.Lost Yinzer Jay Grochalski
All Hail Pittsburgh, The New Literary Mecca
I was recently linked to a New Yorker article entitled: The Hills Are Alive, which concerned the bourgeoning indie literary scene in Pittsburgh. Now I might be late coming to this current party (yet oh did I ever suffer back in the day), but I’d like to extend a personal congratulations to the artists and writers of Pittsburgh for making the city America’s new literary Mecca. I know that when I lived in Pittsburgh it seemed to me that only a few others and myself were really tuned into the literary scene, wherein most of the young “indie” types were playing music. While I’m sure many young “indie” types still live in Pittsburgh creating their idea of “music,” it’s nice to read about your own hometown as a literary Mecca, especially in the New Yorker, this writer’s equivalent of some high-class toilet paper.
But let us not celebrate the new without remembering the past, the sad old days, if you will. There was a time, believe it or not, when poetry readings in Pittsburgh were few and far between, where people actually stayed home and watched football games on television, instead of coming to their local coffee shop, run-of-the-mill art gallery, or local library branch to hear a poetry reading. Back then people walked around wearing Steelers jerseys not Shakespeare t-shirts, as I witnessed on several occasions during my last trip home. Back in those days you couldn’t have a conversation about something as obtuse as literature in bars. No, you had to talk about sports or local politics, or some random television show. Recently I was in my old stomping ground, The Squirrel Cage, and when I tried to engage the bartender there in a conversation about the Pirates upcoming 17th consecutive losing season (way to go guys, by the way!), I was given the cold shoulder and silently handed the newest issue of Caketrain to peruse. And I did. I think I enjoyed it too, even though they’ve never published my shit. And as for the Steelers, when’s the last time those guys have won anything? Or written anything of value? Fuck the Steelers. I don’t see any articles in the New Yorker calling Pittsburgh the new football Mecca.
I’m getting away from my point here, which is to say, that times weren’t always as rich and word-fueled as they are now in the Steel City. I should know. I’ve read at readings where no one has shown up except for the other readers, these black-clad fools who’d overdosed on Lou Reed’s wardrobe and spent three hours ranting about PAT bus service. This is in high contrast to the last reading that I attended at the Modern Formations Gallery where I had to stand outside for two hours, and still ended up in the gallery room, listening intently as poet’s bemoaned the lack of good Moroccan cuisine and food co-ops, their voices a whisper, their faces unknown to me. Perhaps renting out the new David Lawrence convention center next time, eh folks? I’ve had rotten fruit and vegetables thrown at my colleagues in art and I from the podiums of back alley prose joints that doubled as abortion clinics and heroin dens. I’ve had fistfights over Frank O’Hara while standing in the East Busway cold.
Look, I’m not trying to say that I helped pave the way toward the utopia that exists now in Pittsburgh. I didn’t. Like most other impatient half-wits I moved away from Pittsburgh in 2003, first to Brooklyn then Buffalo then Brooklyn again, chasing my own literary ghosts and muses. And I don’t regret that decision because you can’t predict the future. I’m just saying that my poetic experience in Pittsburgh was somewhat akin to living in New York City during the 1970s. Sure, there was no maniac stalking the streets at night, killing women, and getting his spiritual guidance from a dog, but there might as well have been, you know? The streets were dangerous for word slingers back in my day. Every night could’ve been your last. There was always blood on the pavement in front of Hemingway’s, pieces of flesh on the concrete in front of a reading at Graffiti. It wasn’t all red carpets and Michael Chabon references back in my day. And I’m sorry if I sound like an angry old man because I’m not. I couldn’t be happier. I’m overjoyed. It’s good to know that the next reading that I attend in Pittsburgh there’s no chance that some hoodlums dressed in drag’ll jack me for my poems. It’s good to know that I’ll be safe. Utopia is such a magical word. And Pittsburgh you’re almost there. Now, just imagine how great things will be once you can go to a store or bar and buy a beer before noon on a Sunday. That’s when I’m cashing in my New York City ticket and moving home.
John Grochalski’s poems have appeared in several journals including The Lilliput Review, The Blue Collar Review, Modern Drunkard Magazine, Underground Voices, Zygote In My Coffee, The Kennesaw Review, Re)Verb, and The Smoking Poet. His short fiction has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Big Stupid Review, Fictionville, The Battered Suitcase, and Bartleby Snopes. Grochalski can be found at winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com, and his book of poems The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is out via Six Gallery Press.
winedrunksidewalk.blogspot.com
