Buccos Brewhaha With Local Bar

Yes, I spelled 'Brouhaha' wrong on purpose.
I had planned out a lengthy, count 20 paragraphs, post about this story.  Instead, I'm listing a few links because each one has it differences.  You be the judge on who is right and who is wrong.

Coonelly 'scolded' Bar Owner:  Warning... Bob Smizek alert.
'Pirates Lose' Beer Special Brings Bar Heat From Team‎:  WTAE
Bar Discounted Beer Every Time The Pirates Lost; Team Bullies Them Into Ending Promotion: Deadspin


In essence, a local bar offered a discount of five cents off a pitcher of beer every time the Pirates lose a game.  It's a consolation prize for fans who patronize the bar.  It was taken as a jab at the ball club and someone within the Pirates' front office asked for a boycott of the bar using Pirates' letterhead in her communication.  That caused the owner to contact the news media, which in turn caused Frank Coonelly to contact the owner, which caused everyone to jump all over this because the Pirates' Front Office is evil.  Right?
My take on all this...

WTF?!?!?!?!?!?+infinity.

The Pirates suck.  They have sucked for 18 years.  They continue to suck.  News media in Pittsburgh makes fun of them.  Locals make fun of them.  Other teams make fun of them.  Yet, this little bar in Kennedy Township is the straw that broke the camel's back?

When I was 16, I did a stupid thing.   To which everyone says, "Only one?"  That week, yes.  Anyway, I went with some friends and participated in egging a house on Halloween.   What I didn't know was that everyone egged this house.  It was listed in Zagat's guide to egging and corning houses.  I swear....  (No, I don't, really.)  Yet, apparently, my friends and I were that proverbial straw, because the homeowner chased us down and got my friend's plate number.  The next day, cops called my house and I was fined $93.  I also got grounded for the first and only time in my life where it lasted more than five minutes.   I also had to miss a Def Leppard concert, which I paid for with my paper route money.  Lesson learned. 

The point is that the Pirates have been the egged house for so long that someone felt compelled to fight back against a semi-satirical jab at their losing streak.  Now, it's a major news story.  It didn't need to be.

Was the Pirates' employee wrong?  Yes.
Was the promotion a bad idea?  No.
Was Frank Coonelly rude and an 'arrogant ass' as the bar owner said in a WDVE interview?  Maybe.

Frank has a track record and looks guilty, no matter what he says to the contrary about the incident.  What he needs to do is take ownership of the situation that was created by his staff and promote the fact that it was a mistake and steps are being taken to readdress company policy about such matters.  He should also make amends with the bar owner and she should make amends with him.   Then he should go out and start winning some ball games or my friends and I will be looking for his house in the latest edition of "Places to TP in Pittsburgh".

Besides, what right do the Pirates have in even calling out this business?  It's a free country.  The only real loser is the bar, which would have ended up serving free beer by the All Star break.

Homeless Man Behind Bar Finds Home Behind Bars

Don’t think about that title for more than ten seconds or blood will shoot out of your ears. Last month I spoke about the greatest case of life imitating art when a homeless guy broke into a closed down bar and reopened it, serving around 30 people a day before being busted by authorities. By all accounts, the tale of Travis Lloyd Kevie would have made a spectacular 80s movie in which I envisioned him being played by Michael Keaton. Down on his luck, Kevie gets hired to help clean out a local watering hole that suffers financial disaster. He breaks into the bar one night, turns on the “OPEN” sign and begins serving liquor to patrons. Starting off with a six pack, he reinvests his profits into the business by buying more alcohol. Two weeks later the authorities step in and shut him down.

Now, he’s been sentenced to 15 days in jail and a fine of $160 for selling liquor without a license. He’s also been ordered to steer clear of the bar unless he’s lawfully employed there. So, wait, he served around 30 people a day for 15 days and was made to pay a fine of $160. What about the large sum of money and alcohol that was seized by police? Does he get to keep that? That’s a little bit of profit for his trouble.

I say, he should sell his tale for enough money to buy a liquor license and lease the building from the original owner. Then he can lawfully operate the business with a liquor license and job title, bar manager. If I had the money, I’d buy the rights to his story and help him on his way. If anything, this latest development gives me the ending I was looking for when I first wrote about this story. Mark my words, this guy’s story isn’t over yet… as long as it doesn’t end up a made for TV movie, I’ll be happy.

Homeless Man Breaks Into Bar Starts Selling Booze Makes Great 80s Movie

What you call a crime, I call great entrepreneurial spirit. The story goes like this. A local bar closes and a homeless man gets hired to help clean out the place. One night he breaks into the bar and instead of doing any burgling, he throws an “OPEN” sign up in the window and starts selling alcohol. First, he runs across the street and buys a six pack of beer and immediately sells that. Then he starts using the profits to buy more alcohol and then sell it. He starts to gain more patrons, upwards of 30 a day, and it all comes crashing down when he gets busted. Why? Word got out that the bar reopened. He was even interviewed and everything. The kicker… he was a former bronco rider who was estranged from his family.

Think of this, recently, there was a story about a teen who turned an old cell phone into a Porsche and it wasn’t an alien being come to Earth to protect the All Spark. He traded up from the cell phone on Craigslist.

When I heard this story, I was immediately reminded about the One Red Paper Clip story where a guy turned a red paper clip into a home. I may have to try this but I wonder where I could go with it. I’m sure if I head over to Craigslist I’ll find thousands of items in the barter section. Each one probably posted by someone trying to duplicate the success of the "One Red Paper Clip" and "Cell Phone Turned Porsche".

What you call a weird story in the news, I call a great 80s movie plot.
The spirit of the entrepreneur is a staple of 80s movies, especially ones that were based on real events. Look at films like Night Shift and KidCo, a favorite in the rotation on HBO, growing up. Then you have the more familiar films like Secret Of My Succe$s and the more recent, Accepted, to play with the themes that are in line with this story. That got me to thinking. This entire news entry has the basis for a run of the mill 80s movie.

Look at all the elements it has in common. Down on his luck guy hired to do a menial task and then gets the idea to go into business for himself, albeit in an illegal manner. I can see it now. A local homeless man gets a temporary job cleaning up a closed down bar before the owner leaves town. Our hero is standing inside this empty bar, sweeping up. Realizing that the job is done and he will be back on the streets with no paycheck he decides to break into the bar and squat there as a resident. He invites two other friends to spend the night off the streets. One, is a “Hooker with a heart of gold” type who really wants to change her ways. The other is a Vietnam Vet who hasn’t been able to hold down a job because of his PTSD.

He turns on the lights as they all enter to make preparations for sleeping. Along with the interior lights coming on, the “OPEN” sign lights up attracting a patron. The unsuspecting or at least uninformed patron sits at the bar and our hero reaches into his own personal cooler to grab a beer and promptly sells it to the patron who pays him for the beer as well as tips him for the service. He leaves and our hero suddenly gets an idea. He then runs across the street to a six pack shop and uses his newly acquired profit to purchase more alcohol. Soon, he has his vet buddy working as a bar back and cook while the hooker works as a hostess and cocktail waitress. You can even include bits like the hooker counting her tips stating that this is the most money she’s made without taking off her clothes.

The second act picks up in the middle of their success as we see them make improvements to the décor, done in a inspirational musical montage, pantomimed with a host of clichéd sight gags involving power tools and paint. Our hero has also hired more homeless friends to work at his bar. He hires a cook who is used to working with road kill as a menu and promotes his vet buddy to Head Of Security. He hires another bartender in the form of an out of work juggler from a travelling circus. He even brings in the stereotypical, out of work and on the street blues guitarist to do play sets, revitalizing his career as a musician. He also starts to attract the suspicion of the local liquor control board. The fact that he’s made it this far is only helped if this actually happened in the 80s. As he continues to see success he starts to develop a relationship with the hooker. The last line of the news article states that the man was estranged from his family and this could be used as a subplot where the hooker finds out he has a wife and rebuffs his affection.

Then we get to the all too important and often seen conflict for the gang. A local orphanage, where our hero grew up, is in dire need of funds. Wanting to repay the sisters for their kindness, all those years ago, he enters the bar, and himself into a bartending competition which includes flair [juggler] and speed pouring events. Just before the competition is set to go, they get busted and he is promptly thrown in jail. Violating several laws, including breaking and entering, serving alcohol without a license and several others he appears before the judge on the morning of the competition. Without bar sponsorship, even the juggler cannot compete, so they are pretty much screwed. At his grand jury trial, his inept court ordered defense attorney fumbles his way through the entire proceedings which leaves a trial date set for the same day as the competition.

During the trial, everything looks bleak but the hooker ends up forgiving our hero and gathers all of the employees to act as character witnesses at his trial. The gag is that, at first, the flood of unseemly people into the court room, such as hookers, homeless people, and other members of the Untouchable-like crowd appear to be the proverbial nail in our hero’s coffin. However, each one gets on the stand and explains how their life was in ruins and our hero offered them a job, a place to stay, and a chance at a better life. Now, we could have the twist where the jury finds him guilty and the judge changes the ruling or some other breath holding moment, but in the end, somehow, he gets acquitted or is found guilty with time served, probation or some other form of commuted sentenced and he’s able to compete with some kind of bar sponsorship and they go on to win the contest allowing him to save the orphanage. Of course, success is short lived as he and all his employees are now homeless and jobless, again.

In the end, whether or not he is able to open the bar again is up in the air but, in my mind, I see him opening up another business, say a temporary employment agency that finds jobs for all his friends. He ends up with the hooker and even a home with a white picket fence.

Of course, being that I put this in the 80s, you’d have to have an 80s cast from the 80s.

Our Hero – Michael Keaton / Mark Harmon / Steve Guttenberg / John Ritter
Our Veteran – John Goodman / Gary Busey / Bruce McGill / Jim Belushi
Our Hooker – Karen Allen / Shelly Long / Fran Drescher / Carole Davis / Geena Davis
Our Cook – Vincent Schiavelli (only one choice there)
Our Bad Guy – Dabney Coleman / Charles Grodin
Our Juggler – Bill Irwin (Mr. Noodle from Sesame Street)
Our Blues Singer – Buddy Guy or John Lee Hooker
Your Honor – Harry Morgan / Wilford Brimley / Harold Gould

Ok, must get out my big old typewriter [clack clack clack], chomp on my big stinky cigar [puff puff wheeze], and write this masterpiece. Then I will have to get a DeLorean equipped with a Flux Capacitor in order to go back in time and make this film.  Yet, if I were to be in Hollywood and make this film, now.  I would not only set it in the 80s.  I would write it and film it like an 80s movie.  Think, Wet Hot American Summer style.

Oh, it could so work.  Where's that extra plutonium I had lying around?

The Legend of Zelda's

In the far off land of Oakland, PA, a young hero, named Mongo, set out on a quest to rescue a princess. His journey would pit him against evil PLCB officers, and drunken frat boys. Would he rescue his princess in time?

At the institution of higher learning known as The University of Pittsburgh, there was a bar name Zelda’s Greenhouse. For any student, who spent time living in the Litchfield Towers, before 1996, Zelda’s was pretty much scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to night life. In the wee hours of the morning, you could hear the distinct sound of trash cans full of empty bottles being emptied into the dumpster in the alley between the bar and the Towers. Living on the third floor, this became a very audible nightly ritual.

The bar itself was misleading. From the street it looked like any other bar, but once you got inside you found out otherwise. While the front looked to be rather small and compact, through a couple of doors in the back you found the “garden” aspect. The back was a huge walled room with plastic covering the roof in a big arch. During the warmer months, the plastic came off and you had great view up the side of the Towers. Another bar in the back allowed more drinks to be served to more drunken students.

It was one of the only bars on campus that an underage student could get into without the use of a fake ID. Common practice was having the guy on the bar stool outside honor student IDs as an acceptable proof of age. Seriously. Two dollars and a student ID could get you into a bar. In fact, to actually find someone over the age of 21 there was rare.

Some nights they would turn away minors because the evil PLCB or someone with ethics was lurking nearby. Other times, the entire bar was flooded with coeds blasted out of their minds on quarter priced drafts of the most wretched and watered down beer ever. Then, after getting liquored up they would all end up on the dance floor bump and grinding to the basest of dance music the mid 1990s had to offer. Many a young girl or guy wound up doing something they would regret later because of cheap beer. This young hero, however, did something stupid because of a girl.

It was a cool September night, Thursday to be exact, which was the official start to the weekend in college. I had gone to Zelda’s with some friends of mine and we proceeded to have a good time. Well, there was a young girl that caught my eye and suffice it to say, I was purely after her for her looks. We struck up a conversation and I felt that things were moving along smoothly. By the end of the night she was completely wasted and I was confident I was going to at least see her again. That was until the drunken frat boy showed up.

After awhile I noticed that there was another guy in the mix between myself and the girl in question. He was a complete scrub or as kids in my hometown would have called him, “scurfy.” Oddly enough, that is a real world with a different definition. Think of a piece of scaly skin or dandruff still hanging on to the body…that’s a scurf, dandruff. Here, a scurf was a drunken scumbag punk that was beginning to take advantage of an even more drunk girl. The only one noticing this taking place was me.

I noticed it because as I was standing there talking to this girl, the guy sitting behind her, intruding on our conversation, was now reaching his hand around her waist, below her shirt and groping her. It looked like that scene with John Hurt in Alien. There was this huge bulge underneath her shirt moving up her chest. I shot him a look and he shot one back, fully aware that I was watching him do this. So, he said, “Don’t look at me, man.”

Now part of me wanted to be mad that he was completely taking advantage of this girl. Part of me wanted to be mad that he was stealing my thunder. All of me wanted to dump his ass off of that bar stool and sit it on his neck. However, being a minor in a bar, I felt that violence would only attract unwanted attention. I made the decision to cut my losses. I told her I was going to go and as I went to leave something stopped me. I looked down and saw this girl holding onto my sleeve. While being drunk out of her mind, she had enough of her faculties about her to say, “Please, don’t leave.”

That was all I needed. I decided I had to do something and unfortunately, dealing with drunk people is hard. The simplest of tasks either become the biggest of chores or will cause resistance. Simply asking the girl to leave with me would have raised concerns with drunk boy and probably have gotten me punched. I needed reinforcements and a plan. I’ve learned in my life how to avoid violent conflicts by employing tactics to take the option out of the equation. This girl’s roommate was dancing with her boyfriend on the dance floor. I told her to hold tight and not go anywhere. I made my way to the couple and informed them what was happening. I asked her roommate to help get her to try and go home and I asked her boyfriend to just get in the way, effectively separating them. Now, he was a wrestler by the last name of Cox and he was a pretty intimidating guy. For some reason he was willing to listen to a guy he had just met.

The three of us made our way back to the bar where drunk boy was still trying to steal a cookie out of the jar. The plan went into action. Her roommate slipped an arm around her and yanked her away while Cox distracted drunken stool sitter. Unfortunately, they were not willing to leave the bar, so I agreed to take her home.

I walked her back to her dorm. Being in a different building than myself, I couldn’t just follow her up to her room. She would have to sign me in at the desk. My conscience became the most effective c-blocker ever and whatever desires I may have had brought on by being slightly inebriated and also a guy with a pulse went out the window. She showed enough presence to be able to get herself into the dorm and into the elevator so, I left it at that.

But, who says nice guys have to finish last? The next week I ran into her in the main dorm lobby and she apologized and thanked me for helping her out of that jam. I told her no problem and she said she felt real bad about the whole situation. She offered to make it up to me by buying me a drink at Zelda’s that Thursday. I immediately accepted and offered to meet her there. While, in my mind, the Devil that usually sits on my shoulder was giving the Angel a swirly in the toilet that was my mind at that moment. All was fair at this point.

Thursday came and I made sure to pay extra attention to looking as good as I could, with what I had. I made my way down to Zelda’s and something in my mind made me want to keep walking. There was something that just didn’t feel right. Instinct and self preservation kept walking and libido and primal nature decided to pull out my ID and pay my two dollars. However, instead of getting sloppy drunk, I decided to play it cool. Beer was too easy and since I wanted to be alert I opted for a real fluff drink and had Peach Schnapps and Sprite. Yeah, OK. I get it. Do I pee standing up? I do, but I wasn’t real interested in getting drunk.

That’s when it happened. Fifteen minutes after I walked in, bought my wussy drink and found the girl I was looking for, PLCB came busting in and raided the place. My instinct and self preservation were sharing a $5.00 pizza at The O with a busted up Angel sporting a black eye who decided to leave his post on my shoulder. They sat and laughed as more officers strolled past The O and filed into Zelda’s.

I couldn’t believe it. I was getting busted for underage drinking and all I had was a stupid Peach Schnapps and Sprite. Not to mention, I hadn’t even finished it yet. Now, there were two ways I could have gotten out of this whole mess besides not entering the bar in the first place. The first was by totally bluffing the guy watching the door. About three months prior to this night, I was pulled over for speeding and had been issued a citation. I am notorious for hanging onto paper and usually you can find a month’s worth or more of receipts in my pockets or on my dresser. Had I held onto that citation and had it with me, I could have shown it at the door and been able to walk out of there. That was the only way to get by the officer at the door and he barely even read what I showed him. The other way to have been let go was to claim I played for the football team. I didn’t find out until later that all of the football players were let go with a warning. This was the year Johnny Majors came back to coach and from what I heard a bunch of them told the officers that if “Coach” found out about this they wouldn’t be able to play on Saturday.

Needless to say, I did not try any of these tactics and, in fact, I became ipso facto entertainment while we all waited for the officer to fill out all our citations. Truthfully, since I was already up shit creek without a paddle, I might as well make the best of a bad situation. I even had the officer cracking up. Unfortunately, if I wanted to pull the old "Let's hope the officer doesn't show up" routine it became necessary for him to forget who I was in order to beat the charge. I didn’t do a very good job of it by making myself memorable.

After all was said and done, I ended up with a $100 fine, a 90 day suspension of my license, which began on my 21st birthday, less than six months away. Irony is a bitch, ain’t it? After that night, I never really spoke to the girl again and Zelda’s was shut down once and for all. For awhile it became a video store and a host of other small businesses that ultimately failed. Eventually, the building was torn down and fast food shops took its place.

Not to worry, though, other bars on campus took up the baton to be a haven for the underage. Another bar close to the dorms became the place to be without ID. But it got shut down, too.

Maybe it was a sign of the times. Maybe people just couldn’t keep a low profile. You’re not supposed to go around blabbing that you can get in a bar underage. IT’S A SECRET TO EVERYBODY.

Scanned article from the Post Gazette about the bust. Did you think I was making it up?

I wish. Grumble Grumble.

Meet Me At Hemmy's.

Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.  So, why not go where everybody knows your name?  I used to back in the day.  That place was Hemingway's, nestled right among the dormitories of The University of Pittsburgh.  It was the kind of bar that you could walk into and disappear.  This was the kind of place that didn't cater to the meat market college coed.  It was a more refined outlet for libations and relaxation.  It seemed an unlikely fit for all the hustle and bustle of the campus lifestyle, yet it was the one place I could count on to provide me with what I needed.  Every college area has its various outlets for drinking.  We had a bar that specialized in Greek life.  We had one that dealt with the general meat market crowd.  We even had a bar that primarily embraced the alternative music crowd.   But Hemingway's embraced, well, everybody.  Yet, not everybody went.  That was the magic.  They didn't discriminate but most people couldn't get past the name when choosing it for a place to patron.  Most people felt it was a hoity-toity, high faulting, artsy fartsy, and other "pretentious words that don't exist" kind of place.  Really, it was a small pub that just emanated class.  Stepping off the street onto the tiled floor you can feel the history of this place.  It wasn't famous like, say, Bull and Finch but it had that ambience of an established watering hole.  The brass railings and "judges paneling" style of walls were the perfect setting for cracking open a book written by someone who has been dead for over a 100 years.  Granted, the place wasn't enormous but the mirrored wall behind the bar gave it that larger than appears look.  It seemed a timeless place that could never change to keep up with the habits of the college crowd.  Of course, that was 15 years ago and the bar has gone through extensive changes, not all for the good.

It was truly by accident, that I discovered Hemingway's.  Being a sophomore, one would think I would not be able to hang out in bars, let alone hang out in one that wasn't wall to wall drunken coeds.  I was a fledgling Theater Arts student and after successfully being cast in my first show at The University of Pittsburgh, I tagged along with a group of other well seasoned member of the Pitt Theater Community.  I sort of just kind of showed up and blended into the tapestry of characters.  Being underage and unemployed I didn't exactly have the means or the right to be there but nobody bothered to ask any questions.  It was a different scenario when frequenting the beer garden meat market just around the corner.  Two bucks and your college ID got you into the show and most people went for the quarter drafts.  Here, I was never questioned about my age, because I was with a group of people who frequented the bar enough that after a few visits, there was a drink in front of me before my butt was in my chair.  In fact it became so commonplace that as soon as we entered the premises, glasses began filling and were delivered to a table already established as our spot.   It was truly the kind of place I could get used to.   It was a dizzying courtship as I became engrained into the group.  One of the gang was taking orders and asked what I was drinking.  I told him I wasn't 21 and he gave me "pfft" and said, "So."  I replied, "But I'm broke, too.  I just came to hang out."  He said don't worry about it and got me a beer.  He was an upperclassman and had just received a small inheritance from a late aunt and was buying a few rounds.  Eventually, I did secure my own funds and became legal to drink, but by then, I was already recognized by staff and was given the same standard of service as my fellow cohorts.  When I had no one to watch Superbowl XXX with in 1995, I just went down to Hemingway's and enjoyed a few beers and a nice spread of sandwiches and snacks.  Hemingway's was that cool without being "cool".  I only wish we had beaten the Cowboys.  That would have been super cool.

If were to describe an evening with friends at Hemingway's, I would say it was laid back, a little smoky, and full of interesting tales.  I've spoken before about my friend Ray, who was the lead singer for a band out of Philly called, Open Cage.  We would sit and listen to his tales of being in the air force and every once in awhile he'd break out into song, usually leading to a rousing chorus with everyone joining in on the act.  We'd drink some more and eventually close the place.  It was never busy, but it was always doing good business.  Hemingway's had a built in fan base and even though the members rotated in and out every year due to graduation, it was always some place you could drop in for a reminder of what the simple life in a bar was like. 

Unfortunately, I cannot say that the owners of Hemingway's felt the way I do.  It had been quite some years since I had been in the bar, but in 2004 I met up with an old college friend who was in town for a conference.  It was also a chance to put a face to the name if you will.  I had told so many stories about Hemingway's that she was convinced that the bar was an old girlfriend and that any other bar just couldn't compete.  I merely related tales of what a real bar was like in comparison to the dives I had been dragged to by her friends.  When we arrived, it was like seeing your old house completely remodeled, but in a bad way.   There were colored twinkle lights that are only permitted in dorm room windows at Christmas time.  The back room where we held many an opening night cast party was now housing a pool table.  It was like a bizarro Cheers with Rebecca and Woody, not Diane and Coach.  Suddenly, the color drained from my face.  "Our" area was gone, replaced by tables and chairs that echoed a patio bar complete with plastic cups.   I was sick with grief over the changes. 

Because other bars had been closed for violations coeds were pushed like deer from the woods in favor of housing plans.  They migrated down into the once "deerless" areas and suddenly became a nuisance.  Seizing an opportunity to make more money, Hemingway's cranked up the college music and watered down the drinks and soon the place was packed wall to wall with loud and obnoxious students who didn't appreciate the architecture and acoustics of the bar.  Even the bathroom had been painted like a school locker-room taking away from the nostalgic "Here I sit, lonely heated..." decor.  My friend and I looked with a teary eyed as we saw our young adulthood wiped away with a coat of paint and string of lights.  The bar was gone, replaced with a younger, hipper, model that just didn't have the character.  My wife kind of liked the place.  She's younger, and doesn't get it.

Perhaps one day I will have the financial wherewithal and ambition to open my own bar and make it into a sort of Hemingway's, Too, or maybe just add the extra M to differentiate.  In any case, I will never cater to the crowd that sees it as a place to serve beer in a cup or shot in a test tube.  This place will have glass mugs, frosted within an inch of their life.  We'll have whiskey and scotch, aged to perfection.  There will be no quarter draft night and anyone who comes in will know that they are welcome as long as they don't tell the cool kids where we are.