Thursday, July 3, 2008

This exhibition offered a chilling, up close look at the Titanic story .........


PITTSBUGH, Pa. – For about an hour today, I pretended to be Mr. Wallace Henry Hartley heading to America aboard the ill-fated R.M.S. Titanic.

That was the name I was given on the boarding pass allowing me into the “Titanic: The Artifact Exhibition” at the Carnegie Science Center on Pittsburgh's North Shore.

It remained unknown until the end whether I would be among the survivors of the White Start Line ship that struck an iceberg and never arrived on its maiden voyage to America in April 1912.

Hartley set sail as the leader of an orchestra that played light music for first- and second-class passengers. He was a talented violinist who had been hired for the job only two days before the ship embarked on its journey from Southampton. “Wallace was no stranger to the Atlantic; he had made over 80 crossings,” according to the passenger facts on the reverse side of the ticket.

The exhibit walls were painted as black as the ocean night the Titanic and 1,517 of its passengers went missing as the ship settled to the bottom of frigid water two miles deep off the coast of Newfoundland. Soft blue lights and spooky background noises combined to make some people think twice before rounding each corner, one of which revealed itself to a mock up of a highfalutin cabin for ultra rich travelers. It had a well-appointed bed, fainting couch and table set with an old pair of sterling silver binoculars. Ahead, a life-sized photograph of the ship’s grand stairway appeared behind a statue of a cherub that once decorated the boat's steps. That sculpture was pulled from the wreckage after it was discovered Sept. 1, 1985 by an American-French expedition.


Some walls contained telling phrases spoken by passengers who survived the accident that took place at 2:20 a.m. April 15, 1912. “My feeling was so strong that I would never reach America in that ship,” said Edith Russell, a first-class passenger.

More than 200 artifacts were selected for the exhibit, including bathroom floor tiles, a porcelain chamber pot, dishes and even a hot water tap from a bathroom. The passengers were immortalized through pieces of their jewelry, clothing, money and boarding passes that were recovered from the deep. The finds were chilling reminders of real lives that were lost in a story that has otherwise been romanticized in film and through popular music.

The passengers' names were eventually revealed on a large wall at the end of this remarkable exhibit. More than half of the 324 first-class passengers survived, while 527 of the 710 third-class ticket holders died. Just 212 members of a crew of 910 made it to safety.

My heart skipped a beat as I scrolled down the ranks of second-class passengers and found the name of the man from Dewsbury, England, on my ticket among those who died at sea. I had hoped it wouldn't end that way for a guy who was just 33 years old and engaged then to be married.
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Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Speed demon heading for Daytona


Blogger Mike Jones over at Jonesinforspeed will begin tomorrow posting live from Daytona, Fla., with a focus on the happenings in and around the Coke Zero 400 NASCAR Sprint Cup Race.

While the race takes place Saturday, "Jonesy" will be filing stories about what happens beside the barbecue grills, beaches and bar scene outside the track. One of his favorite pit stops is the Ocean Deck, a bar and restaurant that fronts the Atlantic Ocean and is known for its drunk and crazy patrons.

“Is anyone else excited about sun splashed beaches, beer and restrictor plate racing?” said Jones, a writer at the Observer-Reporter in Washington, Pa.

I don’t have the foggiest idea why some people get excited about restrictor place racing, but am looking forward to reading what Jones has to say about this Fourth of July weekend in Daytona.

Yet another blogger, Amanda Gillooly, doesn’t understand the interest in NASCAR, either, but she can't wait to read Jonesinforspeed every day through Sunday.

“I’m willing to get my learn on,” Gillooly said.

(Photo of Mike Jones by Greg Tarr)

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

An open letter to Miss Anderson, from Amanda



Dear Pamela Anderson,

I hate to give you more press, I really do. I thought the sale of your used undies was going to be the first and last time I wrote about you. But, girl, you need a wakeup call.

I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. You basically went off on pop star Jessica Simpson for wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase: “Real Girls Eat Meat.”

Being, perhaps, the most busty and well-known spokeswoman for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, I can understand why you’d be upset. However, as a ‘spokeswoman,” I thought you’d have something more literate to say.

As it was, you just called Simpson, if I remember the sound bite played repeatedly by nearly every morning radio show in Pittsburgh, your comments were short. I believe you called the blonde bombshell a “bitch” and a “whore.”

Flag on the play. Pammy, you need to repeat first down.

While I don’t understand how anyone could snub a nose at a nice, fat steak, I appreciate your passion. But, you’re making all the vegetarians out there seem like crazies when you come out this harshly about a T-shirt.

Does the garment have some magical mind-altering powers that I haven’t read about? Do you really think that vegetarians everywhere are saying to themselves and others, “You know, forget about this conviction, if Jessica Simpson eats meat, then I need to throw away my bean sprouts for burgers!”? I thinkith not.

And besides, Ms. Anderson, don’t you have bigger things to worry about? I’m sure you’re busy raising your two children, caring for your Hepatitis A and thinking about what new cosmetic procedure you can buy with the royalties from your Tommy Lee sex tape.

Bottom line: Chill out, woman. You’re gonna pop an implant.

Warmest Regards,

Amanda “I need beef, dude” Gillooly

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(Note: PETA added the word, stupid, to the photo of Miss Simpson)

Monday, June 30, 2008

Her best friend's wedding


By: Amanda Gillooly

My friend Ean Gensler is getting married Saturday. I’m happy for him and can’t wait to see him tie the knot with someone I know he loves very much.

He moved to Chicago a few years back to take a fantastic job, and admittedly, we don’t talk as much as we used to.

But through the wonder of social networking sites such as Myspace.com, we are able to keep up with one another’s lives via the Internet.

The other day I checked a new blog post, and it was plain old depressing.

Instead of checking the “I won’t be able to make it” box on the reservation, the aunt of his fiancĂ© wrote a long, painful letter about how she would not be in attendance at the “event” because she just didn’t believe in their romance.

I took offense immediately. Who the hell is Aunt Bertha to judge Ean?

He was one of my best friends in college, and although we went out nearly every evening, there was never any attraction between the two of us.

Ours just wasn’t that sort of relationship.

But even though we never became intimate, I can see where someone could fall head over heels for the guy.

In addition to being a hottie, he’s hilarious; I don’t think I was ever in Ean’s presence without, at some point, laughing so hard I thought I was really going to wet myself.

Maybe Aunt Bertha just doesn’t see Ean the way I do. But then, we went on many outings. And every outing was an adventure.

She didn’t go to Pittsburgh Steelers games with the dude.

His father, who had the season tickets we gladly mooched, asked us earnestly if we’d like to take his “hollowed-out hoagie” to sneak in a bottle of liquor.

Of course we said no, even though said hoagie had been a reliable accessory for the family for years. But the seed was planted. If Ean’s dad could sneak in the hard stuff with a silly sandwich, what could we come up with?

Actually, nothing too creative. We just stuck a bottle of Southern Comfort in Ean’s boot and walked in, taking secret swigs between plays, and telling ourselves that it wasn’t exactly smuggling as much as trying to stay warm.

We went to Punxsutawney our senior year and ended up teaching the bloated white guy playing Elvis how to give the traditional “rock on” hand gesture. If you need proof, we have a picture.

When Ean walks down the aisle with his fiancĂ©, John Hreha, next Saturday, I’ll surely shed a tear – I’m a closet romantic. I cry at every wedding.

Yes, my friend Ean is gay. And I’m sorry if I didn’t let you in on that tidbit earlier. I just wanted you to see him as I do: a dear friend, not simply “my gay friend.”

I wouldn’t want anyone to make the same mistake as Aunt Bertha.

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Observer-Reporter

Sunday, June 29, 2008

A Celtic birthday

Bagpiper Dave Olson ushers my baby brother, Kelly Beveridge, to age 50.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

The Rooster Song, last verse

Jim of Backroads Bluegrass charms the audience at a farmer's market in Washington, Pa.