawed too. Most aren't worth OUR time. But for some reason guys shouldn't execute some sort of criteria of their own? That's unrealistic.

My point is that my trust, my time, and my care must be earned, experience has shown an almost certainty that the next girl isn't worth all that, and even if a great girl does come along, I'm not going to completely forget about the rest of my life just for her. I'm a busy guy. I have goals, and I plan to see them through. That's what it fucking means to be a MAN. Until I'm certain that the girl is worth it (and it takes a long time to determine that), my effort and energy will remain directed towards my own situation. I'd go crazy trying to allocate my time and effort to every girl I ever meet.

So the book is right in that women should exercise discrimination, but, at the same time, they'd do better accept that the guy is doing the same. So if "he's just not that into you," meaning he's not calling all the time, buying you flowers, and generally making sure you feel no tension about him, that doesn't mean he's not thinking there is potential in the relationship.

St. Patrick's Day 2007

Already one of the craziest days of the year no matter where you go, Pittsburgh only makes it more crazy. My day started at 7:30am, the time at which I realized I probably shouldn't have also gone out Friday night. My buddy, M, picks me up at 9 but needs to run back to his house for something. We buy a case of Guinness, throw it in the car, and we're finally off to downtown.

We park in Station Square, knowing we'll be back, and trek across the bridge to downtown (this is Pittsburgh, everything is across a bridge). Apparently, the city has one of the biggest St. Patrick's Day parades in the country. We only catch a glimpse as we're jumping the parade route. We are headed for Market Square, right in the middle of downtown. It's completely fenced off and packed like a nightclub despite it being so cold. Even Starbucks had to close (before I could get my mocha). And, of course, M, drinking his bottle of Guinness in the open runs into a cop who not only throws the bottle out but empties it in front of him as some kind of punishment. I definitely feel safer knowing that beer is safely on the ground. The world is safe for democracy once again.

We head into some tavern in the square to warm up and use the rest room. I get a text from a friend saying her and her friend are in Market Square. We meet up and hang out before heading out to try and meet our friends drinking South Side. The bridge, at this point, had become a sheet of packed snow and ice. After sliding across it, we decide we're hungry; so I call my friend to come join us at Buca Di Beppo's (Italian, I know... where's an Irish Pub when you need one).

It's 2pm before we finish. The Blarney Bash is full swing in Station Square. A band is playing on stage. Houlihan's and Buckhead Saloon are serving beer in the street. We make our way through the crowd to the car. Off to South Side.

Jack's is fairly full, but our friends have been bored there with all the old people. We finish off the Guinness that we snuck in and decide to bounce to The Town Tavern.

We're outside just in time to watch a guy get arrested while he screams, "You're in so much trouble," at the cops and his girlfriend keeps pleading, "He would never do that." I don't know what he did but who's not going to watch that. A random girl and her friend come up to me.

• Her: "Want to see my tatoo?"
• ME: "Is she hitting on me?"
• Her friend: "No, she's doing this with everyone."

At which point, the girl spins around and pulls down her jeans to reveal a shamrock and "Luck of the Irish" tattooed on her ass. "Did you just get that today?" I ask. She said she had it for a year. Thankfully, my friend, C, called me across the street at this point. Her ass was not attractive.

We head for The Town Tavern. I spot two girls coming towards us who ARE attractive; so I tell my guys loud enough for the girls to hear, "I'm going to go with these two.... where we headed, guys?" as I spin around in front of them... The Smiling Moose. We stop by a Hot Topic-esque store along the way so that the one girl, N, can pick up some Wicked-Witch-of-the-East stalkings. Then we're off to meet up with their friends.

We all hung out for about a minute before my two new friend want to go get food and the other three want to bounce to Jack's. We head to Pizza Vesuvio, which has got great pizza (go sometime), eat, and make fun of people walking by, one of whom was a guy in drag obviously as some kind of prank... but he could walk pretty damn well in platform shoes.

We head off to Jack's but stop at another store along the way for random stuff. M finally catches back up with me only to tell me that everyone decided to head home and sleep before coming back out again, and he's ready to do the same. I tell him to take off. The girls say they can take care of me (and that's the last he ever saw me... haha).

We finally get to Jack's, hang out, and bounce again after 20 minutes; this time to Diesel. The other two girls decide they're hungry on the way. So they stop at Pizza Vesuvio (I told you, it's good). Diesel turned out to be kind of empty. The girls easily made friends with a new guy who's... good at making new friends. I'm better. He doesn't stick around for too long (he tried to be too cool). The other two girls show up eventually. We hang out more until the live music starts to get going.

We part ways. I look at my phone, and it's 8:30. I text everyone saying I'm headed up to Station Square. I get up there, and the Starbucks is open. I finally get my mocha and minute before a friend, H, calls to say he's on his way. We cross the street to Buckheads. This is one of my favorite bars in Pittsburgh... except when they have live music. It's usually a terrible band with terrible cover songs, and they turn their music up loud enough to prevent me from leaning over to my buddy to criticize it. Fortunately, the band tonight plays sparingly. And this is about the time I witness a second arrest for the evening. Two girls go at it, their guys get in, and the guy swings at the cop trying to pull them apart. Dumbass. I missed the tasering, though.

H is decked out in a green boa they were selling at Market Square and sunglasses. Normally, someone comes up to comment on this kind of outfit. The girls who come this time, though, actually steal it... and I'm thinking, "when did we get back to second grade?" Turns out the chick who stole the sunglasses is getting married too. I feel sorry for that guy. H gets the sunglasses back, though.

Our other buddies show up, we hang out, and go through our usual banter with the bartenders, waitresses, and shooter girls we know, along with all the people we don't. At this point, though, the day starts taking it's toll on me.

Then my sister texts. She's on her way with her friends. They arrive around midnight. I'm dead to the world except that my sister is toting a new interest of hers. Her friend, L, assures me that he meets L's high standards of approval. Mine are higher... it's my sister. Still, in the 30 seconds I interact with the guy, the only red flag is his clothes. So I lower to DefCon 3.

2am rolls around and somehow my eyes are still open. Hug the sis and head home. The bed was never softer. Text from my friend: "Hope you had a good night."

Farewell X-Bar

It seems like only yesterday you opened, but, sadly, the long tradition you imposed upon our great city must come to its finale with the closing of your doors. I, for one, enjoyed the three short months of PG-rated fun for "the country's first X-rated night club." Your misguided attempt to advertise to my raw sexuality, disappoint me with your run-of-mill go-go dancers, prevent my conversation with any girls, and induce my intoxication with your blaring hip-hop... was deeply appreciated. Thanks for all the eye contact.

What's so X-rated?

The new nightclub on the block, X-bar (formerly Touch), touts itself as the country's first X-rated nightclub. My buddies and I go check it out opening night to find it no different than its predecessor. They now have more platforms for dancers sporting some decent lingerie. The bartenders are actually more covered than when the place was called Touch; although, the black corsets are decidedly hotter. And the rumored "human pet" was no where that we could see, which they apparently had before too.

So what exactly makes the place "X-rated?" In terms of movies, lingerie gets you what? PG-13 at best. Brief or partial nudity gets you and R. But X? come on. If you're going to make an outrageous claim like "the country's first X-rated," you should actually be, in some way, ...outrageous.

Nonetheless, the dancers are fun to mess with (we're nice), and the bartenders are kind of cool. The place generates a lot of testosterone, though. I prefer dealing with estrogen.