All the News That's Fit to Print

Well, my adoring fans, I've hit the big time! After laboring in obscurity for 25 long years, the news media has finally recognized me: I'm on the front page of The Leader Times, Kittanning's most prestigious (re: only) newspaper. Not only did I make page one, but it happened in a week when Michael Jackson's death and funeral steamrolled every other major story in the world. I beat the King of Pop!! Eat your own lyrics, Michael, and BEAT IT!

Of course, I graciously share my fame with the Firemen's Band drum major and my fellow tromboner, but I clearly dominate the left portion of that photo. I'm just not sure how I'll cope with my throngs of adoring female fans who want me to sign their breasts. I guess I'll just have to suck it up and make the best of it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go bask in my fame for awhile longer. I've now joined the ranks of other distinguished and acclaimed persons from the Leader Times' front page including the homely woman who makes wind chimes from old cran-grape juice containers and Filet o' Fish wrappers and the elderly man who grew the largest pumpkin in the tri-county area.

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The Leader Times: Possessing excellent taste in photography since July 6, 2009.

One Giant Trombone Led the Big Parade

To amuse myself during this lazy Kittanning summer, I joined the Kittanning Firemen's Band. My two younger brothers and several friends have been trying to get me to join for years, but I stubbornly refused on the grounds that I'm just far too accustomed to being contrary. But I finally broke down this summer, and I'm now the newest tromboner in the band.

Two years ago, the band participated in a parade, but they needed one more person to have the minimum membership necessary to compete. Since my brother couldn't make it, I threw on his uniform, went along with them, and carried the banner. It was simple enough, and there was much drinking and merriment along the way. Since that single instance, the Firemen's Band has sent me all of their newsletters and publications as though I were already a full member. So while I feel that I've only been part of the band for about two months, the books have probably had my name on the roster for two and a half years.

I swore I'd never play the trombone again after high school. Trombone music in high school bands is typically dull and tedious. There are a lot of whole notes and lifeless rhythms that serve to bump up all the truly awesome parts played by the trumpets, saxophones, and clarinets. If we even glimpsed a melody or anything slightly complicated that was labeled "fortissimo," we actually stopped doodling and mocking each other long enough to play what little musical morsels they would decide to throw our way, and we'd make the most of them. I may not have been a very good trombone player, but I could play loud. When in doubt, blow your brains out, and hope that no one will notice that you played the wrong note.

But in the Firemen's Band, the trombones get the melody (or counter-melody) all the time. At one recent performance, I wasn't aware that ONLY the trombones play the melody of "Amazing Grace" for the first half of our arrangement. Since I was the only trombone at said performance, my amateur ass got a solo on one of the most melodic and familiar songs in the band's oeuvre.** Take THAT consistently third-chair high-school JP. You got to rock a solo!

As if that's not enough, the trombones are right out front when we march in parades. In the photo at the top, that's me at the DuBois Parade right in the middle behind the drum major. Since, as with most situations, I tower over everyone else, it looks like I'm either leading the band or that I'm serving as their honorary bastion. Though in that uniform, I look like a mutant Ghostbuster.

Another advantage that the Firemen's Band has over the high school band is the ready (and often free) access to alcohol. I am thoroughly amazed by the huge fanbase that this ragtag group of Sousa-march players has across the state, though I suspect many of them think that everyone in the band is an actual fireman (which is not really the case - the band is simply supported by the Kittanning fire companies). But regardless of their motives, I'm equally impressed by said fanbase's willingness to give us free booze. A consistent stream of liquor could have made those high school football games a lot more interesting.

In a town replete with hopeless and cultureless slobs whose idea of reading involves the pizza shop's delivery menu while they drink themselves into a stupor every night as they're waiting to deal heroin out of the home of their pregnant teenage girlfriend because their brother is still serving jail time, it's nice to be with a group of guys who actually like to do something reasonably enriching in their spare time.

Though I suppose we drink ourselves into a stupor after every performance, so we still have that in common with our village brethren.

** My pretentious use of needlessly complicated words has now extended to music, as well. You're welcome!

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"Do you find something funny about the word TROMBONER!?"

We Few, We Happy Few

As I've mentioned many times before on this blog, I don't believe in God, an afterlife, or any sort of ethereal realm containing spirits and the ascended form of Zombie Jesus. Most of the time, I'm content to simply ignore questions of life-after-death since I'm not confronted with it on a daily basis, but since today is Memorial Day, I figured the topic might be worth a few imaginary beard scratchings.

Memorial Day is a tricky thing. The idea behind it is that we honor the soldiers who have given their lives in service of their country. But what does it even mean to "honor" them? Today I marched with the Firemen's Band in the Memorial Day parade. I love those old Sousa marches, and I always get a thrill out of playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever" (even though the trombone part is out of my range and surprisingly complex). The crowds really seem to love them too. We always get big cheers wherever we play.

But you know who I don't see anywhere along the parade route? Dead soldiers.

For all the talk we have about Memorial Day being for the dead, it's really about people who are still alive. The dead don't care. Even supposing that there is some spirit realm where they're deading it up with Jesus, Budda, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I would think that the soldiers would have a lot more interesting things to do with their disembodied selves than to watch a parade down in the asscrack of the Allegheny Valley.

I don't even think Memorial Day is really for Veterans even though they always seem to be very emotionally invested in the festivities. They don't need a day to remember the military. Getting your ass shot at by hoardes of Nazis is probably something you can remember without my ass tooting "Semper Fidelis" on my horn. In fact, I think Memorial Day is ideally directed toward we cowardly folk who never had any desire to serve in the armed forces. Willingly choosing to be shot after enduring basic training at the mercy of a drill instructor whose force of will could probably shatter my spine is no small sacrifice.

I'm a cowardly sort of fellow, and I know I would have crumbled immediately under fire. I imagine myself curling into the fetal position, sobbing loudly, and giving up valuable American secrets to any inquisitive interrogator who threatened to tickle my feet. I also don't think that those aforementioned drill instructors respond well to snarky backtalk or childish giggling in the ranks. Back in days of yore, they'd round up all the peasant folk and force them into battle against whatever nearby fiefdom the king had managed to piss off that week. As a penniless peon who happens to be the size of a small moose, I know I'd be drafted under that system in no time. Thank you soldiers for ensuring that my laissez-faire lifestyle can continue uninterrupted.

I do get annoyed when remembering fallen soldiers is conflated with celebrating America. That's what the Fourth of July is for. Stay in your own damn month, America. Sometimes soldiers do die during noble American missions, but oftentimes, soldiers die because America fucks up. Should we remember the soldiers who liberated concentration camps more fondly than those who got us cheaper gas prices? Not at all. In fact, that's why I respect those in the armed forces. You've signed up to follow the orders of someone you'd never met beforehand, and you may end up dead for a completely worthless cause. People line up in droves to volunteer for military service when they believe in the cause (WWII being a prime example), but how many of us would sign up for ANYTHING we were asked to die for. Theoretically, you could die because some general sent you into battle because his cousin, who happens to command the opposing army, slept with his wife last week (I think that may have been the plot of a Shakespeare play or two).

Sometimes young men and women sign up for the military for stupid reasons. They may not care a whit about protecting anybody. They might be in it for the benefits, to escape a bad home life, or because they need a job. In which case, their deaths should weigh even more heavily on us. There are probably a great many soldiers overseas who hate being there, but even if they would have preferred not to sacrifice, they still do. Some poor guy might have signed up for the Army Reserve, confident that he'd remain stateside, but then he stepped on a landmine on his first trip abroad. Memorial Day is exactly the time to think about the complexities of military service - the pros, cons, and TV shows - that are typically ignored.

Even if a soldier dies for a lousy reason, that has value to we breathing humans. We can think back on it and realize that maybe we don't want to go to war for just any old reason. Save our soldiers for raiding chocolate and cheeses from Switzerland. In fact, I think I'm going to write a very strongly worded letter to the Pentagon asking for exactly that.

Don't just remember the dead, today. The dead are dead. Think about their history and how that affects you. And support your local tromboners who play at Memorial Day parades. We're a charming and dashing bunch!

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"Never worry about the bullet with your name on it. Instead, worry about shrapnel addressed to 'occupant.'"

The Morgantown Shuffle

What most of my vacations look like.

This weekend I went to Morgantown for a few days to visit friends and, to some extent, for something different to do. Carousing around Kittanning every day can become somewhat monotonous after awhile. Also, with limited funds and rules against my jumping out of airplanes, I figured that this would be considered something of a vacation... from my job of mowing lawns that I've had for two weeks and my extremely unsuccessful job search.

The only problem with visiting my friends in Morgantown is that they're not all necessarily friends with each other. Batmite came into Morgantown too (which is part of my reason for going when I did), and the two of us are friends with almost 15 people there, and while they're all in the English department and are vaguely aware of each other, they don't hang out in their free time. Most of them are just too damn busy. Batmite and I may have BSed our way through countless books and seminar papers, but many of our friends did things the hard way (i.e. the honorable and honest way), so they tend to have less time for mingling with the entire department.

I've always found this dynamic curious because my friends in Kittanning are all essentially part of a massive supergroup that functions just as well with two or ten people. This is part of the curse and charm of the small town I suppose.

Batmite and I were fairly lackadaisical in planning our rounds to the Morgantown friend circle, and so some people got short shrift (Virgil and A.J. come to mind). With any luck I can make it up to them in future visits or in the form of a boisenberry pie in the mail. We did manage to meet up with quite a few people, and while we didn't do anything astonishingly exciting, it was nice to simply chit-chat and catch up with everyone. I'd also be lying if I said that there wasn't some part of me that was both smug and envious about all of them still going to or teaching at WVU. I'm glad I don't have to take grad classes anymore, but I do miss having that kind of constant interaction in the academic process.

One of the nice things about hanging out with a whole slew of English majors is that it forces me to raise the bar of my verbal sparring. In Kittanning, I like to think that I'm the cleverest sumbitch in the county (though I'm sure my closest friends - who are certainly damned clever in their own ways - will be happy to prove me wrong), but English majors are used to witty banter and sarcastic humor. I enjoy being the big fish in the small verbiage pond of Kittanning, but it's nice to have people to keep you honest. My friends have razor sharp wit that puts mine to shame and aren't afraid to direct it at your well-deserving author. Of course, like the asshole that I am, I take my newfound zingers to the Kittanning bars and lord them over my friends like the pretentious douchebag that I am.

Lest you think Morgantown is some sort of intellectual mecca (though if you've read this blog at all, I don't see how you could come to such a conclusion), I must admit that a healthy chunk of my Friday afternoon was spent at the Morgantown DMV. Batmite needed a valid driver's license, and since West Virginia was his only permanent residence, he had to get it there. I came along as his "ride" because the DMV tends to frown on people *driving* there to take a driving test. Looking at the parade of genetic misfortunes in that building drove home (pardon the pun) just how alike Kittanning and Morgantown really are. I then realized that as a 6'5" 285 lb. man hanging out at the DMV with his short brown hetero-man-friend discussing the intricacies of comic book continuity, I was hardly in a position to judge these people as looking unusual. Except for this toothless old fat woman in tight magenta spandex... I can say with certainty that I'm better than her.

Side Note: Batmite failed his driving test because he can't parallel park (HAR HAR!). I'll let him tell that story on his own blog.

Another fun thing that I learned is that adults love Spongebob Squarepants more than children do. In one of the places I stayed, my friends have a year-old baby, and so the parents watch a lot of children's TV. We all agree that Spongebob is too damned clever for its audience. In fact, there were times when the baby wasn't even in the room that we were still watching the damn show. This didn't come as much of a surprise for me. Batmite and I would watch Spongebob for embarassingly long periods of time in our own apartment. I was just amazed to see how widespread the phenomenon is.

Maybe we English majors aren't as classy as we think. :)

I'll definitely be going back to Morgantown soon, though I'm not sure exactly when. I lead a busy life with my important career, ridiculously hot and rich wife, and mammoth house. But I'm sure I can find some time to scamper down there for a visit.

I'm a man torn between two towns.

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Vacations - Surprisingly more enjoyable (and cheap) when you're going somewhere familiar. The surroundings may not be exciting, but you don't have to spend hours figuring out where to go and what to do.

Proper Mow-tivation

Due to circumstances well within my control, I have yet to find a full-time job. The monotony of doing random chores at home while procrastinating my job search certainly had its moments; however, I soon came to realize that I'd have to bite the bullet and find some sort of temporary employment in order to get some money. Not working has a way of making one's checking account rather barren. My dad had been giving me some odd jobs here and there, but my skills aren't particularly diverse in the contracting field. So I have made a graceful (or perhaps "grass-ful" if you'll accept a pun that's even worse than the title) return to the job that I did during the summers in college: mowing my neighbor's lawn.

Mowing a single lawn doesn't seem like it would warrant a full time job, but you haven't seen this place. This mammoth house sits on a hilltop that overlooks most of Kittanning, and my employers own this entire hill. We're talking about a huge plot of land here. Furthermore, these two have a considerable amount of money, and they've spent a nice portion of it landscaping their property. There is a lot of stuff to maintain, and I'm their go-to guy. I didn't work for them last summer because I was taking classes, but for the three summers prior to that, you could find me on a tractor or behind a weedeater making short work of undesirable herbage.

I swore I'd never work for them again. Mowing an entire hill isn't exactly easy, and I'm usually content with my slothfully sedentary lifestyle. Also, Mr. Employer would often ride my ass about every little detail of the job. "Oh JP, those cannas look like they were planted a little off-center. It would be lovely if they could all be lined up." "Oh JP, I'd really appreciate if that mammoth stack of wood that you just piled up could be seven boards across instead of eight." And he'd always use this damned soothing voice, too, so you'd feel like a dick arguing with him. I later discovered that he did this intentionally because that's exactly the effect he wanted. I imagine he was quite the shrewd businessman back in the day.

But I had to admit, Mr. and Mrs. Employer had always been really nice to me, their pay was fair (*cough* untaxed *cough*), and the hours were always flexible. So I figured working for them for a little while to earn some extra cash couldn't hurt. It's actually quite nice now. When I stopped working for them two years ago, they replaced me with my younger brother and some high school kid. My brother did a good job, but this other kid became a huge pain in the ass and fucked up everything on a daily basis. He reportedly broke every piece of equipment at least once and would regularly ignore directions. This, incidentally, made me look awesome by comparison. When my brother left for college last week, they were more than happy to have me back. And since I now seem to have expert-status, Mr. Employer simply leaves me to my work. It's still hotter than hell riding on that tractor in the middle of the day, but my pasty skin could use the sun... or at the very least, the radiation therapy for my skin cancer could cause me to lose weight in the most excruciating manner imaginable.

I'm working slightly above part-time because I still want to devote enough time to my job applications (in theory, anyway), but it's nice to have some legitimate currency coming my way without it being a handout from the government or from a mysterious mustachioed man in a top hat who kept calling it a "bank error in my favor."

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The Undesirable Element would like to welcome its new readers from the Wilkes-Barre retirement home for the terminally ill. Loyal fans like you are a dying breed.

A Male of Two Cities

Morgantown is a town in West Virginia that centers around one major industry: West Virginia University. Kittanning is a smaller town in Pennsylvania that centers around one major industry: failure. I've pretty much exhausted what these two booming metropolises have to offer.

For the summer, I've been spending most of my time in Kittanning living in my parents' basement like the sad little single Star Trek fan that I am. There's really not a lot to do here, but I'm living in a house for free and getting meals for free. It's hard to pass up a setup like that when one is gainfully unemployed.

However, last week I went back to Morgantown to visit. Batmite had returned from his cross-country excursion with his parents, and so I decided to stick around the old college town for a few days. I managed to have quite a lot to do. I like the general atmosphere of Morgantown in the summer. With almost all of the student population at home for the summer, the locals retake the town. The town was not designed to handle a student population of close to 30,000, so Morgantown feels like it's actually at its nominal capacity in the summertime. It's like a celebration of normalcy... if drunk, bearded, overall-clad rednecks hobbling down the streets can be considered normal. Nevertheless, the year-round Morgantownians seem so damned happy with the change of pace, so it seems like a yearly resurgence for them.

Kittanning, on the other hand, is always the same depressed little hamlet. While there are sane, rational, well-educated people in Kittanning, most of them are smart enough to remain in their own homes or travel to other places for fun. As a result, the usual bar scene in Kittanning provides a gamut of failure for the casual patron to observe. Your typical bar-townie is a friendly sort, but it doesn't take long before you realize that his or her jolly demeanor and almost religious fervor for drinking is masking the fact that this individual has no higher aspirations. A good Kittanning bar guy will not only stare at you with a glazed expression on his face when you tell him that you have a Masters degree in English, but he'll also loudly proclaim that you're a pretentious asshole for wanting to live somewhere else, and he demands to know why you're too good to just pick mushrooms in the mines or mold toilets at Eljer.

Kittanning and Morgantown aren't that different. Both towns have people with similar lifestyles and interests, but while Kittanning feels like a fountain of wasted lives, the people in Morgantown revel in their behavior. When Batmite was at the local bar in Morgantown making fun of inbreds, there was no shame in the bartender's voice when he bellowed, "You have a problem with inbreds???" This is the same bar where several old guys were reminiscing about how the Nazis get a bad rap. Batmite hesitates to go there now.

In either place, I must contend with that white trash, hill-folk lifestyle that adores NASCAR, nigger jokes, and huntin' shit. But in Morgantown, the people have no insecurities. They don't care if you don't like their ways since they have love enough for everyone!

In Kittanning, if you don't like to hunt, well they don't take too kindly to queers in these here parts.

Can y'all say, "insecure"?

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Morgantown and Kittanning: Two towns that are now hanging signs in their bars warning bartenders not to serve anyone with the initials "JP."

By the Winding Allegheny

Looks pretty nice, doesn't it? It seems like the picturesque little community that only the movies could bring you. In fact, they did. The movie The Mothman Prophecies was filmed here. The producers were looking for a town to fulfill the need for a "1950's West Virginia town with a bridge," and Kittanning fit the bill better than any location in West Virginia apparently.

We're more Appalachian than Appalachia!

Let me give you a few statistics. As of the census of 2000, the racial makeup of Kittanning was 97.31% White, 1.57% African American, 0.23% Native Amrican, 0.25% Asian, 0.08 from "other races," and 0.56% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 0.67% of the population.

Needless to say, we Crackers is common.

In fact, the population for Kittanning is given as "4,787 people." So if you do a little basic math, you can determine that all but 129 people in the entire town are white. We give new meaning to the word "minority."

Kittanning has never had much luck with minorities. In fact, its history is based on quite a remarkable moment in race relations.

Kittanning was settled by the Delaware Indians as they "moved" west. They found this nice little spot on the Allegheny and set up "Kit-han-ne." Of course, these Indians weren't too pleased about being forced west. Hell, I wasn't too thrilled about being in Kittanning, and I lived there most of my life. So the Indians start staging revolts against British troops.

The British, not taking too kindly to this, send Lt. Col. John Armstrong to put the Indians in their place. For Armstrong, "overkill" wasn't just a word; it was a mantra! Armstrong stopped the Indians all right. He set fire to the entire town.

Armstrong, perhaps suffering from bipolar disorder, names the town after the Indians he killed (Kit-han-ne became "Kittanning"), and he names the county after himself (Armstrong County). What I love is that the whole town likes to proclaim its Native American heritage every once in awhile. The entire Kittanning Folk Festival seems to go for that. I've heard unconfirmed rumors that many residents in Kittanning want to recreate Armstrong's attack on Kit-han-ne. I'm not sure that's really something you want to advertise.

It's really tough to get a consistent story about what happened those many years ago. Most of the histories of Armstrong County are written by the people who live there. As our demographics will demonstrate, more residents have tipped a cow than have graduated college.

People from home jokingly ask me what life is like in West Virginia, but you know what? The most redneck stuff happens when I come home.

Well, except for that time I almost ran over a chicken in the road down here. That was pretty hillbilly.

It Seems Like Forever Ago

I haven't been in high school for four and a half years!

It's been a good four and a half years!

This is in my brain because the Kittanning High School Band has decided to hold an Alumni Night in which any band student who graduated in the last 15 years or so can return.

At first I thought this wasn't such a bad idea; however, this isn't just a "let's sit around and bullshit while we eat food and drink heavily" kind of reunion. My former band director has decided that Alumni Night will consist of old band students getting together on the football field to PLAY a marching band song.

This was where I called BULLSHIT.

I haven't played my trombone since my high school graduation. Hell, I haven't even seen the thing in about that long. It's probably rusting in my parents' basement somewhere. Besides, I have no desire to get out in front of the yokel clientele of Kittanning and embarrass myself by playing some song from my "glory days" (it happens to be "The Race" for those who are in the know).

Then I starting considering the whole idea in general. What's the point? I still keep in touch with my friends from high school. The ones I didn't like, I'd rather not see again. Hell, every trip home seems like a Class of 2002 Band Fag reunion. Why should I make some kind of special (sober) effort to get together with them again?

Band was fun and all, but it's from a time that's long since passed.

Now, if someone were to throw a Band Alumni Buffet and Kegger, I'd say pop in the Eiffel 65 CD and call me a nostalgic bum!