PHOTO: ADOBE STOCK

There’s an evocative song by the excellent Pittsburgh band Meeting of Important People. It’s called “I Know Every Street,” and it sounds like the proud yet tired boast of an aging Pittsburgher. “I know every street in this town,” singer Josh Verbanets says, taking on a character — a relatable one. “It’s been a long way since I made a bad turn,” he sings. “I’m a soothsayer, and I can’t be too proud.”

That song has always sounded like Pittsburgh to me — especially in the way we don’t merely regard this city as the place that we live, but as a place we own.

I first contributed to Pittsburgh Magazine with a print column on Film and Nightlife; the latter subject was assigned to me by then-editor Julie Talerico, and the former was what I wanted to cover. The two concepts were merged, somewhat awkwardly, and I began submitting stories.

The first “Film and Nightlife” piece appeared in the December 2009 edition, an issue that featured a grinning Marc-Andre Fleury on the cover. I discussed new management at Dormont’s Hollywood Theater — the more things change, eh? — and went on to list the bands who would be playing First Night that year.

I became a full-time employee in the summer of 2011. Now, 16 years after my byline first appeared in this publication, I’m on the way out. And it feels like I know every street in this town.

When I look at those stories and blog posts from a decade or more ago, I never remember writing them. But I remember the way all of those places — bars and theaters, historic landmarks and quiet neighborhoods — felt. I can read old editions of my After Dark blog, which preceded this column, and have no familiarity with the names of pubs or venues, but the sensations I experienced return with perfect clarity.

That’s been my favorite thing about being a part of Pittsburgh Magazine from the time I was 24 until well into my 40th (yikes) year. This job has given me a license to wander — an opportunity to explore the city in minute detail. I’ve spent 16 years telling friends and family about remarkable details and tucked-away curiosities, often shedding light on something they’ve driven past hundreds of times but never noticed.

One of my favorite projects ever, at least among non-spooky endeavors, came when I made the admittedly foolhardy decision to feature at least one thing in each of Pittsburgh’s 90 neighborhoods in our bygone City Guide. I found myself driving to parts of the map I knew only by name, turning around corners and ducking into unfamiliar diners and shops in search of something fascinating. The feature package was a mixed bag, I confess — try to please the residents of all 90 neighborhoods, and you will inevitably come up short — but the experience of writing it was wonderful.

But here’s the thing: I don’t know every street in this town. No one does, really. The city has too many secrets to uncover in 16 years, or 100. I hope to continue exploring in my next position, and I’m sure I’ll find some unexpected treasures. But if I kept at it throughout my entire life, the work would never be complete.

Pittsburgh’s history is too long to ever be fully written; its roots run too deep to ever be entirely unearthed. That’s this city’s great gift to those of us who live and grow old here: We wake up feeling like we know every street in this town, and by the end of the day, we’ve found a new one. The stories of Pittsburgh are all around us — and, to quote a different song, they’re changing every day, in every possible way. The Pittsburgh Magazine team will continue telling them (and doing a very fine job of it). I will, too. But we’ll never be done. And I’m thankful for that.

PHOTO BY KRISTY GRAVER

The city of Pittsburgh is about to confuse some robots.

Earlier this month, the autonomous car company Waymo announced it would deploy its self-driving taxis in a quartet of new cities: Philadelphia, St. Louis, Baltimore and Pittsburgh. The cars, already available in cities including Los Angeles and Phoenix, initially will be deployed with human drivers capable of overriding the car’s decisions.

I can only hope that these vehicles have some understanding of the city’s house rules.

Good luck interpreting a Pittsburgh left, robots! Hope you understand that the rules of engagement at certain chaotic intersections are more a matter of decorum and happenstance than those silly rules of the road! Speed limits? Variable according to how sensible we think they are! (Here’s looking at you, Bigelow.)

Although I think these vehicles are going to have a difficult time working things out around here, I am in no way opposed to their arrival. That goes against a certain strand of public opinion; there are those that firmly believe self-driving technology is too new and unproven to be tested on public roads. These machines are, inevitably, imperfect; there are numerous tales of the technology leading to catastrophe or dangerous situations.

Sure, the robots can make mistakes.

And if they make a whole hell of a lot of them, they’ll still be significantly better at operating vehicles than humans.

We flesh-and-blood drivers are generally pretty awful at safely moving cars around. More than 40,000 Americans died in motor-vehicle crashes in 2023, and 29% of those crashes involved speeding, an act that is typical for humans but strictly verboten for our autonomous counterparts.

That’s not the only bad behavior humans on which humans retain a monopoly. Among drivers in fatal 2023 crashes, 371 were using their cell phones at the time of the accident. Another 2,087 described themselves as “lost in thought.” More than 100 blamed their crash on a conversation with a passenger, and 37 said they crashed because they were distracted by food or drink.

Robots, as you may know, are particularly uninterested in food or drink.

Waymo, in fact, gathered heaps of data on the frequency of injury-causing accidents involving its vehicles. This data wasn’t purely internal; it was peer-reviewed and found to be entirely credible. Human drivers cause serious injury (or worse) more than 10 times as frequently as Waymo’s vehicles; even counting minor injuries, humans are five times as bad.

In other words: A bad robot is still a better driver than your average human.

We don’t fear driverless vehicles because they’re dangerous; compared to us, they’re not. We don’t trust them because we want someone to blame in the event of a crash. If calamity occurs, we want to make it someone’s fault; that’s difficult to do when there’s no face to ascribe to an accident.

There is, of course, a good reason to oppose the rise of driverless vehicles: The fact that they may put human drivers out of work. If Waymo and its competitors take over the taxi industry, it will mean cab drivers (and the hundreds of thousands of Americans who work for services such as Uber or Lyft) could be permanently out of work. In a just world, the cars would only mostly drive themselves, with human attendants remaining in the cars to navigate sticky situations, alter routes and generally tend to the needs of both driver and machine.

Is that likely to be the result of this shift? No — but the inevitable shrinking of labor demand due to the rise of advanced automation as a much more involved topic.

In the meantime, there’s no need for the arrogant opinion that we humans are safe drivers. We’re not. If you could snap your fingers and instantly make every vehicle autonomous, accidents and deaths on the road would drop precipitously. If we’re going to oppose this movement, let’s oppose it for reasons that are true — not the product of humans overestimating our own abilities.

PHOTO COURTESY KENNYWOOD

Kennywood’s annual Holiday Lights celebration is awash in seasonal splendor.

The nightly tree lighting is majestic; the light displays on the lagoon are energizing. Meet-and-greets with Rudolph and Santa make for indelible memories. There’s hot cocoa and other yuletide fare all over the park — to go along with millions of light displays, from tiny details to towering creations (don’t miss Santa’s sleigh high atop the Phantom’s Revenge, visible from miles away).

Kennywood loyalists, however, don’t dare set foot in the park without getting in a few rides. Many of the park’s signature attractions remain open for Holiday Lights; on days when the weather is temperate (none appear to be forthcoming, but we can hope), that roster even includes the Jack Rabbit and Aero 360 for chilly thrills.

Not all rides, however, are quite as Christmassy as they could be. Although you should prioritize your favorites, as you do on any visit to Kennywood, you may want to prioritize the most festive attractions. I can help, in convenient ranked form.

5) Musik Express
There’s nothing all that different about this high-speed, rockin’ ride — but the storied Express is always about what song is playing. During the most wonderful time of the year, that means a surprisingly varied roster of uptempo holiday hits. Sure, you’ve heard “Last Christmas,” but have you heard it while centrifugal force whips you into the arms of your beloved, bestie or offspring? Probably not! Also, Musik Express is (mostly) shielded from wind and snow, so it’s one of the most intense rides guaranteed to be open during your visit to Holiday Lights.

4) Merry-Go-Round
It’s a simple, but effective, Christmas overlay: The lights on the century-old carousel are replaced with red, green and white bulbs, while the nostalgic Wurlitzer organ produces only traditional carols. Kennywood’s winter festivities may be a mere 15 years old, but when you hear the organ puff and ding through “Good King Wenceslas,” you’ll believe your grandparents must have come to Kennywood on Christmas Eve.

3) Noah’s Ark
The park did not slash the Santa hat budget, that’s for sure. Most of the animals and other characters found inside Noah’s Ark are outfitted with holiday headgear, including the old man himself. You’ll also find strategically deployed string lights, elf outfits and more throughout the silly scenes in this Biblical fun house. The highlight is an oddly beautiful string of blue lights in place of the waterfall near the attraction’s entrance. As a personal favorite, Noah’s Ark might’ve ranked higher on the list … if the Whale had been converted to a narwhal for the season. Kennywood, call it a note for next year.

2) Gingerbread Express
The newly relaunched train ride through park history has been given Kennywood’s most massive holiday overlay, with the pleasant journey now taking guests through a whimsical gingerbread village. You’ll find all manner of cookie merriment and mayhem on the 10-minute ride; keep your eyes out to catch the gingerbread folks in an original car from the bygone Log Jammer. You’ll still get the fascinating and informative audio history of the park during your ride, but you may be too busy spying the innumerable details in the displays — or peering out over the Edgar Thomson Works in the distance — to fully digest the history.

1) Ghostwood Estates
Who would’ve thought: The ghost-blasting dark ride gets the most thorough Christmas remix of any attraction in the park. You’ll see Santa puttering around the windows of the towering manse as you approach; when you enter the ride’s “Haunted Mansion” style introduction room, the traditional video has been replaced by one featuring elves Holly and Jolly begging for your help evicting ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. Inside, the scenes are festooned with tinsel and seasonal trappings — it’s like a shooting gallery inside “A Christmas Carol.”

THE REVEREND HORTON HEAT PLAYS AT JERGEL’S RHYTHM GRILLE | PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

I spend an inordinate amount of time — in this column and otherwise — complaining about things I wish were better about Pittsburgh. We yinzers are a fiercely proud but endlessly aggrieved bunch; we will take any perceived defamation of our fair city as fightin’ words, but we have a complaint of our own for every hour of the day.

What with Thanksgiving upon us, however, I thought I’d set my regularly scheduled curmudgeonry aside and find some small things to be thankful for. Sure, there’s health, friendship and family — but those don’t impress anyone while you’re dining over turkey. Instead, I have some very specific areas of gratitude.

Kennywood has really stepped up its merch game. For decades, the shirts and hats you’d find at Pittsburgh’s signature amusement park looked like the stuff you’d get at a boardwalk souvenir stand: park logos (and an “Est. 1898”) on tees and hoodies, bland ballcaps and so much tie-dye. Those garments are still there — hey, give the people what they want — but they’ve been joined by striking and often colorful attire celebrating specific rides. I have a bright-green shirt celebrating the Turtle and a trucker’s cap bearing the ominous “Don’t Stand Up” warning that tops the Racer. I wear them constantly.

The Hollywood Theater is open — and restored to its former glory. Neighborhood theaters are almost extinct in the region, and most have suffered ignoble fates. The Kings Court is a cell-phone store; the Bellevue Cinemas turned into a Family Dollar; Penn Hills Cinema is, I believe, a laundromat. (It might be a Painting With a Twist — I’m not sure exactly how that shopping center is laid out.) Dormont’s century-old Hollywood Theater came within a hair’s breadth of suffering the same fate several times; instead, Row House Cinemas bought it and expanded it, with an interior that hearkens back to its glory days and a second screen opening soon. It was always a treasure; now it shines.

The fish entree at Flavor of Puerto Rico is delicious. You can choose grilled or fried, but c’mon. Get the fried fish, and opt for the rice with pigeon peas. Make sure they include the house tartar. When you get home, dump the sauce straight into the rice and mix it around. Take each bite of fish with a little bit of the saucy rice. Unbelievable. (Add several empanadas to your order, if you’ve got the appetite.)

There’s a trio of affordable, fun concert venues I love. I made the difficult decision to forgo seeing Sir Paul McCartney weeks ago … because I wasn’t keen on dropping $500, the going rate for a seat with an actual view of the stage, to see a decently well-preserved Beatle. Outlandish though marquee concert tickets have become, there’s a trio of alternatives I love. In Warrandale, Jergel’s Rhythm Grille hosts fun shows in every conceivable genre — and offers them on a nearly nightly basis. The Crafthouse Stage & Grill in Baldwin offers a variety of interesting shows (I’m planning on seeing alternative mainstays the Supersuckers next month). And the Funhouse at Mr. Smalls brings cutting-edge artists to a venue that’s as intimate as it is resonant. Smaller venues might not have any Beatles, but a night of entertainment is a night of entertainment — and you can afford many more of them, thanks to these venues.

Arts Landing is going to transform Downtown. I visited the site last week, and I was struck by how much of the Golden Triangle the new area takes up. It doesn’t feel like a bit of open space; it feels like a park, right in the middle of the Cultural District. With luck and proper shepherding, this will become not just a place for music and events, but also a backyard for the whole neighborhood — something the core of Downtown has been lacking.

The song “Take Me to the Moon” by my favorite Pittsburgh band, Bonnie & the Mere Mortals, is fantastic. Seriously. Listen to it:

THE PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE IN 1942 | PHOTO BY ARTHUR ROTHSTEIN, VIA LIBRARY OF CONGRESS

I spotted some bad news buried in a conversation about forthcoming updates to the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Adam Babetski of the Post-Gazette had a chat with Richard Dreher, CFO of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The big questions, obviously, concerned tolls and construction projects — the most visible ways Pennsylvanians interact with the sprawling toll road.

At the end of the conversation, however, the subject turned to tiny Breezewood. The sparsely populated town in Bedford County — technically unincorporated, as it is officially part of East Providence Township — is nevertheless instantly recognizable to travelers for the riot of businesses that crowd around a few blocks of U.S. Route 30.

Sitting at the junction of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and Interstate 70, Breezewood remains one of the only places in the entire Interstate Highway System where the road suddenly becomes … well, not a typical interstate anymore. For hundreds of miles in either direction, there are concrete barriers, billboards and uninterrupted highway; for a tiny sliver of Breezewood, there are gas stations, kitschy tourist gift shops and innumerable chain restaurants.

Now, the geographic curiosity once dubbed the Town of Motels may go extinct. Already endangered by changing traveler habits, Dreher told the Post-Gazette that an upcoming project will more directly connect the highways and “eliminat[e] that mile or so connection with local roadways.”

As a lover of road-trip nostalgia and all manner of curiosities, I find this deeply depressing. The best way to engage with a day spent in the car is to stop as frequently as is reasonable, discovering oddities and visiting remote locations along the way. Why spend five or six hours in the car staring at nothing but asphalt when you can spend seven or eight exploring places you might otherwise never visit?

Yes, in some situations, it’s imperative to get from one place to another as quickly as possible. Interstates make that possible, and they do a good job of it (even adjusting for Breezewood). I’ve done it that way before. (I really need to stop making evening plans in Pittsburgh on days I wake up in other cities.) It’s exhausting — a grueling and joyless endurance test, as hard on the eyes as it is on the butt.

Finding reasons to stop — even if that reason is simply “traffic slowed down, and there’s a place to eat right there” — are essential to enjoying travel by car. Breezewood has been performing a service to travelers in this regard: Rather than navigate the challenges of getting off the highway or making do with the amenities of a rest stop, Breezewood offered ready-made respite about halfway between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia.

More importantly, though: We’re safer when we stop.

The AAA Foundation for Traffic Safety found that one out of every six fatal car crashes involved a “drowsy driver.” Even moments of “microsleep,” that feeling of momentarily nodding out of fatigue without one’s eyes ever fully closing, can be the cause of catastrophic collisions.

The advice to combat such dangers? Some is obvious: Get at least six hours of sleep the night before traveling, rest overnight rather than driving until dawn and drink caffeine if you’re sleepy. Also: “Schedul[e] a break every two hours or every 100 miles.”

Every two hours — not once for lunch, not when you reach the brink of exhaustion and certainly not “I’ll just take a nap when I get to the hotel.” Every two hours. That’s two or three breaks between here and Philadelphia.

We’re all naturally impatient, and it can be tempting to push it. Highway rest stops make that temptation easy, posting a number of miles until the next available oasis; it’s easy to decide you can make it another hour or so before stretching your legs. It’s much easier to stop, though, when you’re not on a high-speed interstate — or when you’re briefly forced off of one, as you are in Breezewood.

I’m not sure if the work on the Breezewood interchange is a sure thing or merely an idea. If it’s the latter, I hope it doesn’t get out of the planning stages. The turnpike has more vital and beneficial uses for that money. More importantly: Breezewood is a feature, not a bug. The highway is better off with places like Breezewood; why kill them?

KENNYWOOD’S HOLIDAY LIGHTS EVENT IN 2024 | PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

Last week, someone presented me with an absurd claim: They asserted that we were in the midst of neither the Halloween nor the Christmas season.

Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, we are in the sliver of the calendar where those holidays both reign. For a few weeks in early November, holiday-themed commercials arrive and Christmas lights start to twinkle — yet the last dying gasps of Spooky Season remain.

In fact, the weekend guide I wrote last week had both a holiday market in Harmony and a Halloween-adjacent play — Prime Stage’s “Mr. Edgar A. Poe Presents,” which continues through this Sunday, thus concluding closer to Thanksgiving than to Halloween.

When I visited Kennywood for Phantom Fall Fest a few weeks ago, a most curious structure rose up above the haunted houses and smiling skeletons. What was this shadowy edifice? Why, a Christmas tree, of course. The park had less than two weeks’ break between the end of its Halloween activities and the beginning of Holiday Lights (set for this Friday). There simply wasn’t enough time to mount their dazzling tree après-ghoul.

The traditionalists will likely grumble about this development, of course. Why does Christmas start so early? Why are people going to haunted houses in August? What happened to Thanksgiving? Is there no time left on the calendar where one can have their yard blessedly free of inflatable decor?

Easy as it is to grouse about such commercial signifiers — and I do have a side rant about the loss of identity in the Reese’s holiday eggs — I have to consider this general yule-washing of the calendar to be a net positive.

Look at the examples I’ve mentioned. (Not the peanut-butter egg one … but all the rest.) Halloween attractions, extra trips to Kennywood, holiday markets and theatrical productions. The kind of community-defining endeavors we love and value — and, more importantly, stuff that gets people out of the house.

As the weather changes, the tendency to nest grows. We’re living in an alarmingly isolated and housebound era to begin with; when the calendar creeps toward its back pages, that urge only gets stronger. For many of us, the winter can be a time when days or even weeks pass without venturing beyond house, car and work.

The more Halloween and Christmas bring us out of those shells, the better. In my experience, events and gatherings tied to either Spooky Season or the winter holidays tend to draw more people than similar occasions throughout the rest of the calendar. If that means visiting a haunted house in early September or a holiday market a week into November, that’s fine; I just want people to be out and about in their communities.

Let’s be honest: Come February, you’re not going to be able to pry us off our couches with crowbars. Whatever the occasion, it’s good to get out while we can.

PHOTO: ADOBE STOCK

Last week, the folks at Row House Cinemas posted a kind offer for those affected by the impending loss of SNAP benefits. Anyone receiving those benefits can come and see a movie, free of charge, with popcorn included. An offer like that isn’t going to change anyone’s fortunes, but it’s still thoughtful — and important. It’s a reprieve from an era of stress and uncertainty.

Such offers are available all over the city. We published a roundup of resources and food banks offering help, as pantries and nonprofits throughout the region are rallying to help mitigate the effects of hunger. Even 880 Wrestling, a local pro-wrestling promotion where I occasionally do some ring announcing, asked for donations at last Thursday’s show, filling bags and bins with food for the needy.

It’s encouraging. And it’s a solace in the face of an inherently absurd problem.

We live in an era of deep dissatisfaction with the levers of government. As of this writing, President Donald Trump’s approval rating sits at a meager 41%, according to Gallup; when he left office, former President Joe Biden held a similar approval rating. The Supreme Court barely outpaces the president with a 42% approval rating.

All those numbers, however, are considerable compared to America’s opinion of Congress. Gallup has that figure at a staggeringly low 15%.

Meanwhile, faced with the knowledge that 85% of Americans cannot endorse their behavior, Congress continues to double down on its deeply unpopular approach to governance.

Similar polls usually find that Americans want their elected representatives to compromise in the pursuit of solutions. These numbers vary widely depending on the exact nature of the question presented, but they range between about 50% and 75%. We elect representatives and senators with the belief that they will work toward the common good — that they will represent our interests in the halls of power.

Yet millions of Americans may go hungry this week because of an obstinate refusal to do just that. The government shutdown, which sometime this week will become the longest in history, began when the majority party offered an unpalatable bill. The minority party requested good-faith negotiation; the majority party then went home.

That’s where we are. This shutdown exists because a significant number of our representatives believe that political gamesmanship is more important than the life-or-death struggles of everyday Americans.

The imperative, moral and otherwise, is for all members of Congress to return to Washington right now and negotiate on a solution to this impasse. Not to issue statements and appear at grandstanding press conferences; to actually sit down and do the job they’re paid to do. That, apparently, is too much for the American people to expect at this time.

You could, I suppose, call the numbers that cause phones to ring in the offices of your elected representatives. If you don’t get a full mailbox, you might get a staffer who will dutifully note your concerns and report them up the chain. I’m not convinced that this has any meaningful impact in this era, but it’s worth doing. You should be able to petition your representatives in person, either at their offices or at town-hall meetings, but precious few elected officials are willing to even appear in front of their constituents, so that idea may be out.

The effort you could spend yelling at a Congressional wall, then, might be better spent volunteering for one of those nonprofits or food banks — gathering what you can to help your neighbors. It is encouraging that so many of us choose to offer help at times such as this.

It’s encouraging because, it seems, we’re largely on our own. We can no longer trust our senators and representatives to fight for us.

On this point, unlike so many others, most Americans agree: They’re not going to do their job.

PHOTO BY DAVE DICELLO

A few weeks ago, I took a trip to the Baltimore/D.C. area. Right away, I noticed that the drivers in that part of the country are deeply irritating.

They have a horrible habit of trying to overtake you at all times, even when there’s no room to do so. Traffic is worsened by drivers constantly trying to pass, for no clear purpose, on crowded highways. What’s more, drivers in the area — perhaps fed up with Beltway snarl — seem to regard any actual open road as an opportunity to drive at breakneck speeds.

Those drivers are bad.

Pittsburgh drivers are worse.

I’ve driven in many parts of the country, including quite a few notorious for rough roadways. I’ve learned to adjust my speed to match the lightning pace of traffic in New Jersey; I’ve adapted to the devil-may-care recklessness of drivers in Florida. I’ve dealt with rush-hour traffic in Manhattan, where it can take an hour to advance a couple of blocks. I’ve even tooled around Texas, darting out of the way of giant pickup trucks somehow taking up multiple lanes on a sprawling blacktop.

And, for my money, all of these challenges are easier to deal with than the day-to-day behavior of drivers in Pittsburgh.

Here, we have an apparent allergy to remaining within established lanes. We slow down, often suddenly and dangerously, at every provocation; it’s as though anything other than a clear, straight road ahead warrants stopping to consider the situation (tricky, since this city has absolutely no clear, straight roads). We do speed up in one situation, however — to unnecessarily close the gap between our car and the car ahead because we cannot abide any chance that someone might enter our lane and get where they’re going a split-second before we do.

Atop Green Tree Hill, a perpetual traffic jam exists simply because we’re unwilling to maintain our speed while ascending a hill. There is no obstruction or particularly tricky lane change up there; we just slow down because the car is pointed slightly up. When a harmless flurry falls, we crawl along the road as if we’re driving across a frozen lake; when a serious rainstorm reduces visibility and creates slick conditions, we routinely fail to adjust in any meaningful way.

The best evidence of this curious blend of automotive apprehension and overdefensiveness is, of course, our famous tendency to slow down while entering a tunnel. Contrary to the belief of defensive locals, this is not a universal phenomenon. I asked a friend from New Jersey how drivers there respond to tunnels; they speed up, I was told, since there’s no chance of a hidden police car inside a tunnel.

Here, however, we hit the brakes when we see the mouth of a tunnel ahead. We like to act like this is a phenomenon without an explanation, but the reason is simple: Pittsburgh drivers don’t like to remain in their own lane. If you leave a lane in a tunnel, you hit a wall.

All those drivers approaching the Squirrel Hill Tunnel are slowing down because they know they have to actually follow the rules of the road for a mile — and don’t think they can manage it.

Is there a solution to this? Do we need to shut down the town for a week to go back to driver’s ed? Do we need to outlaw automotive traffic from entering … Allegheny County in general?

The first step is, of course, admitting we have a problem. Pittsburghers like to pretend that the driving conditions around these parts are a result of the topography and infrastructure. All those hills! All those bizarre intersections! Of course it’s tough to get around! This is, of course, an excuse; there are plenty of places with bizarre traffic patterns. (Ever been to Philly?)

We need to be honest with ourselves: You, me and everyone else in the neighborhood is a mediocre driver, at best. It’s a matter of well-established bad habits: We tend to drift out of our lane and onto the shoulder on curves. We neglect to maintain speed up hills and into tunnels. We panic and slam on the brakes.

The solution, then, is simply to recognize this and pay more attention. Drive not as though these behaviors are natural or forgivable; get behind the wheel thinking that you’re going to try to do a good job today. You don’t need to drive like you’re trying to make record time on the Jersey Turnpike — you just need to act like your high-school driving instructor is in the backseat and you want to show them that you remember a thing or two.

And, for Pete’s sake, leave space between you and the car in front of you when you’re on the highway. Fun fact: The more tightly cars crowd together, the more traffic backs up behind them. You’re not just tailgating, you’re making conditions worse. Leave a big ol’ gap between you and the next car. I promise you’re not going to miss dinner because you got to your exit two seconds later than you might’ve.

THE CHAUFFEUR’S ROOM ON THE FOURTH FLOOR OF CLAYTON | PHOTO BY SETH CULP-RESSLER / THE FRICK PITTSBURGH

The top floors of Clayton, the former home of the Frick family, have never been seen by the public until right now.

They’ve been off limits throughout the past 35 years, the period of time in which the home has operated as a museum and historic landmark; since it was opened to the public in 1990, no regular tours of the house ventured higher than the second floor. But these parts of the home wouldn’t have been open to the public at any other point in the house’s history, either; guests would not have been welcome in what were private spaces and staff quarters in the Fricks’ time — and certainly not after the Frick family relocated to New York.

If you visit these floors, which are being opened as part of special tours until the end of 2025, you won’t just be taking part in a new offering from the cultural institution. You’ll be among the first civilians permitted into these rooms — ever.

You will not, however, observe the type of carefully presented rooms found on the first two floors of Clayton. As you pass the rope that ordinarily prevents visitors from ascending the stairs (and it’s something of a thrill just to see that barrier lying on the ground), you’ll pass into a much different space. Here, the full story of the building is told in mostly unadorned fashion: the distant history of a grand building, the many changes and alterations that followed and even the realities of running a museum.

“It is not a mausoleum,” says Dalena Collins, learning and interpretive coordinator for the Frick Pittsburgh. “It is not a crypt that has been frozen in time. We’re living and evolving.”

In one room, you might find an array of antique items that haven’t yet been fully catalogued; these artifacts will instead be labeled and spread out for further analysis. In another, you’ll find piles of Christmas decorations for the contemporary Frick — resting near the bells and buzzers that would’ve summoned live-in servants to the family’s side, 24 hours a day. In some places, the wallpaper is peeling; in others, incongruous 20th-century carpeting, installed a half-century ago, clashes with historic fixtures.

Throughout it all, it’s clear that these spaces have a new life: serving the behind-the-scenes needs of presenting the first two floors in a polished, careful way. “We’re genuinely trying to show people what museum work is like,” Collins says.

There’s something appropriate in that, actually. More than a century ago, this is where workers would’ve slept and spent their few hours away from the grandeur downstairs; while some bedrooms on these floors belonged to Frick children, more were frequently used to provide conditional, occasional moments of privacy for the people who worked to preserve both the family and the house itself.

Now, the people who work here still do just that — though they can go home at the end of the day.

Collins is quick to point out that, demanding though the job was, the Frick family’s workers were often much better off than the average domestic help of that time; one woman, Mary Coyne, remained on the job five times longer than the average employee and continued to receive support from the Fricks until her death. In exchange, though, she had no life to speak of outside the home. It’s a complicated legacy, rendered stark in details in these hidden rooms.

Not every resident of this part of Clayton was an employee; it was also home, and occasionally school, to some of the family’s children. A school room was dubbed “Sunnyside Academy” by Helen Frick, the last family member to live in the home. Elsewhere, you’ll visit the room once inhabited by first-born son Childs — only you’ll notice the tiles have been taken from his bathroom.

Long-ago decor thieves? Nope. Sometime in the mid-20th century, the original kitchen tile downstairs had been replaced with gaudy wallpaper; the tiles in Childs’ room were employed as a period appropriate, if technically out-of-place, substitute. It’s the kind of illuminating detail that peels back the curtain on the reality of presenting a historic home such as Clayton.

Only a handful of tickets for this exclusive journey are available, and the cost is tax deductible; this is a fundraiser for the Frick rather than a permanent addition to the core experience of touring Clayton. That makes visiting all the more vital; while there certainly could be more events in this part of the building, further trips behind that velvet rope aren’t guaranteed.

THE BUST OF GEORGE A. ROMERO INSIDE MONROEVILLE MALL | PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

I’m not shocked that Monroeville Mall could have a date with a wrecking ball. In Pittsburgh — and, let’s be honest, everywhere else — we’ve seen too many good things taken away in the name of short-sighted development. So last week, when news of the landmark’s possible doom broke, I was dismayed but not surprised.

I am, however, surprised that anyone — anyone at all — thinks this is a good idea.

The idea, according to a grant application filed with the Commonwealth, is to knock down the mall and replace it with a mixed-use “retail and commercial destination.” There’s talk of public spaces surrounding Walmart and Sam’s Club locations; vague statements about including retail space for local business have been made.

Walmart is at the core of all this; they’re the ones that bought the property (although they are partnering with Texas-based Cypress Equities on the development). Two decades ago, residents in Monroeville opposed the incursion of a Walmart into the community, citing the company’s history of harming local economies and underpaying workers. (The documentary “Walmart: The High Cost of Low Price” examines this in detail.)

Now, however, some local leaders are in favor of — or at least open to — the redevelopment, according to statements made to both the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and The New York Times. In these and other stories about the fate of the mall, the shopping center is presented as struggling or embattled, and comparisons to other ill-fated malls in the region are made.

Here’s the thing, though: Monroeville Mall isn’t struggling. Not really.

There are 120 tenants currently in Monroeville Mall, with more in satellite shopping areas in the mall’s footprint. I frequently visit the Cinemark movie theater inside the mall and end up eating in the food court or shopping at Barnes & Noble or Lids; on my recent visits, there has been solid foot traffic in both the mall and the stores.

Monroeville Mall has also embraced nontraditional options for some of its storefronts, from indoor athletics like Pickle Parlor, a pickleball complex, to stores that host a collection of local crafters and artisans. It’s also the home of the Living Dead Museum, which exists as a tribute to the mall’s chief claim to fame, as the filming location for George A. Romero’s enormously influential “Dawn of the Dead.”

Earlier, I mentioned that the information we do have about the potential destruction and development comes from a grant application. Cypress Equities actually is asking for taxpayer money, to the tune of $7.5 million, to knock down a perfectly functional mall full of local businesses and replace it with a Walmart and the vague promise of future community integration.

How’s that community integration going so far? Well, one business owner has reported that the company has offered nothing but rent abatement to entice current businesses inside Monroeville Mall to close up shop — an amount that, under the best of circumstances, wouldn’t come close to covering the costs associated with a small business owner closing and relocating an active business.

If someone told you they were committed to the community while also telling members of the community to get out while the getting was good, would you believe them?

The ins and outs of modern business, particularly retail, are complex. Reasonable folks can disagree on the net positives and negatives of large, national retailers transforming communities; it’s true that in many rural areas, Walmart is the only means of accessing goods and services for nearby residents.

It’s also true that Walmart pays its employees so poorly that many of them rely on government assistance to make ends meet. So even when Walmart creates a job, the community needs to cover the shortfall to make sure that employee has food on the table.

This is who we want developing Monroeville for the future?

There are other good arguments to be made against this plan — including preserving a slice of local history (already a rallying cry among Romero fans), and the advantages of malls as an indoor “third place” for local residents. Fortunately, there’s time to make those arguments.

Gov. Josh Shapiro has requested public comment before the grant to redevelop the site is approved. (The best way to comment is to send an email, with the subject line Public Comment for Monroeville Mall Gateway, to RA-OB-PublicComment@pa.gov.) For neighbors, residents and anyone who frequents (or even has fond memories of) Monroeville Mall, it’s worth weighing in.

If government money is going to Monroeville, it should support the continued success of the local business owners that are already working in Monroeville. It certainly shouldn’t go toward knocking down a landmark and building a Walmart and a Sam’s Club (plus unnamed other spaces, if they get around to it).

I won’t be surprised if Monroeville Mall can’t be saved; the grinding wheels of progress don’t often pause, even for good reason. But I know that the community will be better if the mall survives.

PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

For 10 hours last week, a video store was the busiest spot on East Carson Street.

The first soft opening for Vinegar Syndrome Pittsburgh, a new shop specializing in Blu-Ray and DVD movies, records and a variety of other physical media, was held last Thursday and Friday afternoons. Even on a pair of weekdays — and without much hype, as the soft opening was only announced on social media a few days in advance — the storefront was packed.

Couples debated which editions were most vital for their collections. Strangers gathered around a back rack of records sharing recommendations. Movie lovers grabbed piles of rarities from boutique labels and lined up at the register, chatting excitedly with the equally enthusiastic staff. All the patrons seemed to ask the same question: When can we come back?

The movies that customers were eagerly grabbing were not recent blockbusters. Major studios, still trying to shake off the fading siren’s call of streaming, have de-emphasized home video in recent years. The hot items at Vinegar Syndrome — the name, by the way, refers to the chemical reaction that solely causes old film print to discolor — are beautiful editions of older, often obscure, films.

I walked out, for example, with a beautiful restoration of the 1946 Universal whodunit “The Cat Creeps,” a 4K edition of the surreal 2000 horror flick “The Cell” and a Criterion Edition Blu-Ray of Brian De Palma’s 1980 thriller “Dressed to Kill.”

Many of the titles on display here are manufactured by Vinegar Syndrome themselves. The company, which is based in Connecticut, has since 2012 focused on “perform[ing] the highest quality digital film preservations achievable on titles that, in many cases, would otherwise deteriorate beyond the point of saving.” That mission can include a wide range of titles, but the company focuses on forgotten or overlooked titles from the latter half of the 20th century.

PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

The storefront, at 1410 East Carson Street, also has ample collections from other boutique labels — Criterion, Arrow, Severin and plenty more — and a curated selection of used copies. The Pittsburgh location, which is mostly decked out in horror swag (including some autographed posters and other memorabilia rescued from the nearby, defunct Smiling Moose), is the company’s fourth brick-and-mortar store, after locations in their native Bridgeport, Toronto and Denver.

I’ve been a fan of Vinegar Syndrome for years, having ordered fascinating new titles off of their website. Judging by the ecstatic reaction at the soft opening, plenty of the other early patrons were as well. And while I’m clearly biased, what I saw last week was a compelling (if circumstantial) piece of evidence for a trend I’ve seen growing, slowly, for a few years.

People are finally realizing that movies, like records and books, are worth owning.

We’ve never questioned the continued popularity of physical books, despite the advent of e-readers — nor do we look askance at record stores in the age of music streaming. Yet it seemed, for some time, that we would entirely abandon our physical copies of films in favor of streaming services.

I’m grateful for the convenience and wide range of access that streaming offers, and watch plenty of movies through one digital service or another. But because I also still collect physical media, I can assure you: Streaming leaves a lot to be desired. Video quality is poor and variable; interruptions are common; even paid services break up movies with commercials. Audio is often downright bad.

Home media, on the other hand, often looks and sounds great — particularly nicer Blu-Ray or 4K editions.

More importantly, though, there’s a reason why you can remember individual VHS tapes you owned decades ago but struggle to recall what you streamed last week. The tangible experience of home media is a key component to the enjoyment of it — going to a store, selecting a film, taking it home and settling in to watch. This is only amplified by actually owning a film; in the way that newer printings of records have leaned into aesthetic presentation, better home-video labels (and Vinegar Syndrome is one of the best) package beautiful collector’s editions of films that you’ll actually want to put on a shelf in your home.

You know: Just like you already do with books.

If you’re skeptical, give it a try: Vinegar Syndrome is planning a few more days of soft opening in the coming weeks before a planned grand opening in late October. Go in, pick out something that catches your eye, and then take it home and enjoy it.

You’ll find it’s a much better experience than scrolling through a menu and clicking on a title.

A MONSTER TRUCK AT THE SCOTTDALE FALL FESTIVAL | PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

I was deeply mistaken about one of the marquee events at the annual Scottdale Fall Festival.

On the schedule for this past weekend’s event were a pair of attractions with an alluring name: “Bigfoot Photo Opportunities,” followed some time later by “Bigfoot Car Crush.” I was visiting the charming town for a forthcoming piece in the print magazine and made a note to be near the town square at the time of Bigfoot’s promised appearance. I assumed that I’d get a selfie with a costumed cryptid, who would later find a dramatic way to beat up a car.

When I arrived, I remembered that Bigfoot can be several things. I assumed the schedule was referring to the tall, hairy hominid. It actually was referring to a monster truck.

It was a change for the better. A monster truck is way better at crushing cars, as it turns out.

There are plenty of automotive wonders at the Scottdale Fall Festival; another signature event is a massive car show, during which restored classic vehicles dating back decades fill the town. This is much more than an event for car lovers, however; the weekend is full of live music, family attractions, innumerable stands offering indulgent county fair-style food, offerings from local businesses and much more.

So pleasant is the event that there are even signs of an actual mythical creature: political civility. Among the booths were representatives from both the local Republican and Democratic parties. Neither seemed to be all that bothered by the other.

While I was at the event — usually held in mid-September — numerous people told me to return this coming weekend for the Glass & Ethnic Festival in neighboring Mt. Pleasant. Ten minutes away, another weekend full of events and community will follow this one, with particular nods to Mt. Pleasant’s glassmaking heritage.

My attendance here was incidental; this was just the weekend that worked best for me. Unintentionally, then, I discovered something about these regional festivals: They’re the ideal opportunity for a particular sort of local tourism.

For the most part, attendees at the Scottdale Fall Festival and (I assume) the Glass & Ethnic Festival in Mt. Pleasant are locals. But, as an outsider, I saw every local business in one fell swoop, and got a good sense of the community and its history in the process. If you spent a summer dropping by similar events throughout the region — I can confidently promise you’ll find a festival like these ones somewhere in Western Pennsylvania during every warm weekend — you’d get to know towns and neighborhoods you’ve only ever driven through (or past) in no time at all.

Businesses and community organizations also rely on weekends like these to earn a significant chunk of their annual revenue; unfortunately, every day of continued operation for a small business in an out-of-the-way town is a battle. That knick-knack or candle you buy at a fair in the next town is a valuable purchase.

The season may be waning, but make plans to attend a handful of these events — near to home and far afield — next year. Fair warning, though: You may develop a serious lemonade habit.

TACOS AT EL RINCÓN OAXAQUEÑO | PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

On Sunday, I had dinner at El Rincón Oaxaqueño, a favorite spot of mine. The business, which specializes in cuisine from the Mexican state of Oaxaca, started as a food truck before adding a storefront along Brownsville Road in Carrick.

I’ve seen El Rincón’s food trucks around — there’s now a small fleet, with one usually posted on Butler Street and another hitting area breweries — but the storefront is my preference. I drove past it one day and made a note to return; when I did, I found remarkably flavorful entrees with fresh ingredients and an array of tempting treats (including aguas frescas that outshine any county-fair lemonade in terms of sugary bliss).

I have not, however, seen too many other folks dining in.

Like many restaurants in 2025, El Rincón seems to be doing most of its business via takeout and delivery services. While the economics of modern food delivery aren’t always great for restaurant owners, sending dishes out has become a key component of modern food service. I’m sure El Rincón is doing well with delivery.

I just wish more folks would come in. Because dining in, even at a no-frills spot, invariably is better than getting delivery.

Even if you’re not one to be too bothered about presentation or service, the very act of delivery is a gauntlet of moments that degrade a dish. Transferring a carefully prepared meal to a plastic container, stacking it haphazardly in a bag and then spending a half-hour or so driving it to its destination can be devastating to a fresh meal.

Imagine this happening inside a restaurant — if your food visibly sat under a heat lamp for 25 minutes and arrived smushed to one side of your plate, you’d send it back. When you fire up a food-delivery app, you not only accept this outcome, but you actually pay a premium for the treatment.

Speaking of which: Anyone who has attempted to order a single pizza lately has discovered that the apps have drastically inflated what we pay to get food delivered to our homes. By the time the driver is tipped (valid) and a variety of fees are applied (less valid), that $20 order can easily become $40. If you simply dined in and tipped heavily on the same meal, it’d be $25.

Moreover, ordering in removes all the discovery that’s possible when dining in. Unless you’re prone to meticulously pre-planning your every dining excursion, you’re likely to ask a server for recommendations — or add a dessert or side or two as you peruse the menu. Dining in contains surprises; ordering in often involves checking off the box next to the same thing we’ve gotten a dozen times on the app.

There’s a role for delivery; sometimes, we truly don’t feel like leaving the house. But, as a culture, we’re probably giving in to that urge a bit too much. We praise the comfort and contentment of staying at home, ignoring that laziness and stagnation can often be mistaken for comfort and contentment. We hide from our communities rather than integrate into them, convincing ourselves that isolation is self-care — when it often is the opposite.

Sitting down at El Rincón — or another favorite of mine, Flavor of Puerto Rico, which also seems to do most of its business via delivery apps — is not going to cure society’s ills. But it will boost your mood and make your food taste better … for less money.

If you’re wary, test my theory: The next time you have the urge to order food, put on some real pants and drive to El Rincón Oaxaqueño. Order the molotes to start, and then ask for a recommendation.

If you can tell me you would have been happier with delivery, I’ll call you a liar.

PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

If you go into a certain storefront in West Mifflin, you will see people happily toting shopping baskets full of adorable plush figures.

Some are planning to leave with these stuffie armies, while others will trade them in for high-end collectibles — Japanese figurines or, yes, even Labubus. Most importantly, all of these have been won rather than purchased; like the plunder earned during a trip to Chuck E. Cheese’s or the Kennywood arcade, these are prizes rather than mere toys.

This storefront, in an unassuming strip mall, houses Get a Grip Clawcade, an arcade entirely dedicated to claw machines. Once designed simply to fill a child’s attention for a few minutes outside a restaurant or movie theater, claw games have risen in popularity on social media and thanks to the influence of Japanese and Korean arcade trends. Now, they are a genre unto themselves, several varieties of which are on display at Get a Grip.

The storefront arcade, which bills itself as the to be the first such business in the area, celebrated its first birthday last weekend, mainly houses traditional claw machines: You put a token in the slot, then try to grab a stuffed animal and drop it in the prize chute. The twist here is that you can trade up (again, like with prizes at Kennywood), exchanging stuffies for prizes like collectibles, anime and video-game gear or … much larger stuffies.

These premier prizes aren’t impossible to obtain, either; you can trade as few as five or 10 small prizes for some impressive stuff (or even exchange single stuffies for boxes of candy). There’s no impossible barrier like you would find at old-school arcades, where video games and electronics were on tantalizing display for tens of thousands of tickets; with skill and determination, you could walk out of Get a Grip in an hour with a nice reward or two in hand.

Other games offer richer rewards for variations on the claw-machine model, like using the claw to roll a giant die or hooking a tiny loop onto a line. (The latter game, probably the hardest in the arcade, is the one that rewards the determined player with the coveted Labubu prizes.)

I had a good time at Get a Grip, winning a pair of stuffed animals — a smiling cappuccino and a bear that was dressed up in a bee costume — after spending about $20. (You can pay for tokens with cash or card, and larger token purchases grant bonus plays, as is the norm at most modern arcades.)

Mostly, though, I was simply happy that the arcade exists. Strip malls, once centers not only of commerce but of recreation for suburban America, have become purely functional in the last couple of decades; you’re more likely to find an urgent-care clinic or a tattoo-removal spot than an arcade or a bookstore in most places like these. Get a Grip, on the other hand, is exactly what is most needed in the suburbs: a place to go for more than five minutes, where guests do more than merely shop and meet needs. It’s an escape for whimsical adults and a boon for neighborhood parents looking for something close by and (relatively) inexpensive.

At this point, I’m happy with anything that isn’t just another vape shop. Especially if I can walk out having won a smiling cappuccino.

PHOTO COURTESY AARON WOODS PRODUCTIONS

Since I became a ring announcer for pro-wrestling events, I’ve had an unusual vision in my head: Introducing a match in the ring while holding my dog, Peanut.

I don’t know how or when this image occurred to me. I just felt a compulsion to, on at least one occasion, introduce wrestlers to an appreciative crowd with a microphone in one hand and Peanut in another. (Peanut weighs about 12 pounds, so this goal was not logistically challenging.)

Eventually, I identified the proper setting for my strange ambition: TacoMania, an annual festival held in the South Side Works. Presented by Beers of the ’Burgh and Enjoy Wrestling, the event features wrestling matches in the middle of the busy shopping district, with the ring surrounded by taco trucks and beer vendors; it typically draws a large and cheery crowd. It seemed to me, for reasons I can’t define, like the ideal time to introduce a small chihuahua mix into the proverbial squared circle.

This year’s TacoMania was held last Saturday — a bright and warm but not overly hot day. The crowd was sizable but fairly spread out; I quickly identified a path by which Peanut could be delivered to me between matches.

I texted my wife, Mary Beth, with an urgent plea: Get Peanut down here by belltime, I need his help.

As I awaited the dog’s arrival, I conferred about the matter with Ziggy Haim, a former wrestler who now serves as Enjoy’s “Director of Enjoyment,” a sort of matchmaker and authority figure.

“I think this is the day,” I said. “I’m going to hold Peanut before the third match. And I don’t think I’ll mention him — I’ll just be holding him.”

“That’s absolutely how you should do it,” she replied. “It’s much better that way.”

With tacit approval from the Director of Enjoyment — and an affirmation that any display of Peanut should be understated — I met up with Mary Beth and told her when and where to appear. After I announced the winner of the second contest, I helped her past the barricade and to ringside, Peanut in tow; he seemed curious and utterly unaffected by the noisy crowd. (He shudders in terror if the smoke detector gives a low-battery beep, but 700 wrestling fans don’t phase him.)

I climbed into the ring, then had Mary Beth pass Peanut through the ropes. A contingent of fans noticed and began rhythmically chanting “Sean’s dog!” As the sight of Peanut was picked up by fans who presumably didn’t know my name, the chant morphed into a simpler cadence: “Doggo (clap-clap), Doggo (clap-clap)!”

Peanut smiled and surveyed the crowd. He seemed happy to gaze over the busy scene and didn’t seem to regard the wrestling ring as an unusual place to be. He even let referee George Ross pet him for a minute.

He did, however, look askance at wrestler Tony Deppen, who was riling up the crowd and making a somewhat menacing approach to the ring. Peanut, apparently, is adept at identifying which wrestlers are the bad guys.

This year’s TacoMania was a fun show; all Enjoy Wrestling events are, and I continue to be honored to be a part of them. But holding Peanut in the ring felt like an achievement.

It occurs to me that both the ambition and the accomplishment were more rewarding simply because they served no purpose. We constantly set goals for ourselves designed to improve our jobs, relationships, financial standing or vocational success. We do all sorts of things because the doing of them serves some grander purpose, even if that purpose is as nebulous as enjoyment or fulfillment.

But even the most pleasure-focused goals can become obligations or burdens. Goals that serve no purpose, however, are inherently enjoyable; they are done because they can be, with no other purpose in mind. I think back to the year after I graduated from college, when it seemed like everything I did was in pursuit of starting a career; that was the year I joined the local “Rocky Horror Picture Show” society, the Junior Chamber of Commerce Players. I did so because I desperately needed an activity that served no purpose — that existed only on its own merits.

Did I achieve anything by holding Peanut in a wrestling ring for 60 seconds? No. Am I better off for having done so? Absolutely yes.

HOUSES ON THE SOUTH SIDE SLOPES | PHOTO BY DAVE COLE

In 2015, I moved into a small, stand-alone home on the Hilltop. Ten years later, I renewed my lease at a comparable place in another corner of the same general area.

The places had a lot in common. Square footage was about the same; both had easy access both to Downtown and most major highways running through Pittsburgh. My current house has an extra bedroom; the other one had a big yard and ample storage space. The old street was quieter; the new one is more walkable.

In short: comparable homes in the same part of the city.

Between what I paid in 2015 and what I’m paying in 2025, my rent has risen by about 105%.

Now, I’m not an economist, but if rent for comparable properties more than doubles in 10 years, I’m pretty sure that’s bad.

An article in the Post-Gazette last week caught my attention: In Harrisburg, owners and lessees of mobile and manufactured homes are seeking relief from exorbitant increases in “lot fees” and rent increases, the monthly rates that the owners of manufactured home communities and mobile-home parks charge for use of the land. In many cases, these rates have gone up by 50% or more in recent years, as property owners try to squeeze money out of individuals on limited or fixed incomes.

A bill addressing such increases, though slow-moving, is popular; it passed the State House in June, with bipartisan support. Even in a polarized state government such as ours, there seems to be wide agreement that milking the less fortunate dry is best avoided.

Here’s the thing, though: Such considerations should be universal.

A recent analysis prepared by Allegheny County found that, from 2020 to 2023, median family income increased by a hair, under 4% (after adjusting for inflation). During the same period, median rent in the county jumped by more than 19% (and home values rose by 12%). In other words, landlords asked renters to increase what they’re paying by an amount nearly five times greater than the average increase in income.

More and more of what we make, then, must be spent on rent — at a time when many other essentials, including groceries and energy, also are becoming more expensive.

Speaking of bipartisanship: Many regard attempts to rein in or control rents as an inherently left-wing desire. There’s a certain logic in that — but it’s past time that we noticed that rising costs of living are very bad for business and should be just as alarming to conservatives as liberals. We have an economy, after all, that runs on commerce; if our paychecks are entirely absorbed by food and shelter, there won’t be much money left to spend on non-discretionary goods and services.

In other words, Wall Street isn’t going to like it if no one is buying Coca-Cola and television sets because the rent is too damn high.

For decades, the interests of investors and property owners have been advocated for in the legislature. Those interests, at this point, are more than sufficiently protected. It’s long past time to ensure that Pittsburgh and surrounding areas remain affordable — and leaving it to the free market doesn’t seem to be working.

If it did, I wouldn’t be paying twice as much for more or less the same house.

PHOTO BY KRISTY GRAVER

If you judge the passage of time primarily by the decor available in home-goods stores, there are four seasons: spring, America, Halloween and Christmas.

The year begins — in January, mind you — with goods promising the arrival of flowers and the Easter bunny. This bit of the calendar used to be reserved for Valentine’s Day, but Cupid has lost the tchotchke battle; this year, I bought my first Cadbury Cream Egg on Jan. 2.

The spring stuff continues until April or so, at which time patriotic decor and all manner of pyrotechnic accoutrements fill shelves as stores prepare for the Memorial-Day-to-Independence-Day corridor.

As soon as the bunting falls, however, it’s Spooky Season. Never mind that July 4 is 119 days from Oct. 31; once we douse those cookout charcoals and watch the fireworks, it’s time to bring on the skeletons.

This shift has been particularly evident this year in the Pittsburgh region. The new Steel City Spooky Market, a gathering of macabre-goods vendors and aficionados, announced eight dates for 2025, stretching from Aug. 9 to Oct. 25. Both Hundred Acres Manor and Kennywood’s Phantom Fall Fest are less than a month away; both are set to begin on Sept. 12. The trend began even before July Fourth, at least in haunt-minded Allentown; the summer edition of the Allentown Night Market, held on June 14, drew droves to the Hilltop. (Another is scheduled for Oct. 11.)

There’s a name for this trend: Summerween, a celebration of autumnal attitudes and aesthetics amid the July and August heat. (The name needs some work, even if I’m all for the general concept.)

Part of the local proliferation of Summerween activities undoubtedly is due to Pittsburgh’s ongoing status as a generally fright-focused city. But I think the real reason for Halloween’s creep into the warmer months is more universal: After a month or two, summer loses its luster.

Summer is at its best exactly twice a year: for the first week it’s truly warm, and whenever you happen to have a vacation scheduled. Other than that, summer means heat, bugs and general discomfort. After about a month or so of warm temperatures — traditionally in the neighborhood of the Fourth, but crawling ever earlier on the calendar — we are mostly ready to embrace autumn, with its more palatable climate, cozier clothing and cinnamon-forward flavors.

If you’re any kind of successful planner, by the end of July, you’ve probably been to PNC Park. You may have already gone to Kennywood; if you have children, you’ve probably already taken whatever vacation is on the books, lest you schedule too close to back-to-school season. You’ve probably eaten outdoors; you’ve certainly mowed all the grass you care to mow on an annual basis.

I might grant you July. But a week or two into August, who wants more mosquitoes and late sunsets?

Rather than see Summerween and its attendant knick-knacks as a sheer commercial movement (a theory that is not without merit), let’s instead look at this trend as a triumph of looking forward. If we’re always gazing ahead, we can fill our time with anticipation and always be planning for future enjoyment. Yes, we should live in the moment, but we should also always be excited about what comes next.

After all, I have to think this week. My annual trip to Halloween Horror Nights in Orlando is, like, three weeks away.

PHOTO COURTESY EAT’N PARK

Last week saw the announcement of the inaugural class of honorees in (or, I suppose, on) the new Pittsburgh Walk of Fame. It’s a worthy group, to be sure — a blend of the most historically significant and culturally relevant folks who once called Pittsburgh home.

While I hate to second-guess a project before it even gets off (or, once again, on) the ground, however, I’d like to propose an additional group for this honor. Perhaps a satellite wing — which, in the case of a Walk of Fame, would be a side street — to the main list. Sure, there are hundreds of worthy Pittsburghers who can and should be added to this list in years to come. We’ve produced and fostered a great many people.

But not just people.

I believe we need to add a non-human category to the Walk of Fame, honoring the anthropomorphic characters, non-sentient beings and/or fauna that also make Pittsburgh great. I’m talking about the creatures, creations and things that are in no way human beings but help to make up the fabric of our city. And let me tell you, it was not difficult to come up with a class of 10 first-ballot Walk of Famers.

Obviously, the primary mascots waltz in. The Pirate Parrot should be the first star, for reasons recently discussed with regards to a slightly more real Hall of Fame than the one I’m conceiving. Iceburgh should be right behind him; the bird has a storied career and fought Jean-Claude Van Damme, a feat few non-humans can claim.

Steely McBeam gets in, too. If you want to tell me that he should be ineligible because he’s actually a human: I insist that he is not.

Right behind those three, though, we must include the two most important circular Pittsburghers of all time. First: the Eat’n Park Smiley Cookie. Once little more than a complimentary disc of dough and icing, this humble dessert has risen to exemplify a massive company — not merely showing up at the end of your meal, but showing up all over the damn place, making personal appearances and generally brightening everyone’s day.

If you’re not convinced of the Smiley Cookie’s relevance, consider this: Kings Family Restaurant made a rival character, the Frownie Brownie. Can you name another cookie with a nemesis?

The second circle to grace our Walk: Mr. Yuk. With little more than an alarming shade of neon green and some black squiggles, this fella — a 1970s invention of UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh — warned us all about what stuff should and should not get shoved in our mouths. (They should’ve put him on the Tide Pods.)

Next: Kenny Kangaroo. This marsupial’s got legs. Now more than 50 years old, the floppy-eared Kennywood mascot has been welcoming us to the park for so long that he has now survived the removal and return of his own namesake ride. We love Kenny so much that we wanted him around even when he was a reference to nothing. (Jeeters, Kenny’s friend and proprietor of a small in-park pub, should be strongly considered for the second class.)

We must discuss the Great Pittsburgh Pierogi Race. Some may cry that the speedy foodstuffs should be inducted as a class; after all, aren’t they mostly the same? These people are fools. There are popular pierogies (Bacon Burt), generic pierogies (Sauerkraut Saul) and even discontinued pierogies (Pizza Penny). But Jalapeño Hannah outshines them all. There’s Hannah, and then there’s the rest of them — no matter who wins. Hannah gets inducted; the others wait.

Now, these two may be a bit controversial, but I stand by both: First, Daniel Tiger. True, any number of puppets from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe could’ve been selected, but for bridging the generations and carrying Mister Rogers’ lessons to the 21st century, Daniel gets the nod. Second: The B-94 Bee. Do we need to honor a short-lived mascot from a defunct radio station? No. But just picture him on those bumper stickers that were everywhere in the ’90s. So cool. So hip.

Finally, I know it might be overkill to include two Eat’n Park-related characters in the first class. But I just can’t say no to the duo that is the Eat’n Park Christmas Tree and Star. Because every Hallmark movie in the world can’t put you in the spirit of the season any more than seeing that tree bend down. If Rudolph himself were from Pittsburgh, I’d still induct the tree and the star first.

PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

If you’re like me, you have experienced a handful of exhausting weekend trips.

You plan such travel with the hopes of coming back refreshed and reinvigorated. Then the planning begins — tickets to this, reservations over there. Lists of curiosities to visit and stores to peruse. Plans to fully avail yourself of your destination’s amenities and landmarks.

You return having enjoyed a new place … but you’re thoroughly exhausted. You packed an awful lot into about 48 hours. You briefly consider calling off of work on Monday to recover from your vacation.

Last weekend, however, I managed to actually relax on a weekend trip — and it’s because the charming small town of Kane, in McKean County, is just so relaxing. Yes, there are things to do, destinations to be found and good meals to be enjoyed. Between those stops, though, I actually took time to unwind — I napped, I strolled, I sat around and read.

Doing so was easy, especially since I was staying at the landmark Kane Manor Inn. Built in 1896 for Elizabeth Dennistoun Wood Kane — an activist and author, as well as the widow of the Civil War General and abolitionist for whom the town is named — it’s a breathtaking building, lovely restored and converted into an inviting bed and breakfast. The cozy rooms will make you want to linger; the multiple public areas, including a beautiful parlor and several outdoor seating areas, will convince you to cancel plans and spend the night in.

You can order drinks and charcuterie plates from the Inn’s small bar and, in good weather, enjoy them on the outdoor patio overlooking the forest beyond; on some nights, live music will accompany your sipping and snacking. (If happy hour is good, breakfast is sublime; far from the expected bagels and fruit, the Kane Manor Inn offers full, homemade meals. If they ask about your breakfast preferences, put in a vote for the French toast.)

On my trip, we spent one night staying in and one night out, heading down the road to the Kane Family Drive-In, a single-screen, outdoor theater that has been in business since 1952. For just $7 per person — or $3 for seniors and children — you’ll get a double-feature of current hits under far more stars than can be seen from most parts of Allegheny County. Arrive early and drop another $3 on the 9-hole mini-golf course at the far end of the lot, or fill up on fair-style food at the full-service concession stand, where the smell of the signature funnel-cake fries will lure you from your parking space. In addition to the expected popcorn and nachos, they make burgers, hot dogs, loaded french fries and more to order.

During the day, if you’re inclined to roam, you can explore Allegheny National Forest via several nearby trailheads. We opted to seek out Hector Falls, a striking natural waterfall nearby; there’s a parking area about a 20-minute walk from the spot, with an easy and clearly marked trail.

You could also visit the Kane Historic Depot and Museum, a converted train station that tells the story of the city and its most notable residents. You could browse the shops on and around Fraley Street; you could dine at Table 105 or the 110-year-old Texas Hot Lunch diner.

Strike that — you should absolutely not miss Texas Hot Lunch. The signature hot dog is unforgettable, and it costs $2.65. (Order three.)

You could do any of that. Or you could do none of that. You could sit around the Inn, catch up on your reading and nod off in front of the television. Because not all travel has to involve a dash from one thing to the next. Yes, we want to get the most out of our journeys, but we also need a chance to make our getaways sources of actual relief.

For that, Kane is perfect.

PHOTO BY SEAN COLLIER

I started writing this column while standing in an igloo.

Or, rather, a snowhouse; as I learned, the word igloo simply means house, while the structure we think of when we picture an igloo would generally be called “igloovigak,” or snowhouse.

I learned this in the Hall of Arctic Life at Carnegie Museum of Natural History, which explores traditional and modern life among Canadian Inuit populations through artifacts, videos and illustrative dioramas. Inside the igloovigak, two figures — a child and mother — confer; the youth proudly displays a recently trapped fox while the parent crafts household items. I, however, am fixated on the lush skins that separate the humans from their icy furnishings, considering warmth and comfort amid these conditions.

This is an essential component of visiting a natural-history museum — considering lives different from one’s own, removed by time or geography. It plays an essential role in civic life.

And, like many aspects of public education and enrichment, the powers that be are trying to take it away — or at least undercut it.

The igloovigak scene is one of many such scenes in the museum, many depicting natural scenes in Pennsylvania and regions far beyond. One permanent exhibition, the Art of the Diroama, jumped out at me on a recent visit; designed to look like museums did 100 years ago, this area is home to some of the museum’s oldest dioramas. In one, ravens perch on a rocky outcropping; in another, a great horned owl dives at a passing skunk.

Such displays were cutting-edge a century or so ago; the public packed museums to see taxidermied specimens arranged in lifelike displays. While contemporary viewers may question the use of real animals in such contexts, the practice was seen as the height of the conservation movement; by showing these creatures in this way, early advocates for the natural world believed they could convince people of the importance of respecting and protecting native flora and fauna.

Many of those early conservationists were the sort of rich and powerful individuals who had the time to travel widely (and, admittedly, hunt specimens for future museum use). There was a great interest, a century or so ago, in the education and even intellectual enlightenment of the population as a whole. Andrew Carnegie — whose name is on the front of a great many museums and libraries — famously said, “A library outranks any other thing a community can do to benefit its people. It is a never failing spring in the desert.”

Jump forward to today, however, and the rich and powerful have decided we shouldn’t be in the business of funding libraries and museums — or public media.

Last week, Congress approved a plan to cut all federal funding, some $1.1 billion, for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, which oversees National Public Radio and PBS. This comes amid similar efforts to strip or severely reduce funding for the National Endowment of the Arts, the National Endowment of the Humanities and the Institute of Museum and Library Services.

Public television and radio, by the way, were established after research from none other than the Carnegie Corp. recommended that “a well-financed and well-directed educational television system, substantially larger and far more pervasive and effective than that which now exists in the United States, must be brought into being if the full needs of the American public are to be served.”

The reasons for these cuts, despite what you may have been told by a mathematically challenged pundit or blatantly lying congressperson, are not financial. The total federal budget for 2024 was about $6.75 trillion, meaning that the portion going to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting represented 0.0001% of overall government spending.

To make an equivalent comparison to one’s personal finances: To say that we cannot afford funds for public broadcasting would be like if I told you that you were going bankrupt because you bought exactly one cup of coffee last October.

Since it’s not economic, then, the cuts to these programs can only be ideological. Unlike figures such as Carnegie and Frick (undoubtedly flawed and complex historic figures in their own right) today’s barons and bosses do not value an educated, informed population. They do not see our intellectual development and enrichment as good work; they would rather, it seems, keep us in the dark.

Perhaps — just speculating here — they know that the more we learn, the worse they’ll look.

We still have civic treasures like the Carnegie Museum of Natural History and its sister museums. For the moment, we still have WESA, WYEP and WQED. We still have the Carnegie Libraries and dozens of smaller community libraries throughout the region. I can still stand in an igloovigak and contemplate lives lived far from Pittsburgh.

The task of maintaining and growing them, however, may fall to us. Because the people holding the purse no longer seem inclined to provide the people much of anything at all.

PHOTO BY DAVE COLE

The latest chapter in the never-ending story that is the South Side involves a polite request from Pittsburgh Public Safety: Perhaps we could stop conducting business in the middle of the night?

For a city that loves its bars, operation until 2 a.m. is more than a guideline; it’s something akin to a commandment, an inherent rule of life. On and around East Carson Street, however, it has become a problem; the flood of traffic that swarms the busy nightlife district each Friday and Saturday night becomes unmanageable at 2:01 a.m., when the bars simultaneously expel their assembled revelers.

The argument could be made that asking businesses to do less business is not the right approach to this problem. (The argument also could be made that the problem is overblown; as the Trib reported, crime is improving and businesses are doing OK, if not thriving, on East Carson Street.) But I think that this request is more than just an idea: I think it’s a litmus test for the quality, and the aspirations, of South Side bars.

Plenty of bars and restaurants do just fine without staying open well past the witching hour. In fact, the post-pandemic trend is for businesses to close earlier, not later. Hidden Harbor, the beloved Squirrel Hill tiki bar, closes at 11 p.m. on weekdays and midnight on Friday and Saturday. The Southern Tier Brewing outpost on the North Shore — another highly trafficked, nightlife-focused part of the city — never remains open past midnight. Right in the heart of the South Side, Carson Street Deli & Craft Beer Bar, a sandwich shop that also boasts one of the city’s best beer lists (and has a lovely beer garden), closes at 9 p.m., even on Friday and Saturday nights.

Evidently, it is possible to own a bar, make money and go to bed at a decent hour. Even on East Carson Street.

If the bar and restaurant owners on East Carson Street actually want to help the problem, it is entirely possible for them to change their business and operations — to move on from catering to the city’s youngest, rowdiest and/or worst drinkers. That’s not to say that the traditional neighborhood dives need to go all “Bar Rescue,” but this problem isn’t really owned by the traditional neighborhood dives. It’s owned by those places that are happy to host (and, frequently, overserve) problem drinkers and then want someone else to deal with the impact come closing time.

It also might not even require much of a change at all; the request coming from Pittsburgh Public Safety isn’t to stop serving hard seltzer and turn down the music. It’s just to think about maybe wrapping up at 1:00 or 1:30, thus preventing every busy bar from vomiting its occupants onto East Carson Street at the exact same moment.

A large part of this problem is cultural: As many business owners have noted, a sizable portion of the crowds that congregate on and around East Carson Street aren’t actually patronizing the bars; they’re just sort of hanging around. That problem won’t be solved quickly. But if the neighborhood as a whole wants to mitigate the damage, business owners need to come together with a cohesive strategy — and not merely throw their hands up and demand the right to keep making money at 1:45 in the morning.

It’ll be interesting to see which bars agree to the request and alter their services or their hours. You can assume those establishments are the ones with an eye to the health and welfare of the neighborhood and the city.

The ones that refuse to change? Maybe they just lack imagination — or perhaps they’re only in it for themselves.

PHOTO BY AIDAN MCCLAIN

Another Anthrocon has passed, and a phalanx of fursuited visitors has come and gone from Downtown.

Each year, the largest annual gathering of anthropomorphic-animal enthusiasts takes place in Downtown Pittsburgh, centered around the David L. Lawrence Convention Center. Thousands of guests from far and wide come to Pittsburgh to peruse artwork and crafts, show off outfits — including the full-body “fursuits” that garner the most attention, particularly during a yearly parade — and pass time with like-minded individuals.

The economic impact of Anthrocon is significant. WTAE reported that the event was estimated to pump $21.7 million into local businesses. The news station quoted Baris Budak, owner of Pizza Parma, who said, “Everybody’s super busy … they’re extremely happy.” Budak gives Pizza Parma a furry-themed makeover for the event and says that Downtown businesses consider Anthrocon to be “Christmas in July,” in terms of the boost of traffic and money.

(One fact is beyond the scope of this column: Yes, there is a decidedly adult side of this fandom for many, but not all, participants. I’ve been told by attendees that this represents only a small portion of the wares on display at the convention, as most of the event is family-friendly. While this element is confusing or risible to many non-devotees, it doesn’t affect the overall impact of the event on the community.)

The furries, for their part, seem to love Pittsburgh. I spoke with one friend who is a frequent Anthrocon attendee (and a local resident) who said that visiting guests gush over their time in Downtown Pittsburgh. They rave over the city’s architecture and landmarks — the inclines are particular favorites — and enjoy exploring Downtown beyond the convention center.

They appreciate Pittsburgh so much, my friend says, that they’ve made her see Pittsburgh through new eyes.

In other words, this is a group of tourists who gather Downtown once a year and love it. While many explore Pittsburgh beyond the Golden Triangle, the brunt of the activity is centralized around the convention center, packing nearby hotels and restaurants. These guests not only spend time Downtown — they genuinely love it.

Consider this, then, in sharp contrast to an oft-repeated narrative about Downtown espoused by some locals. We have heard for years — particularly online, but also in some corners of traditional media — that Downtown is deserted and dangerous. That crime is everywhere; that the city center has been all but abandoned.

That must come as news to the 20,000 furries who find hotels, restaurants, attractions and nightlife there each year.

A local once reached out to me on social media to express concern about coming to Downtown proper for an event; he said he was genuinely worried about being a victim of crime between a Downtown parking garage and a major theater. While I’m sure he was exaggerating to an extent, the narrative holds; many people who live in Western Pennsylvania but aren’t regularly Downtown have become convinced that they’re going to be mugged or worse while visiting.

We know this is unrealistic, of course, but that doesn’t stop many from casting a wary eye at the Golden Triangle. Never mind that Pittsburgh’s violent crime rates have dropped in recent years (and rates in the city have gone down while those in the suburbs have one up). Don’t pay attention to those reports that actually rank Pittsburgh as the safest major city in terms of property crime, and the third-safest in violent crime.

Why let facts get in the way of a cynical narrative?

It’d take someone smarter than I am to come up with the reasons for these misconceptions — but data and the experience of locals and visitors alike show that they are indeed misconceptions. The furries will certainly tell you that. So can the tens of thousands of people who go Downtown every day and night to work, see shows, eat and generally enjoy the city.

We all need to engage with the city the way the furries do — come in and spend real time. Don’t merely park, go where you’re going and then speed home; actually visit the city, spend money and appreciate all there is to see and do. The city doesn’t magically become a wonderland when 20,000 fursuited travelers show up; it’s a good place to be anytime

You can lie and tell yourself it’s dangerous and desolate if you’d like, but you’re only denying yourself the pleasures of a vibrant — and, yes, safe — city.

PHOTO COURTESY OF THE NATIONAL COMEDY CENTER

On my second visit to the National Comedy Center, I was transfixed by two chairs and a couple of cheap tray tables.

The captivating, technologically marvelous institution isn’t primarily a repository for artifacts, as I discovered during my first visit back in January. It has treasures, to be sure — Andy Kaufman’s Elvis outfit, the infamous Puffy Shirt from “Seinfeld,” George Carlin’s handwritten notes — but they’re not the main attraction at the museum. The clear headliners among this lineup are the many interactive exhibits that cater content to each individual visitor; by selecting your favorite comedians, movies and more when you arrive, the museum quite literally adjusts to your taste as you explore.

I made my second trip this past weekend as part of a day trip organized by Pittsburgh Magazine and the National Comedy Center, leading a group of contest winners and invited funny folks to Jamestown, New York. En route, I extolled the interactivity and high-tech exhibits at the museum. (I had plenty of time to do so; we got a flat tire around Grove City. What’s a comedy road trip without some unexpected setbacks?)

Privately, though, I wanted to make time for an exhibit exploring the legacy and influence of Carl Reiner. The writer, performer, director and producer spanned modern comedy history, from the earliest days of television to the era of social media; he was active on Twitter until his death in 2020 at age 98.

Throughout his life, he also remained inseparable from Mel Brooks, his best friend and frequent collaborator. The two comedy legends would spend almost every evening at Reiner’s house, eating and watching “Jeopardy!” and old movies.

I had heard the legends of these daily meetings on podcasts and in books and articles: two absolute titans of entertainment calmly sitting and enjoying life well into their 90s. (Brooks just turned 99 and is still working; he announced a sequel to his spoof “Spaceballs” last month.) I frequently thought about these evenings — and wondered what movies Brooks and Reiner were watching.

At the National Comedy Center, I saw the chairs.

In the Carl Reiner exhibit, they have the chairs the best friends would sit in, as well as the tattered, old tray tables they’d use for meals. (The latter are old enough to qualify as museum pieces regardless of their brush with fame.) Suddenly, I was giving life to the vision that had been in my head — able to not just think about a place and time, but truly picture it.

That’s what the best museums do. We have innumerable places like this in Pittsburgh institutions; I get the same feeling looking over the pens and paper on Adelaide Frick’s desk at Clayton or by looking at furniture used by Abraham Lincoln on his Pittsburgh visits at the Heinz History Center. I can even look 19,000 years into the past at Meadowcroft and imagine people gathered around the fire.

Interactive and high-tech exhibits make a museum or other institution dazzling. But it’s often the ability to simply regard something remarkable that makes one truly memorable. Fortunately for visitors, the National Comedy Center — and plenty of other favorites in Pittsburgh — have both elements.

I forgot to get a good picture of the chairs. I’d buy it on a poster. And I couldn’t help but notice that Reiner’s chair looked cozy, while Brooks’ looked a bit stiff. Seventy years of friendship, and Carl Reiner couldn’t get his best friend a cozy chair? I can hear Mel complaining about it now!

PHOTO COURTESY PITTSBURGH PIRATES

Last week, I received an email announcing the 2025 inductees into the Mascot Hall of Fame.

Two revelations followed. The first: Apparently, the Mascot Hall of Fame exists.

Digitally, anyway. It was once a physical place, found in Whiting, Indiana. The brick-and-mortar location only hung around for about six years before closing last summer; before and since, however, founder David Raymond has announced new inductees. The inaugural class, announced in 2005, included the San Diego Chicken, the Phoenix Suns Gorilla and the Phillie Phanatic.

The Phanatic, by the way, was originally portrayed by … David Raymond, founder of the Mascot Hall of Fame. This would seem to be a clear conflict of interest; on the other hand, the Phillie Phanatic is a very good mascot, so I’ll let it slide.

Anyway: More than three dozen mascots have been inducted into this elite group, ranging from instantly recognizable creatures such as the New York Mets’ iconic Mr. Met to somewhat less-recognizable characters including Western Kentucky University’s Big Red.

He’s a furry red thing and also a hill, maybe? Let’s not get distracted by trying to explain Big Red.

The second revolution occurred as I scanned the list of the 2025 inductees. I assumed I was receiving the press release because a Pittsburgh-area mascot was being enshrined; my assumption, however, was incorrect. This year’s class includes the St. Louis Cardinals’ avian friend, Redbird; the San Jose Sharks’ unimaginatively named S.J. Sharkie; the Houston Texans’ all-caps bull, TORO; the Seattle Seahawks’ generally terrifying mascot, Blitz; and Sebastian the Ibis of the Miami Hurricanes (who looks an awful lot like a standard-edition duck, but again, let’s not get derailed).

Surely, I thought, there must be Pittsburgh-based mascots among the inductees. OK, Steely McBeam probably won’t make the cut; we still haven’t really warmed up to the big galoot. And while ROC, the Pitt Panthers’ mascot, is a perfectly serviceable cat, the Hall cast its lot with Penn State, inducting the Nittany Lion in 2019.

But … Iceburgh has to be in if S.J. Sharkie is worthy, right? And the Pirate Parrot is a first-ballot Hall of Famer if ever there were one.

Right? Right?

Nope. I am devastated to report that no local mascot has made the cut for the Mascot Hall of Fame.

We can excuse the Iceburgh omission, I suppose, because the Hall is only passingly interested in the NHL; aside from S.J. Sharkie, only Tommy Hawk of the Chicago Blackhawks and Youppi!, whom the Montreal Canadiens adopted after he was surrendered by the departing Montreal Expos, have been called to the Hall. (Pedants: Yes, the exclamation point is part of Youppi!’s name. Again, the world of mascots is rife with distraction. Let us press on.)

But the omission of the Pirate Parrot is inexcusable. Ten Major League Baseball mascots already have been inducted, including such unremarkable characters as the Cleveland Guardians’ generic Muppet knock-off, Slider, and the Chicago White Sox’ green whatsit, Southpaw, who I was pretty sure was a dog until I looked at a picture. (He’s certainly not a sock.) There’s even a Minor League mascot in the Hall, as Portland Sea Dogs mascot Sea Dog — whose name is the same as the name of the team, a dull fact that should be instantly disqualifying — has been named to the Mascot Hall of Fame.

Meanwhile, the Parrot has been an institution for nearly 50 years. The Parrot is older than nearly every other mascot in the league — among currently active mascots, only five have been in continuous use since 1979 or earlier — and has remained remarkably consistent in appearance and hijinks, undergoing only one fundamental redesign in his 46 seasons. Moreover, he’s instantly recognizable and themed accurately for his team, something that many inducted mascots cannot claim. (Once again, I’m looking at you, Slider.)

The induction is far overdue: The Pirate Parrot must be inducted into next year’s Mascot Hall of Fame class. The ball is in your court, David Raymond. Do not let some silly notion of cross-state rivalry prevent the induction of a worthy bird.

Is this about the … y’know, unpleasantness in the ’80s? Listen: It’s a Hall of Fame. If anything, that stuff only made the Parrot more famous.

PHOTO COURTESY PALACE ENTERTAINMENT

I experienced a new sensation at this year’s iteration of the Kennywood Bites and Pints Food & Drink Festival: I was full.

Not merely satiated; I was really and truly full. The annual event is regularly tasty and offers a good variety of food that’s far removed from the usual theme-park fare — but, in its first few years, the first word of the title was accurate. Your tasting card (or a la carte purchase) got you a hearty bite — more than a taste but less than a side.

This year, the portions are big. Hearty choices such as the savory cottage pie (at the Ireland station) or the flavorful paella (at Spain) are full bowls of food. Two of the offerings from Italy — the pizza-esque piadina, covered in ricotta and grilled peaches, and the near-perfect tramezzini alla Caprese sandwich — are definitely full courses.

Even desserts, especially the Polish naleśniki (a pancake stuffed with sweet cheese and whipped cream, and topped with raspberries) and the Spanish churro con chocolate, will fill you up.

This means one thing: You need a plan. You cannot merely rush in and careen from bite to bite (or, even more treacherous, pint to pint) with no regard for your stomach or your timetable. A planned approach is necessary. Here are a few tips.

Arrive early, and get the big rides out of the way. Bites and Pints takes place on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays in June. On Fridays, the food stations open at 4 p.m.; on weekends, they begin service at 1 p.m. The park, however, opens at 11 a.m. — giving you 2-5 hours of time before you can start nibbling. Use that time to tackle the rides that whip your body, and thus your stomach, through the air. Save more leisurely pursuits such as Noah’s Ark, the Old Mill and Ghostwood Estate for after you eat.

Prepare for two meals, not one big smorgasbord. The best way to engage with Bites and Pints is with a tasting card; if you buy one in advance online, you can get an eight-serving pass for $44.99 or 12 for $49.99. (They’re $10 more if you buy them at the park.) Whichever quantity you choose, think of them as two halves of the experience. Assuming you’re attending on a Saturday or Sunday — which is the better move, as there’s time for lunch and dinner — you can have a full meal when Bites and Pints opens and another when evening rolls around.

The menus are online, so meal planning is your friend. If you don’t think ahead, you could end up topping a belly full of beef and gravy with kimchi and kielbasa. It’s an international food festival, but that doesn’t mean you have to throw caution to the wind. Here’s a lineup I’d try for one of your “meals”: Start with the delicious elote from the Mexico station, then go with Spain’s paella as your main course. (You will thus enjoy the completely unexpected experience of opening a green-lipped mussel near the Racer.) Wash it down with the Zywiec porter from Poland, then double back to Spain for the churro dessert. You can craft similarly cohesive meals by pairing the Polish and Irish stations or Greece and Italy.

When digesting, enjoy a train ride. Many patrons may have avoided the park’s train ride during its years as a certain smiling, blue engine. For this year, however, the ride was restored to its former theme: The Olde Kennywood Railroad. The leisurely journey affords breathtaking views of the local landscape and a recorded history of the park itself. There’s also a surprise coming at the end of the journey: Ride cars and signs from two of the park’s most fondly missed attractions, the Log Jammer and the Turnpike. (I’m petitioning the park to turn the whole thing into a forgotten-ride graveyard, but that’s a column for another day.) It’s a great way to unwind — and, more importantly, digest — after a long day at the park.

PHOTO BY EVAN SIEGLE, GREEN BAY PACKERS

Aaron Rodgers, the quarterback who has signed with the Pittsburgh Steelers after a tedious bout of hemming and hawing, tested positive for COVID-19 in November 2021.

His career has gone downhill in the years since.

The circumstances of his positive test, which occurred without Rodgers having been vaccinated against the disease, represented something of a PR mess. Rodgers had previously told reporters that he had been “immunized,” but he was referring to a series of holistic treatments that are not proven to offer any protection against COVID-19. Rodgers later claimed that he had an allergy to certain vaccine ingredients, so he sought alternative treatment.

It is not known how serious Rodgers’ bout with COVID-19 was. The effects of the coronavirus have varied from person to person and strain to strain; while many have deadly consequences, others are mild. (In the immediate aftermath of his infection, Rodgers said — then denied — that he was suffering from “COVID toe,” a rare symptom that inflames and discolors the toes.)

It is known, however, that individuals who have not received a COVID-19 vaccine tend to suffer more serious and long-lasting symptoms. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention says that the risk of critical illness from a COVID-19 infection is reduced by almost 70% in the months immediately following vaccination, and a Yale Medicine study demonstrated that the likelihood of Long COVID is significantly reduced among those who have been vaccinated.

It would be irresponsible to speculate that Rodgers has lingering effects as a result of contracting COVID-19 while unvaccinated; to do so would be to conflate correlation and causation, a logically and scientifically dubious approach. (Rodgers does precisely that on a regular basis, but that’s a column for another day.)

There’s nothing irresponsible, however, about sharing certain statistics. For example: That 2021 season, during which Rodgers was sidelined for 10 days as a result of his COVID-19 diagnosis, was his final season as a winning quarterback. The following season, his Green Bay Packers went 8-9. A year later, he was injured in week one and did not return; in 2024, he led the New York Jets to a dismal 5-12 record.

Through 2021, Rodgers averaged more than 34 touchdowns per year (during seasons in which he played at least 15 games). In 2022, he threw 26; in 2024, he threw 28.

In 2020, 9.1% of his passes resulted in touchdowns. In 2022, that number was down to 4.8%, with the same percentage posted in 2024.

There’s a complicated statistic tracked by football data folks called Passing Success Rate; defined as simply as possible, it measures the frequency with which a quarterback does something useful with each snap. In 2024, that number was the second-lowest of Rodgers’ starting career, at 43.9%.

There are several plausible explanations for Rodgers’ diminished performance and poor win-loss records over the past couple of seasons. He is among the league’s oldest quarterbacks; statistics, and results, often drop precipitously once a quarterback hits his late 30s. He also left his longtime franchise in Green Bay, making him reacclimate late in his career; that’s rarely a change that produces better results in aging players.

Those impacts will be even more pronounced when Rodgers dons a Steelers uniform. He’ll turn 42 this season. Pittsburgh is a brand-new environment for him — and, by not actually telling anyone he felt like playing football until June, he’ll have less time than the average new quarterback to familiarize himself with the team.

Whatever the reasons and causes, there are very much two versions of the quarterback Aaron Rodgers. There was a superstar who led the Green Bay Packers (and beat the Steelers to win a Super Bowl) in the ’10s. In the ’20s, Rodgers has been defined primarily by indecision, injury, COVID-19 and controversy.

Steelers fans should keep this decade’s version of Rodgers in mind when anticipating this season’s results.

PHOTO BY LAURYN HALAHURICH / THOSE IN MOTION

This year, I served as one of three judges for the Pittsburgh chapter of the annual 48 Hour Film Project. It’s a global network of competitions in which teams conceive, write, film and edit an original short film in the space of a weekend.

Admittedly, I got a bit queasy when I saw the number of entries in this year’s contest. With an average runtime of around 6 minutes, 48 short films (yes, there were 48 entries in this year’s 48 Hour Film Project) add up to almost five hours of content. That I would have to watch in short order — attentively, even.

I needn’t have worried. The films were generally delightful, and many were truly impressive. There was a hilarious time-travel comedy, “Andre Brown and the Unfortunate Fortune,” where a paper cut leads to a zombie invasion and the destruction of Pittsburgh. A silent family drama, “+1,” included a heartfelt message about grief and love. There was an expertly crafted tale of reluctant assassins, “Personal Baggage,” with a great twist ending, and there was a genuinely funny, sitcom-esque workplace comedy about ambiguous souls, “Corpurgatory,” made by middle-school students. Perhaps the most memorable was a demon-summoning musical about optimism, “The Summoning.”

The theme from “The Summoning” has been in my head for weeks.

You can watch many of this year’s films here (note that some aren’t all-ages). As strong as my favorite films were, however, my main takeaway was not about cinema; it was about community. The awards ceremony that wrapped up the competition was held Saturday night at the massive Rangos Giant Cinema at the Carnegie Science Center, and it was a standing-room-only sellout. Notably, the audience was not solely comprised of folks who were up for the evening’s awards; many of the people present were from films that had not been nominated — they just turned up to see which films took the prizes.

I saw that community in action throughout the process. At a kickoff event, longtime participants welcomed newcomers and made connections. At the judging session, event producer PJ Gaynard rattled off names of filmmakers and performers from memory, having seen their work year after year. And when teams posted their finished work to the project’s Facebook group, community members dashed to the comments to offer congratulations and praise.

The top films at each year’s competition go on to compete against those from other cities and countries, and that’s quite an honor. And for many, the 48 Hour Film Project becomes a first step toward a career in the arts — or at least a rewarding hobby.

But the passion for the project and the participants in it is, to me, the most important part of events like this. We hear quite a bit about the loneliness epidemic affecting the nation and the loss of communal experiences, societal issues that have devastating consequences. (We covered the many ways Pittsburghers are making new friends in our May issue.) Events such as the 48 Hour Film Project, which not only connect people but also give them shared purpose and the opportunity to work creatively together, are the antidote.

I’m so taken by the process that I may even be crazy enough to enter the competition myself in the future.

Honestly, I probably won’t. I value sleep far too much to spend a weekend toiling and editing. Then again, the people who got to see their work on the region’s biggest movie screen seemed really happy about it.

I may or may not be able to muster the energy to make a film in a weekend, but I’d recommend it to anyone. You’ll end up with a fun movie to show your friends — and, in all likelihood, a bunch of new friends.

ANDY WARHOL, MARTHA GRAHAM: LETTER TO THE WORLD (THE KICK), 1986, © THE ANDY WARHOL FOUNDATION FOR THE VISUAL ARTS, INC.

I have a confession: I don’t really understand how screenprinting works.

Or, rather, I didn’t until last week.

In Pittsburgh, this counts as a significant cultural oversight; we are, after all, the hometown of Andy Warhol, the 20th century’s most significant master of the artform. His signature museum has had many of those iconic prints — those featuring Marilyn Monroe, Chairman Mao, cans of Campbell’s Soup and a hundred other thought-provoking subjects — on display since the day it opened.

The Warhol has also brought innumerable school groups through its doors to make their own prints. I know. I was among those students, in the (very) early days of the institution.

The knowledge, apparently, did not stick. (There was a screenprinting elective in my high school, too, but I opted for photography — where I learned a darkroom process that would almost immediately become somewhat obsolete.)

That’s why an exhibition like “Good Business: Andy Warhol’s Screenprints,” on view at the North Side institution through Sept. 1, is so refreshing. Not only does it put many of Warhol’s prints, from early experiments through some of his final works in the medium, together, but it also takes the time to explain how the process works. Through a free exhibition guide and a helpful video playing on the gallery wall, even those viewers who are a bit dense when it comes to making art will inevitably understand how the process works.

The exhibition also shows both the art and the commerce of Warhol’s decision to focus on screenprints. The enigmatic artist was fascinated by the mechanic repetition of elements that could be made to seem random yet deliberate, painstakingly recreating identical lines in different colors and slightly changed orientations; the medium fit well with his pop-art ethos. Just as importantly, it also made money; genuine Warhol prints could generate a lot of cash for the artist’s more esoteric (and less profitable) pursuits. A significant portion of Warhol’s outlandish and groundbreaking filmmaking career was financed by selling prints.

One part of the collection jumped out at me, however — the part that did not represent a significant financial gain. In a collection of prints depicting endangered animals, creatures great and small are rendered in neon and dramatic shadow; it’s a series that’s both a signifier of its era and still dramatic in the present. And Warhol did this series not to make money but to support conservation work, a rare example of his activism shining through.

The exhibition is a fine reason to return to The Warhol. Vitally, though, it’s also something I love to see from local institutions: iconic, recognizable material presented in a new light. We are all, of course, familiar with the soup cans and the images of Marilyn Monroe; in “Good Business,” we’re given reason to consider and contextualize them once again.

And, perhaps, to help an artistically clueless viewer like myself finally understand screenprinting.

PHOTO BY RICHARD COOK

On Saturday, my wife and I met friends for a drink at the North Shore branch of Southern Tier Brewing. It was their suggestion, but we were happy to agree; they have a large, dog-friendly patio, making it an opportunity for a chihuahua-enhanced outing. (The beer is pretty good, too.)

None of us, however, checked the Pirates schedule when we made plans; we agreed to meet around 4, and the first pitch of a game between the Buccos and the visiting Atlanta Braves was set for 4:05. It was a nice day; even with attendance relatively low this season, we expected crowds.

We got them. Our excited dog got more than he bargained for, as we had to walk a good distance to get from a parking spot to the restaurant. When we arrived, the outdoor seating area was crowded with fans in black-and-gold gear, enjoying a drink before the game began.

Then, however, a funny thing happened: The game began. (That wasn’t the funny thing.) I could hear the starting lineups announced in the distance; on the TVs above the bar, I saw the first inning get underway. And a significant number of those fans in Pirates gear stayed at Southern Tier.

Apparently, going to the game need not actually involve going to the game. And that’s a problem — for Bob Nutting.

It’s a league-wide trend to pack more and more distractions into Major League Baseball stadiums. Bars and lounge areas lure fans away from their seats and into the concourses, where more money could be spent; play areas and souvenir stands grab the attention of children. These elements are present at PNC Park; there’s a full Fat Head’s bar in deep center field, with no meaningful view of the game, and a climbable Pirate ship for the kids.

Most stadiums have these elements; a lot of people go to games without much concern for the play-by-play. The difference, of course, is that most of those stadiums also feature interesting baseball on a somewhat frequent basis.

I think that the fans I saw dressed for the game but not actually attending have figured something out: You can have basically the same social experience outside the park as you can inside, and for a lot less money. Let’s assume that you’re not actually a fan of the game; what’s good about the experience? Meeting up with friends and enjoying food and drinks on a sunny afternoon in the city.

All of that is just as possible at Southern Tier, or a dozen other spots along the Allegheny, as it is inside PNC Park. And you’ll pay about half as much for beer — not to mention avoiding the cost of a ticket.

I’m not blaming the fans who don’t want to dutifully sit through nine innings of Bucco baseball. Some of us, myself included, are so generally interested in baseball that we’re happy to stare at the game, even if nothing happens. But for most, whatever passing interest one might have as a casual fan will not be rewarded inside PNC Park. As of this writing, the Pirates rank next-to-last in baseball in home runs. They’re only one spot better in batting average; they’re dead last in runs batted in.

Actually, there’s one offensive stat in which the Pirates lead the league: They hit into double plays more often than any other team. Even when something happens in a Pirates game, it generally leads to disappointment.

We’re told to come to the park to see Paul Skenes and the crew of dazzling pitchers on this year’s team. Even if we ignore the fact that casual fans are generally not too interested in pitching, the Pirates aren’t delivering on the mound, either; they’re 25th of baseball’s 30 teams in the number of strikeouts this year and 21st in earned run average.

All of this is to say: Why would a casual fan want to watch a team that isn’t hitting home runs, isn’t creating dramatic moments on the basepaths and isn’t striking out opposing batters? To the casual fan, there’s simply nothing happening on the field that is all that much more interesting than chatting with friends at a bar in the concourse — or a bar down the street, for that matter.

Nutting and Pirates ownership seem firm in the belief that if they put enough ridiculous toppings on a hot dog, fans will keep coming to enjoy the atmosphere and amenities. But if my visit to Southern Tier on Saturday afternoon is any indication, that strategy won’t work forever. I love baseball and will always happily watch even a bad team. (I’ve had practice.) But younger generations are not as fond of the national pastime as older generations — and it seems they’re starting to consider the expense of going to a ballgame to be a poor investment.

Here’s another statistic that may be of interest: The Pirates are averaging 17,269 fans per game. That’s the fifth-lowest mark in baseball.

Unless the administration goes out and gets some ballplayers people are excited to see, that number isn’t going to grow. There will still be fans wearing black and gold; they’ll just be hanging out down the street.

PHOTO: ADOBE STOCK

If a traffic light isn’t working, it becomes a stop sign. You treat it like you would treat any other stop sign.

Doesn’t seem too complicated, does it? And yet last week, this fairly simple rule of the road was forgotten, ignored or completely misunderstood by many local drivers.

On many busy thoroughfares, social-media reports claimed that drivers were simply proceeding through non-functioning traffic lights as if they weren’t there. In Oakland, an enraged driver called 911 to complain about the volume of ignorant drivers — a call picked up by the popular Pittsburgh Scanner account.

Oakland. Blvd of the Allies at Bates Street. Caller said the traffic signal at this intersection has no power and that drivers are not correctly treating this intersection as a four way stop. Caller is upset.

— Pittsburgh Scanner (@pgh-scanner.com) April 30, 2025 at 7:36 AM

In Pittsburgh, where many drivers treat normal traffic disruptions as apocalyptic scenarios and nearly all driving laws are regarded as little more than helpful suggestions, we appear to need a reminder on this point. Therefore: Let me explain this in an unnecessarily slow manner.

You’re driving. You approach an intersection. There’s a traffic light, but it’s not on. So: You go to the point where you would stop if the light were red. Then you pretend that you’re at a stop sign. Were there other drivers at other sides of the intersection that got their first? They go ahead of you. Is it your turn? Proceed! Slowly and carefully.

This, apparently, was the part that was tripping a good number of people up locally: This is true even if it’s a very big intersection. This is true even if your part of the intersection is very busy and another part of the intersection is a tiny side street. If the light is out, it’s a stop sign now, no matter what else is going on. Everyone approaches, and then everyone takes a turn.

“But that will take forever,” you might say. Well … yes. Sometimes, when natural disasters happen, things take a bit longer. I don’t know what else to tell you. Be patient — you’ll get where you’re going.

“But that wouldn’t work on McKnight Road,” you might reply. “What — if a six-lane highway doesn’t have working traffic lights, then we all have to take turns and see if anyone in all of those lanes got there ahead of us?” Yup. This can be very difficult, admittedly. It requires a lot of focus and attention and caution. And yet: We’re all adults who have successfully obtained and maintained licenses to operate motor vehicles. We should be able to handle it.

The problem here isn’t the logistics; it’s still fairly simple (arrive, stop, wait your turn). The problem here is patience: We think that it’s going to be hard and cost us lots of time, so we ignore the rules and proceed. Unfortunately, that attitude makes traffic worse, not better. Aside from the inherent risks of blowing through an intersection like the stoplight simply vanished, chaos creates uncertainty — and uncertainty begets traffic, as people slow or stop to figure out what the hell is going on.

If you think you can’t handle that rule — if you truly believe that navigating a complex intersection without a stoplight is beyond your capabilities — don’t drive during or immediately after a bad storm. That’s good advice anyway; if you’re apprehensive, stay home, if at all possible.

Otherwise: This isn’t complicated. We should all be able to follow basic rules under difficult circumstances. Pittsburghers have never been known as particularly good drivers, but we shouldn’t wear that status as a badge of honor; we’re all smart enough to do better.