The coffee shop has two very attractive, straight, male employees and the girlies are losing their minds. I can’t say that they’re being unreasonable to appreciate the charming beauty of these young men, who, by the way, are working together today. I witnessed more flirting in my first 15 minutes here than I usually see over the course of a week: hips cocked, hair tossing, posing on the stairs. It’s all happening even as I write this and I don’t hate it. 

The Walnut Street Apple Store is moving from its iconic glass store front to a brick building further down the street. That famous storefront is so familiar that we locals guide visitors based on its location: “when you pass the Apple store, you’ll see it;” “if you get to the Apple Store, you’ve gone too far.” I was just mock-lecturing my SIL about changing things up to challenge her brain, even as I bemoan the completely insignificant fact of our Apple Store’s move. Insert eyeroll here, right?!

Yesterday, I was in the Bloomfield neighborhood in Pittsburgh when I saw someone open carrying, their handgun in a holster on their right hip, with a walkie-talkie clipped on their left side. It is unusual, to say the least, to see someone in Bloomfield with a gun. This is a neighborhood in transition, the older, conservative, Italian community aging out of the majority as a younger, more diverse community, primarily healthcare professionals, has moved in. Even the restaurants are changing. There may be an Italian spot left but the newer places are an eclectic mix–Fet Fisk, Dad’s Dog and Burger, Brothmonger, Trace Brewing, plus vegan restaurants like Thyme Machine, which unfortunately was lost to a fire about six weeks ago. Anyway, the individual with the gun walked like, acted like, smelled like (jk) a police officer who was barely pretending to be undercover. My thoughts went immediately to ICE, as there has been significant ICE activity in the suburbs but nothing much directly in the city. I saw no trucks, vans, or masked faces, though, and I fear my nebby soul will never know the story. 

The changing neighborhood does call into question the persistence of Little Italy Days, a decades old Bloomfield tradition to be held next week, that successfully annoys the locals by bringing in dozens of food trucks and questionable tchotchke tents. I suspect that, back in the day, it drew people to the Italian restaurants and markets in the community but now at least half of the locally owned businesses close during LIDs. You can visit the food trucks, though, to purchase Hawaiian ice, lemonade, deep fried whatever, and pizza, if that’s your vibe. 

There’s a dog in the coffee shop. There’s a dog in the coffee shop. There’s a dog IN the coffee shop. He is very naughty. I love him.

A half dozen doxies were rescued by the ANNA Shelter and I’m forcing myself not to get one. It’s a struggle, an actual argument my emotional self is having with my rational self. I’m not sure who is going to win…. Sorry. That was emotional-self typing. Obviously, rational-self is going to win this argument because I’m not getting another dog. Or am I? NO, I’m not. Or am I?

I’m editing a very long manuscript and, after moving a bunch of stuff around, I’m now trying to write transitions and…. Friends, I am struggling. I have written 10,000 words of garbage that I have to delete because it’s the most boring transition that has been written in the history of time. No, I haven’t read every transition ever written. I know my transition is THE WORST without reading every transition in the same way that I know a stove is hot without touching it. One of the more obvious guidelines writers use is that if it’s so boring the writer keeps skipping it, the readers will also find it boring. So, yeah, I’m deleting that whole section, which I spent a week working on. A writer’s life, I guess.

The community is  preparing for Jam on Walnut tonight. The road is blocked and all the people that disregarded the signs warning them to remove their cars before 4 got tickets and the opportunity to do the drive of shame. Lol I parked on a side street which is why I’m feeling very smug right now. 

The Fatheads green van has arrived. I guess that means the party can start. There’s a security guard with a mohawk managing this block. As he waves the van through the barricade, I look at the bandages on his face and remember the old joke: “You should see the other guy.” If the stitches in his right eyebrow and the recently broken nose are anything to go by, we’re all safer with him here. Of course, violence isn’t the answer, but isn’t it nice to know that he’s willing to take an elbow to the eye for the good of the revelers? (That sentence structure would have gotten me in trouble with my college writing professor. He used to say that it is impossible to correctly punctuate a declarative and a question in a compound sentence. Therefore, such a sentence is an abomination. HA! Take that, Professor Hess, which is not, of course, his real name. Privacy, amiright?!)

Pause for a charming shadow selfie – four friends walking down the middle of the road and one of them says, stop. She takes a picture as they all shadow mug for the camera. These are the moments of joy that I sit here at the window to capture.

I was talking with someone (who will remain anonymous for many, many reasons) and I used “they” in reference to a friend who uses “they/them” pronouns. Unexpectedly, it sparked a discussion about what it means to be non-binary. I’m not in a position to speak for people who are non-binary. First, I’m not non-binary. Second, not being a smart ass here, there isn’t a binary definition – they aren’t either A or B (as most people are not). They are as they are, as, in fact, most people are. It’s only an ingrained societal urge for clarity that causes the person I’m talking with to ask me if my non-binary friend is male or female. I answer by saying, “They prefer not to be labeled as either.” The other person glares at me for a moment and I ask why they need to know. They can’t answer, mostly because they don’t need to know. None of us do. We WANT to know, so we can categorize people in some arbitrary grouping that is, in fact, meaningless.  

Things have settled down here on Walnut, as setup continues. The coffee shop has started playing a Jam playlist, quite loudly, but I’m not really trying to focus on the novel at the moment. I’m having too much fun people-watching. There’s the sad boy across the street who, I think, is crying because Dad said no to gelato from the pizza place. An aging metalhead just walked by in buttonfly jeans and a leather vest, his long, thinning, white hair blowing in the light breeze. Three goth-attired people are coming into the coffee shop, one of them wearing cobweb tights and carrying a bat-shaped purse. They look amazing. 

The little boy got his gelato! Thank dog. I was feeling very sad for him. 

A young woman is walking with someone who seems likely to be her grandfather. She’s carrying a tiny, yellow L’Occitane bag and matching his slow pace. She’s small but he’s even smaller so she leans toward him to hear whatever he has to say. They pass the pizza place, which is so packed the line is out the door. The young woman has to dodge a couple leaving and I lose track of her and her grandfather in the crowd. The woman leaving the pizza place is wearing a pretty, bright green dress and her friend is absolutely enthralled. It’s too sweet to watch. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.

A young man is waiting for someone outside the pizza shop. He has that look of mild impatience that suggests his friend is late; and as I watch, he is becoming annoyed, shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting, swinging his arms. It’s been 15 minutes now. I’ll bet they had plans at 6 because, as I write this, guess what time it is?

People are arriving with their chairs, walking toward the stage to get settled before Walnut becomes really crowded. I’m going to be leaving. The last thing I want is to be caught in the gathering crowd just as the beer starts flowing. Really not my speed, you know?

The Hawaiian shirt men have arrived, three of them. They’re together, which makes me wonder if they agreed in advance to these shirts or – even better – they accidentally dressed to match.

Tonight’s band is No Bad Juju, which I had to research, because there’s no promotional material on Walnut. I guess if you want to Jam, you do so to whatever is playing.

Much love.