Sometimes Heroes Come In the Smallest Packages

Heroes are sometimes in the smallest packages.
My niece Kasey, 8, is a lil’ fireplug. My sister has always said that if I had a daughter, it would be Kasey. You see, she likes monsters, is a scrambling little athlete (soccer’s her game…I could never get into it, so she’s one up on me), and she has an infectious personality. I’m thrilled any time my sister says Kasey reminds her of me or visa versa.
Kasey and I have a little game. She’ll grab my hands and walk up my legs and torso, kinda like when Batman and Robin scaled a wall in the 1960’s. She will giggle like a mad gal. Her little sister, Gabrielle, looks on and often breaks out into a big smile. Gabrielle and I have our own little game: she doesn’t like me much…or at least pretends to. However, when Kasey “climbs” up Uncle Trapper, Gabrielle, now smiling ear to ear, is next in line. Their other sister, Jacqui as she likes to spell it, sits nearby and shakes her head.
Last Friday, Kasey stumbled upon a young boy being bullied and physically attacked by a larger girl outside of their shared Catholic elementary school. Never one to let an injustice go by, Kasey strode up and attempted to break up the fight. In wrestling we call it a “run in.”
Never mind the fact that Kasey cracked a hairline fracture in her spine this summer, horsing around in the yard. The larger, obviously more elementary Fight Club experienced hooligan twisted the adorable sprite’s arm back. Despite the pain, I’m certain she didn’t second-guess her decision to help the young lad. It must have been reminiscent of when George McFly saved Calvin Klein’s “best girl” by coming to her aid against the much-bigger Biff in “Back to the Future.” Check back in 20 years to see if that lad pays Kasey back with her hand in matrimony.
When my son and I talked to Kasey the other day, she downplayed the whole skirmish. My sister tells me that Kasey’s exploits are now the talk of the Johnstown Diocese, or at least the buzz around the kid’s mothers. She should be interviewed on Channel 6. Their studios are directly across the street from my mom and step-dad’s house, so the reporters wouldn’t have to go far. They already interviewed my shoveling step-dad a couple of years ago after a big snow. Kasey can be in the driveway in 10 minutes thanks to side streets.
I thought of Kasey this week when I walked out of my office building. A twenty-something couple was having a heated discussion near a car. As I spoke with my son on our cell phones, I could overhear the young lady ranting about the guy’s presence. He leaned on a car, single-rose in hand. She wasn’t happy. He was letting her rant.
I listened for a few moments then, thinking about Kasey’s courage to help someone in need, I sauntered over and politely said, “Excuse me folks, is everything okay?” The woman stopped immediately, looked me dead in the eye and with some relief, said. “No sir, we’re fine. Thank you.” The young gentleman, maybe thankful to have her stop raving for a minute, turned and ‘we’re okay.’” I said, “have a nice day” and walked away.
Less than two minutes later, they were gone, perhaps their separate ways, perhaps together. Their mini-yet-to-spike quarrel over. Our sleepy lil’ parking lot quiet again.
A co-worker smile when he saw me try the duo. I didn’t want to risk the chance that the whole argument was set up on TV and I’d have to sign a waver to show my expansive posterior simply walk by like an ignoramus as two actors hammed it up for the camera ala 20/20 or Dateline.
But I also had the courage to try and help, bolstered because an incredible 8-year-old in Johnstown risked an arm muscle to stop a true beat-down.
Integrity, character and determination are big ideals if you ask me. Sometimes those lessons are learned, thanks to the smallest packages.

Cuttin' and Struttin' with a Dick

The Man with No Name stood at the top of the escalator, luggage in hand, tacky Blue Tooth blinking above his left ear.
My crudely-drawn "Mr. (Surname inserted here)" sign stopped him in his snake-skin booted tracks. The name card was a trick given to me by my last "assignment," Koko B. Ware. We had an awkward moment of "are you him," and "why are you looking at me?" I figured the placard would come in handy and it did.
I walked over, extended my hand, introduced myself and shook perhaps three of his right-hand fingers. Eddie Golden drops his brown rag-tag bag for no one.
Immediately I ascertained that this wasn't going to be as pleasant as meeting Koko and the other wrestling superstars I've either spoken to or had in the passenger seat of my gas-guzzlin' SUV. More on them later.
After picking up Zodiac's last sack at Gate K, we were off to the vehicle. Any numbers of topics were broached, from family to the upcoming Super Bowl (he lives outside Boston) to the current wrestling product on USA Network and Spike. Nothing really got him to utter more than a few grunts, but he was eager to serve as unofficial spokesman for (without peer) the most popular sports entertainer in the storied history of the business. Conversely, as long as the Disciple has been in the business, he's been regarded as nothing more than a sycophant to that big name. That will again be evident this Sunday when he accompanies the perpetual champion to the Mardi Gras parade.
The ride was a long one. Armed with Satellite radio, I offer my guests anything they'd like to hear, with the exception of Rap (I argue that no one really "wants" to hear Rap; in addition, I really have to draw a line somewhere). Dizzy said he'd like to hear "Classic Rock." I asked about his favorite artists so I could narrow my 170 channels, or pluck my ELO CD from the arm rest. "I like a lot of them," was the mumbled answer. After yet more awkward moments he ticked off the same old tired laundry list of baby-boomer favorites: Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin (the others quickly became nothing more than white noise in my head). "I've partied with Ozzie Osbourne and Steven Tyler," he said. That's when the name-dropping reached its apex. In opposition, I could have rambled off a list of genuine partygoers like Belsterling, Gutonski and Zygmuncik who easily out-class any of those jokers in the "friend" department.
But I digress.
From time to time his overall tone and attitude would alter from cold to rude to downright condescending. Perhaps I didn't meet him with an iced cooler of his favorite ale. I run the chauffer gimmick because I can be at the airport in about half an hour, I generally respect the superstars I retrieve, and I do a favor for the business. It's not about the money. I usually and gladly take a financial bath with gas and my own meal costs.
Unlike 20 years ago, Mr. Boulder doesn't exist entirely off of his marginal ability as a showman. "I work for a company," was his 1950's white-bread retort when I asked how he makes a living. Later I'd hear him tell someone that he used to manage a gymnasium before the state of Massachusetts shut them down. I didn't hear the rest.
I mistakenly took my guest on a scenic route to our destination, but soon decided that his overall unfriendly demeanor would be cause enough for no corrective measure.
There were long stretches of silence as Brother Brudi wasn't up for any stories from the road. He did not tell a single tale.
Almost nothing has been written about my extraordinary weekend with Lex Luger. From the second I introduced myself to the controversial figure to the moment he asked me for a hug farewell, I knew my life changed on an intrinsic, basic level. Never before had I met someone who has looked the devil in the eye only to soar so incredibly high. Lex, limited in September by crutches, exhibited boundless energy and zest for life when he was in town for his autograph and wrestling events.
I think often of the twentysomething fan at the chain steakhouse that recognized the legendary Lex. The young man worked in the kitchen. He asked the waitress to get a single autograph. Lex, impressed with his steak, requested the chef's presence. The average-looking youth was quickly reduced to an "awe-shucks" lad when Lex spent a few minutes getting to know him. To this day the kid still has to tell friends of the experience.
That scene played out wherever we went. People would recognize Lex, while others wouldn't. It didn't matter, he was beyond friendly to everyone he encountered, no matter how briefly.
There would be none of that with The Clipmaster.
When we arrived near the hotel it was approximately an hour and five minutes after our departure from the airport, or about what I told him the trip would take.
"It wasn't so bad, huh," I asked already knowing the answer. "Harrumph," was the agitated reaction in grunt form.
The one-time mid-carder asked for a Wal-Mart so he could buy Polaroid film. After an attempt to pry a Marlin-fishing story from this treasure trove of silence, I asked jokingly if he'd be doing some "Cuttin' and Struttin" for the shoppers who might be sold on his appearance a few towns south later in the evening. "I'm just gonna buy film, man," he moaned. "Just gonna buy film."
When I ushered Koko B. Ware to a McDonalds one late Friday evening some time ago, he sprung up a conversation with two twentysomething gals who also waited a millennium for their fast food (the computer system was down). Koko initiated the pedestrian small talk with people he encountered.
There would be none of that with The Butcher.
He dashed into the store. A quick phone call to a friend was the grounding I desperately needed. The friend, who I consider among my best, half-heartedly said I should leave the big man's bags in front of Wal-Mart and take off.
I almost did.
Instead I drove around the parking lot until he returned. Next up we stopped at a Steak n' Shake where he ordered three double burgers with all the trimmings and then some. Both Lex and Koko bought me lunch. In fact, Lex wouldn't hear of me spending a dime at the various steak restaurants we patronized the entire weekend. He was blown away when I bought him two Coke Zeros and refused his money.
Snake Skin Boots and I arrived at the hotel, then our respective rooms. The quarters, he complained, had close proximity to the heavily-traveled, two-lane roadway. In two previous trips to the motel, I never once considered the artery, let alone had the audacity to ache about the complimentary accommodations.
Hopefully an afternoon nap would perk up the so-far charisma-free egotist.
A siesta didn't help.
The lone highlight of the trip to an autograph session was when I asked if he had ever been to lovely Moundsville, West Virginia, before. "What," he bristled. "Did you have a lapse in memory as to who I am? I've wrestled for 30 years. I've been everywhere."
I laughed out loud and thought "what an ass" inside.
Totally disinterested, the Bootyman arrived at the autograph session unwilling to do anything more than the bare minimum. Most of the faithful were also in attendance at Luger's autograph session in September. Some of those autographs still adorn the walls and on T-shirts. Knowing that I brought Lex in, nearly everyone asked how he was doing since his health took a drastic turn for the worse a mere three weeks or so after his visit. Doctors initially called it a Spinal Stroke. At the moment and at least temporarily, Lex is a quadriplegic but in remarkable spirits as conditions improve.
The folks in the crowd at the autograph session were the quintessential representation of fans that "made" the Bootyman and hundreds of others who jerked curtains or kept fannies in seats before Main Eventers like Luger took the ring. Lex, unquestionably the bigger "star," used his swing through Ohio and West Virginia as a "Thank You" to loyal friends and fans. Ed Boulder was in town for the easy paycheck.
We got to the wrestling venue where I saw my grappling buddies. I hugged all of them and shouted how I was never happier to see them. I wanted to kiss the biggest worker on the cheek, but I ultimately thought better of it.
A few hours later and after his less-than-stellar appearance at the wrestling event in which he ignored all of the independent workers—unless he needed something—Dizzy, beer bottle in each hand, called the fans cheap. Coincidentally, he would later chuck both empty beer bottles out of my vehicle window and onto the landscape above Rt. 2.
I told him how another, younger, hungrier, more prized "with the boys" mid-card mainstay was in the locker room during intermission encouraging the workers, teaching them in-ring psychology and other aspects of the industry. The mentor was dropping names of well-respected Indy workers who continue to bust their humps in small venues around the country. The spirited speech received a hearty ovation from everyone in the locker room. All the while Brute Force was in the ring trying to sway $10 from the house DJ for a picture with his own personal camera.
There's a misconception that this former card-filler is a Born-Again Christian. In no way did he carry himself as anything other than an elitist and opportunist. Not a single kind word was ever overheard. Vulgarities flew freely and often. Not that even the best Christian doesn't float a four-letter hum dinger from time-to-time, but most at least attempt to temper their language and/or apologize for it. I am take tentative baby steps in my Christianity (buoyed by the effervescent Luger), but I'm light years ahead of Stuart Healey.
In the middle of the night, I raced to the Pittsburgh Airport through snowy conditions, eager to deposit this follower. It was only when we said goodbye did I see the smile you might remember from 1989 TV and merchandise.
He was already licking his lips, thinking about his next paycheck. Fans in St. Louis would later assuredly ask aloud if the toady was okay. Dicks choose to be Dicks.
Good riddance.

What if a candidacy raised a zillion dollars and no one voted?

The Ron Paul Internet phenomenon is unlike anything else in recent elections. There have been incredible spikes in fundraising for the Good Doctor and an eclectic mix of supporters continues to look just like the cast of a Federico Fellini film.
What is amazing to a Conservative voter is that Dr. Paul’s supporters are not Republicans, but a mismatch of political ideologues who oftentimes simply act the picked upon, bullied victim.
A quick scan of Paul’s political beliefs ticks off like a conservative Republican’s wish list. No tax hikes, repealing the IRS, withdrawal from the United Nations, a strong stance of gun owners’ rights; however, the oldest candidate in the race boasts a charisma-free resume that will never garner wide, mainstream appeal.
In some ways, the elderly, yet spry Paul is the quintessential Don Knotts of the Presidential race. He seems easy with the pre-written jokes and sharp on the stump. Paul, like Knotts before him, does not command an authoritative presence. He’s the bookish anti-cowboy during a time in which John Wayne is needed. Or Chuck Norris.
Religion is always a sticking point in Presidential elections, especially when the “Religious Right” is still considered a major voting block. Paul’s religious affiliation is as checkered as his supporters. Married in a Presbyterian Church, Mr. and Mrs. Paul raised their children in the Episcopalian Church, while Ron’s religion (on Wikipedia) is listed as Baptist, despite the notation that he considered becoming a Lutheran minister. Needless to say, since Paul practically “tried out” every religion, voters who value faith in a candidate won’t be clamoring for the devoutly fickle Paul.
The fact is, there isn’t a true front runner on either side of the aisle. Mitt Romney (two separate Presidential compatibility tests says he’s by far my candidate, yet I cannot wrap my arms around him) is from Central Casting. Fred Thompson, who came in second in one of my online tests, watched his campaign peak when he announced his candidacy on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno (Leah Thompson has more of a shot of being the GOP nominee now). Thompson, an actor by trade, tall and rough-looking by genetics, was touted by some to be the most Reagan-esque. But he’ll drop out soon.
Mike Huckabee isn’t much more convincing than Paul, in spite of the fact that wrestling legend Ric Flair endorsed him. If elected, Huckabee might be the only world leader able to make Kim Jung Il tap out to the Figure Four Leg Lock.
On the other side, Barry Hussein Obama is the “cool kid” to support, despite a legislative resume that’s lightly more impressive than mine (and I’ve so far turned down the various offers to run for public office—yes there have been three or four). The “Smartest Women in the World” talk has been silenced in the Hillary “I already have the drapes measured” Clinton camp. American Gladiators has made resurgence, Clinton says, perhaps she can insult women’s characters again for four or eight years. Jebus help us all if Hillary shrieks her way back to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Since Ron Paul isn’t ever going to come close to earning true Republican votes in the Primary process, he would best be served in someone else’s Cabinet. Perhaps he could serve his country as Secretary of the Treasury or in a post that would best utilize his intellectual mastery of the Constitution.
What’s ironic is Ron Paul’s candidacy could possibly translate into some sort of Independent run. That would be a disaster for those who share in his “Leave Us Alone” philosophy. This mishmash of supporters would vacuum enough votes from the ultimate Republican candidate to open the White House doors to a “Big Government” Democrat who will most assuredly squash all of the “freedoms” Paul’s followers espouse.

Bet On It: Had Carlisle Been Mayor, She Would Have Still Won Election

When new Pittsburgh Mayor Bob O’Connor was sworn into office in January, 2006, city council was a flutter with controversy as to who would be the next council President. Former President Eugene Ricciardi had won election to a District Justice post, thus leaving that position open.
Had experience meant anything, councilman Bill Peduto would have been a “no-brainer” to succeed Ricciardi and lead council; however, qualifications have almost never meant anything on Grant Street. More than anything—perhaps on planet Earth—Pittsburgh politics is about who you know, who you’re related to, and above all else, you’re a union-shilling, economics-be-damned Democrat.
Peduto would not be President of Pittsburgh City Council because he dared oppose O’Connor for Pittsburgh’s top job (we’ll exclude Steelers Coach), despite the King maker’s “next-in-line” designation. O’Connor’s long-term right-hand man Doug Shields had orders from above that prohibited Peduto from being council chief. Shields reportedly wanted the job for himself back then, but at the time was unable to muster the votes, especially with a ticked Peduto holding a salvo or three. [Shields now serves as Council President.]
Councilman Jim Motznik was the self-appointed front-runner for the Presidency. Motznik assumed he had the post locked up, but years before the former Public Works muck-raker quite spryly bolted from a television reporter’s camera over some rather routine questions of the day, and promised to resign from Council to assist Hillary Clinton’s Presidential campaign (the clock still ticks on that vow). With assertions like those, Motznik’s growing political irrelevance made his ascension impossible (to Motznik’s credit, he did narrowly win re-election after those gaffes).
A quick scan of the remaining Council members from the time proved nearly all others to be “too new” or privy to political alienation for one reason or another.
At the same time there were quiet whispers that Twanda Carlisle wanted the largely ceremonial engagement. She would have been an aesthetically-pleasing choice: youthful for a Pittsburgh politician (despite the fact it’s difficult to find anything about her age: we’ll guess she’s 46), attractive in that “looking beyond you into the abyss” sort of way, and African American.
For at least one second, Carlisle was being considered for President of Pittsburgh City Council.
Instead, an even younger upstart—who was born up-to-his-neck in Pittsburgh political lineage—was ultimately considered a “safe choice,” albeit hand-picked from the flock by O’Connor. North Side resident Luke Ravenstahl was selected for Pittsburgh City Council President only because no one else had the necessary votes.
Then tragically, O’Connor was effectively out of the Mayor’s post before the first pitch of the MLB All-Star Game at PNC Park on July 11, 2006.
The waiting game was on. As days became weeks, it was clear that something was not right with the hospitalized Bob O’Connor. He passed away on September 1, 2006.
Ravenstahl was jettisoned to national prominence almost immediately and he quickly proved to be the epitome of the none-too-worldly-wise 26-year-old who was far more interested in trips to the Late Show with David Letterman (where Luke admitted on television that city police looked the other way when it came to ticketing Ben Roethlisberger after the infamous motorcycle accident) and crashing parties with the elite of the elite (he drove a Homeland Security SUV to visit Tiger Woods at the suburban Oakmont for the U.S. Open). Ravenstahl was also photographed with Sienna Miller, the 25-year-old actress with a face of a Pop Culture Godess and mind of mushy quid when she risked ire of Cleveland Browns-fan proportions by calling the city a bad name.
The city’s fortunes could have been far more interesting had Twanda Carlisle been handed the role that—at the time—was a harmless license to appear on one of the public access channels and crow about being perhaps the city’s highest-ranking African American female city official EVER. Her predecessor, Valerie McDonald Roberts never made it to council President, largely because O’Connor held the post when she was in office. Roberts, who previously served on the Pittsburgh School Board, eventually moved to a lower-profile Allegheny County post. That was too bad because she would have been an ideal standard bearer had she received the chance.
Imagine Carlisle had the opportunity to serve as council President when O’Connor was prominently shown hanging Wi-Fi equipment downtown, in a ceremonious photo op that ultimately would become his final public appearance.
Instead of a frightened Luke Ravenstahl being sworn in as Mayor that late summer evening, it was “that close” to being the glassy eyed Carlisle (did she ever have any other expression?), hand on Bible, accepting the reigns of running the Commonwealth’s only interesting major market city.
Pretend for a mili-second that Twanda Carlisle was the Mayor.
Somewhere along Carlisle’s employ, she decided that the city’s bloated coffers were in fact a secret slush fund for anyone of her acquaintance.
Reports leaked with Carlisle purchasing books of questionable political merit, then escalated to an expensive fur coat and vacations abroad. Worst of all, Carlisle’s mother’s boyfriend received $29,000 to brazenly plagiarize a University of Pittsburgh study and shoehorn it around his own rinky-dink, narrow-minded, quasi-idiotic ideas. Assuredly, no one would read the examination of healthcare, religion and politics in Twanda’s 9th Council District, but the story of fraudulent intrigue had already spread. Local media eagerly awaited the tome’s release. It didn’t disappoint. The “study” turned out to be a hodge-podge of mystification that made the CBS News’ “Memo-Gate” that dethroned news hierarchy Dan Rather look Einsteinian in comparison.
That and other crackpot expenditures quickly drew the attention of the federal government, namely United States Attorney for the Western District of Pennsylvania Mary Beth Buchanan.
What would have occurred had Carlisle been Mayor when the stories of misappropriation of funds been made public?
It depends on when the story broke.
If Carlisle had been Mayor, certainly up for election, it would have been interesting to see if Bill Peduto would have waged a challenge. The city’s only real “Reform Democrat” with fiscal-conservative leanings, Peduto remains Pittsburgh’s best choice to remain relevant; nevertheless, he’s not subservient to the Special Interest Groups (a.k.a. public sector unions) that control the city with the most selfish of Socialist contentions. Keep in mind, even an elementary understanding of real-world economics has almost never been a strong suit of Pittsburgh City Council in 70 years.
A thinking man’s candidate—even a Rust Belt Democrat—has no chance against a free-spending, Devil-Wears-Prada-on-public-dime empty power suit.
Fact is, those who dominate the voting block in the city probably wouldn’t sweat had there been pending federal action against the “supposed” Mayor Carlisle administration with Republican Mark DeSantis in the race.
All Carlisle’s handlers would need to do is parrot DeSantis’ Republican registration over and over again and punctuate the proof that Buchanan is also a member of the Grand Old Party.
Carlisle could have bested DeSantis by an even larger margin than Ravenstahl because of her gender, ethnicity, willingness to sign big checks to the unions and simplistic party affiliation.
The “Sheep” would continue to pull the party line, the donkeys would assuredly bray. Carlisle will need to pay back more than $40,000 in embezzled taxpayer cash.
That being noted, there’s little double that the city’s naïve voting electorate would still endorse a convicted felon to Mayor of Pittsburgh over a Republican, regardless of his or her qualifications. Lynn Swann, one of the most beloved Pittsburgh Steelers of all time wasn’t given a fair shot by Pittsburgh voters in his race for Governor because of his voter registration.
In 2007, it’s plainly that dire on Grant Street. With DeSantis dispatched and Peduto quiet on the sidelines, all of the great potential leaders on the current landscape have been vanquished.
At least Carlisle won’t be governing with an ankle bracelet anytime soon.

Steel City Derby Demons Destroy Cleveland's Burning River Gals

I've been promising my pal "Mel Practice" that I would show up to see the Steel City Derby Demons in action all season. You see, "Mel" has been a tremendous supporter of the KSWA for as long as I've known her, and all she's ever asked from me was to watch her and the rest of her gang.

A couple of months ago the Demons concluded the last match of their inaugural, intramural season and she worked hard to get me some comp tickets. I ended up bagging, as I wasn't "in a good place" at the time. Luckily my ability to do more adventurous things has returned.

Saturday the All-Stars of the Steel City Derby Demons took on the Burning River Roller Girls, straight from Cleveland in the "Big Stink On The Rink" extravaganza.

Friday after work, I met Mel at her superbly eclectic place of employment on the South Side. She saved me a few bucks by selling a ticket early. She also informed me that one of the All Stars broke her ankle in practice and was in the hospital. It turns out the injured athlete was Busty Brawler, a dark-haired Demon I met when she visited the KSWA. We've since talked about the fact that "Busty," or Natalie as her birth certificate reads, is from Lancaster County, around the same place where my father and his family resides.

I've met a handful of the Demons and believe Busty and Mel would be among the only ones to remember me. As it turns out, neither was going to play Saturday, as Mel was a "stand-by" skater who probably wouldn't be allowed to play in the weekend game on such short notice.

Friday I spent some time with Mel, bought a trinket from the store in which she works, and talked a variety of issues in an hour. I'll gladly note that the happily and newly-married Mel is an incredible beauty inside and out. Her care for friends and impressive intellect make her a winner. I'm happy that she seems to have a tight-knit family. I also stopped to get Natalie a Get Well card, which I later found out she enjoyed.

Fast forward to Saturday night, where it first looked like Mel was going to get to participate. Bad news was, she didn't. However, she cheered on and retrieved towels for her teammates during breaks.

The glossy program featured the history of Roller Derby and included a picture of the mustached sport founder, eyes wide open, mouth agape in true 1970's hyped fashion. Individual pictures from both teams could also be found. This isn't your grandfather's Derby, with female behemoths and Farrah Fawcett look-alikes. Today's Roller Derby embraces athletic women of all shapes and sizes, many like Mel with tattoos galore. The good news is there isn't a dog in the entire Steel City Roller Derby Demon All-Star roster.

Regardless of what type of girl you like, there's someone for you to embrace as a fan. From the aptly named Betty Bonecrusher to the sprite-like Cheeseburger, the Demons come in all shapes and sizes. But they are all exciting athletes in their own right. They also come with colorful names like The Crippler (in the picture, she's as "girl next door as you can ever imagine), Snot Rocket (who could be your best friend's adorable sister), Ally McKill (the girl you should have asked to the Prom) and the still "un- P.C." Scary Schiavo (there's an enchanting, yet nefarious look in those eyes) that would make any professional wrestling promoter proud.

The home team announcer was the spitting image of 80's TV icon Harry Anderson, flush with fedora and snazzy suit. Who knows if he had suspenders and string bean arms like Anderson's "Harry the Hat" character from Cheers that served as a spring board to Night Court. He didn't dazzle throughout the night and the crowd didn't really seem to respond to his timing.

There was an announcer from Cleveland who did a better job capitalizing on the role of the "hip" modern derby announcer. The bad part was, no one really taught him how to use the microphone, so he gave it the "fist on the top" technique which only made him sound like a human beat box all night long. Late in the contest—fearing my hearing was going—I asked a couple of younger guys standing around me if they understood anything the "cool guy" was saying and they just shrugged in agreement.

A third announcer, a Pittsburgh skater named "Sharon Fluids" happened to wear Cleveland's colors. She started strong but by the end of the evening she was overshadowed by Mr. Over Modulation.

The event was well put together. The match resembled professional hockey with three periods. For 20 minutes, the teams went at it tooth and nail. The Steel City Derby Demons took an early lead and never looked back.

During the first break in the action, two youngsters performed break dancing routines for the remarkable crowd. Break Dancing! The "kids" today may call it Hip Hop, and it may be featured in a Nick Cannon, Nickelodeon-produced movie, but it is still break dancing.

The second intermission included a well-done performance by a Rock-A-Billy trio. Their short set was just about right time-wise.

The fan base was astoundingly familiar with a lot of the Derby Demons and the rules. When a "Jammer," most notably "Hurricane Heather" was able to break free and score points, men and women alike took note and cheered. In the last period, Heather dominated by racing around the pack over and over again. Toward the end of the run, she hooted it up with the fans between spurts of point accumulation.

The crowd, which was quiet for much of the night, sprang to its feet as Heather pulled the Derby Demons further away from their Cleveland counterparts. The match ended in a blowout, with the Pittsburgh gals collecting the victory.

Afterwards, Demons posed for pictures, signed autographs and met with friends and fans. The plan was for the Demons to have an after party of the South Side. By that time, my lower back was in agony from standing on the hard track. It was time to head on out and see how bad I looked in the pictures with the striking Mel Practice. As usual, I looked like a dunce.

When you get a chance, check out the Steel City Derby Demons. Learn more by going to http://www.steelcityderbydemons.com/. You won't be disappointed.

Pittsburgh’s Peerless Prodigal Son Of Politics Has Resurfaced

What an absolute treat to unfold Saturday’s Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and see the most unique “politician” ever in Pittsburgh, “sniffing” snacks of $2 bills he used to pay his entry fee into New Hampshire’s Democratic presidential primary.

Richard E. “Mad Dog” Caligiuri is the “Philosophical Outlaw,” the one-time, perennial Congressional candidate who oftentimes took on former Congressman Bill Coyne (the antithesis of thoughtful deliberation and verve). The quintessential Pittsburgh Libertarian, Caligiuri made his biggest splash in the mid 90’s when he posed nude, strategically positioned as “The Thinker,” on the back cover of one of Pittsburgh’s weekly liberal odes to all things unconventional.

“Mad Dog” had arrived. As the editor of an advertiser-supported every-other-weekly ode to all things Block Watch, Community News and feature-happy odes to all things small town, U.S.A., I was excited to meet him. We became fast friends, but alas, a family-member’s health was encompassing more and more of his time, so I knew that Caligiuri’s time in the “alternative candidate’s” spotlight was waning.

Of course, the throngs of public sympathizers and fans of unthinking, unblinking Coyne-dom voted Sleepy Socialist Willie into office one last time. Shortly thereafter, Fidel Castro’s poster boy for all things crazier-than-a-loon retired and gerrymandering allowed for the one-time middle-of-the-road-thinking Mike Doyle assumed the city of Pittsburgh. Thusly, Doyle accepted the lunatic-fringe of lefty liberalism, but before that had to face Caligiuri one last time.

Doyle and I had a good working relationship, as I did with virtually everyone in public office. One Bill Peduto guided former Congressman Dan Cohen’s political ship into an everyman’s quagmire of Congressional hopefulness. No one quite realized the inexplicable power of the Sleepy Socialist and Cohen’s political future was sunk. The shock of that outcome still resonates to this day.

Caligiuri ran against Coyne and I broke the story. Doyle informed the rest of Pittsburgh’s media that I had the scoop, that indeed he had an opponent that fall.

Doyle won then, and has raced to the left faster than his idol, John Murtha fell from grace in the opinions of 95% of career service men and women.

Caligiuri disappeared off the political map just about the time in which he should have shined.

In his prime, Caligiuri would have been the Internet’s political darling, a daring thinker who’s “out of the box” ideas have been copied but never duplicated.

Mark Rauterkus has picked up Caligiuri’s reigns perhaps better than anyone might have dreamt. However, Caligiuri always kept his eyes only on Congress. He became folklore to us political junkies, perhaps not as oddly as the late sandwich-board guy who despised Coyne and once ran for Mayor, but in a city with so few real “colorful” politicians who didn’t make a career out of cashing city council paychecks, Caligiuri was a hero.

Until now.

According to the Concord Monitor, Caligiuri drove to New England to enter the crowded Democratic field. He still maintains a true Libertarian philosophy, but that only makes him closer to being a John F. Kennedy Democrat than a Hillary Clinton Democrat.

New Hampshire voters were also reported to be waiting for TV funnyman Stephen Colbert to show up. Colbert had announced his candidacy for the South Carolina primary a few weeks ago, but those staunch intolerants decided to leave him off the ballot. It’s still uncertain whether Dennis Kucinich is on that ballot, but one joke shouldn’t necessarily disqualify another.
From time to time, I’ve thought of Caligiuri, but lost his phone number eons ago. Print says he continues to maintain his family’s fast food and ice cream restaurant in Wilkinsburg.
Back in the day, he routinely shuttled from that hamlet to a kraal in Westmoreland County, where he presumably drank wine and waited for the next Congressional go-round.

Had I had a vote in New Hampshire, I would consider crossing party lines to plunk the Mad Dog.

It’s great to see an old friend once again.

Kaitlin Olson Makes "Philadelphia" One Of The Funniest Shows On TV

Jerry Seinfeld once said that he knew that his self-titled sitcom was stepping on new ground when his character was successfully able to steal a loaf of Rye Bread from an elderly woman and the audience still tuned in.
That great comedy was also hailed because it was the number one show on television and was anchored by characters that were largely self-obsessed and even "mean."
"It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," is the heir apparent to Seinfeld, and chances are you've never seen it.
I vaguely remember being blown away by this little show that's on FX in its first season, but it quickly and inexplicable fell through the cracks of my television landscape.
Most people, including me, think that Curb Your Enthusiasm in the modern-day Seinfeld, what with co-creator Larry David serving as the equal combination of Jerry Seinfeld and George Constanza from the heyday of NBC Thursday Night's "Must See TV."
In many ways, that excellent show is the "Seinfeld" of today. That being noted, the "Gang" in "Philadelphia" is the funniest ensemble on the tube. And that includes the group from "How I Met Your Mother," who are funny but far more sitcom traditional.
What makes "Sunny" really stand out from other comedic collections is Kaitlin Olson, who plays "Sweet" Dee Reynolds, twin sister of Dennis Reynolds, played by Glenn Howerton. Normally, the primary woman on the show is either a ditz or far more intelligent than the boyfriend, husband, or "dude." On "Sunny," Dee is just as obtuse, rude, mean and sophomoric as the boys. Olson might have the richest female comedic role on modern television. Only Julia Louis-Dreyfus' Elaine Benes could be equal parts "hot chick" and world-class jerk. On FX, Dee can drop a few expletives.
One immediate drawback of the show is that the three main male leads look too much alike. Howerton and co-stars Rob McElhenney and Charlie Day all have dark hair and have similar builds. If you're new to the show, it will take several episodes to tell them apart. Conversely, Charlie has one of the funniest voices on television, network or cable.
The excellent Danny DeVito plays "Frank Reynolds," a "wealthy" character who was originally written in as Dee and Dennis' father until it was determined he wasn't. Now he may have sired Day's Charlie Kelly. The Reynolds' twin biological father was revealed to be the guesting Stephen Collins of 7th Heaven fame. Their mother was portrayed by Anne Archer, believe it or not. In the story, mama hamstrung Reynolds with the twins because of his bank account. Network sitcoms simply don't take those kind of chances.
The third season of the hysterical sitcom just started with an episode about "The Gang" as they are collectively called, finding a "Dumpster Baby," they subsequently call "D.B." Dee, Dennis and Mac are innocently walking through a garbage-strewn alley when one of the guys…still not sure who…opens a dumpster lid only to find a Caucasian lad in pajamas.
Later, Frank and Charlie find interesting things at the city dump. Next thing you know, they have an apartment filled with other people's broken belongings, and they are sleeping on a sewer grate in the rain. Not much on TV is funnier than watching DeVito lunge for a bouncing, empty water cooler bottle while pushing a shopping cart full of trash down the sidewalk.
Dee and Dennis or Mac become convinced that "D.B." could be the next well-adjusted, Latino child sensation (see aforementioned reference to the baby being white), so they attempt to get the baby a "base coat" at the local tanning salon.
That's about when my mistimed DVR stopped recording the Gang's shenanigans. It will re-run later in the week.
I've also seen the "Gang Gets Invincible" episode that, with DeVito's unglamorous turn as an acid-dropping, gun-toting idiot stuck in a Winnebago toilet-turned garbage can, is probably the most creative half hour I've seen in quite some time.

Thursday's "Gang Gets Held Hostage" featured the rival McPoyle brothers and their possibly incestuous sister holding everyone except Frank Reynolds, who was stuck in the bar's strangely expansive duct work, at gunpoint. The episode was fun, but not as guttural laugh inducing as some, but Olson again excelled.
Rumor has it that the guys made the pilot for $85 a couple of years ago. A whole season was paid for with what it cost David Schwimmer to play Ross Gellar for 13 minutes in the last season of Cheers.
"It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" is worth your time. It is a show you should also catch up on…I will soon…because the first two seasons are just now out on DVD.
It's not like stealing a loaf of Rye Bread, but "Sunny" is like waving a discarded sword on the top of a garbage dump. And that's funny.