Put Pitt Back Into Pittsfield - Bibblings| David Scribner's journal for thought, ideas, commentary, images, fiction observed and imagined

Put Pitt Back Into Pittsfield

By David Scribner

A fortnight after the first day of spring, a gray chill rain was beating the blackened ridges of grime-packed snow that lined Pittsfield's curbs and gutters into a gritty paste. For the rest of the year the streets will be edged with winter's ashy remains, giving the city its enduring impression of being an abandoned excavation project that ran out of money.

I was at the coffeehouse checking e-mail, looking for evidence of life beyond. I had one from Brooke Ruiz, the young woman who used to work at the drycleaners down the street. At the end of December she had fled to Las Vegas. Her message read, in part: "Now, I am a full-time dealer for Harrah's. I am making good money; I am extremely happy ... Funny how leaving Pittsfield changed things ... There is just a different quality of life here ... Things couldn't be better. There are so many things to do and see ... Almost impossible to be bored. Everything is open 24 hours, and there is like 15 or 20 Wal-Marts, also open 24 hours." (Her complete letter is in the "Customer Service" section of Scribbyworld.)

Outside, necklaces of rain pirouetted in the wind and spilled pearl drops on the sidewalks. The big windows looking out on the street were fogging up as the temperature dropped, and through the misting glass I could make out murky figures lurching by. It was time to make a change. I went to the Piercing Pagoda in the mall.

Amber, the Pagoda's blonde mistress of studs, hoops and the ear gun, asked: "Left ear or right?" As the procession of mallstrollers streamed past the Pagoda kiosk, I considered: Left side needed some balance. "Right ear," I said.

"Are you sure?" she said. Her pencil thin eyebrow with a tiny hoop in it lifted to a 45 degree angle, posing a question she didn't care to voice.

"I'm sure," I said.

With a gold stud and a lighter step, I returned to the coffeehouse. A feathery drizzle was drifting onto wet pavement; the windows had cleared to their midriffs so that Christopher Reeve's face on the billboard atop the bar across the street was visible. Reeve was passing on an inspirational message about strength.

At the next table, members of the culture commissariat, the artscape and beautification commission, were talking summer plans. They longed for sheep, the decorated, fiberglass ones bolted to cement that they were convinced brought visitors and trade last summer to a downtown generally regarded as sketchy and dingy. They were seriously contemplating how to fashion a reunion of the herd, if they could round some of them up.

Those poor sheep, I thought to myself. Sexless ... and sodomized, right outside these very windows last year. By this time they want nothing more than to retire in anonymity in some Astroturf pasture, out of the public eye. It would dishonor their selfless service to the twin causes of artistic expression and economic development to expose them to any more indignities.

As a citizen devoted to making the community a better place yet troubled about its future, I felt it would be irresponsible not to offer these public officials my thoughts ... when would I get the chance again, I wondered, having been exiled from the public press.

I leaned over in their direction. "Excuse me, could I intrude upon your discussion with a few ideas?" I said. Cups of mocha latte and chai tea paused on the way to lips. "Let's put Pitt back into Pittsfield, as in Brad Pitt. Let's move beyond ‘It's the pits-field.' My dear friend Jacuzzi, you know, the ex-columnist, has this great idea." They blanched, whether at the image of the manly actor or at the mention of the banished columnist I could not tell; several cups clattered back to saucers. I took their collective silence to be a sign of stunned enthusiasm, and continued:

"Imagine this: instead of plastic sheep up and down North Street, there is on both sides of our main thoroughfare a fiberglass phalanx of anatomically complete models of Brad Pitt, from Park Square to Berkshire Medical Center, from Berkshire Commons to Berkshire Life. Not a block, not a storefront without a Pitt. Pitt, Pitt, Pitt.

"Of course, in contrast to the sheep, these naked figure would be wearing undies but he would have a bulge. That much you'd have to concede to modesty. You'd invite artists ... and you can imagine how many there would be, from all over the world, not just the local crowd ... to create the Pitt of their dreams, to adorn, to decorate, to modify and manipulate the figure of Pitt, inspired, perhaps, by one of his films or perhaps, yearning for Pitt roles yet to be produced, like Cleopittra, for instance, or Elvira Bradigan. You could call the exhibit ‘The Pittrified Forest.' Each Pitt would be vying to be deemed the cleverest, the sexiest, suavist, with Brad himself (and Angelina Jolie perhaps) as judge(s) at a closing ceremony at the end of the summer. The mayor would present him the keys to the city, and declare, henceforth, the city to be known as ‘Pitt'sfield.' It would put us on the map of hip destinations, and appeal to young people, for sure. What do you think?"

Cups remained poised; lips frozen; eyes unblinking; a pool of milky chai dripping unnoticed onto a manicured lap. Maybe they needed an alternative, one not so daunting, one less esoteric, more cost-effective.

"Well, then," I went on, "Try this one. Many folks have made a good living as Elvis Impersonators. That market is now saturated, but why not work the general idea for all it's possibly worth? How about loading up a pickup truck with PVC pipe, Duct Tape, and brightly colored shower curtains. You could rake in the manna as a 'Christo Impersonator'! Think of all the lonely little municipal parks out there! Think of Park Square, of Wahconah Park, of Springside, of North Street. If it's a whole lot of nothing, a glorious whole lot of nothing for Central Park, it's good enough for Pittsfield. And you could take it on the road afterwards, travel about the country, with virtually NO competition."

"Thank you for your contributions," said the leader of the committee, a tall, prim bob-haired woman in a dark business suit and paisley kerchief at the throat, abruptly pushing back her chair. Skirts smoothed, ties straightened, the committee filed obediently out into the remains of a gray spring day.

In their wake, I realized the task was greater than I had realized, requiring more drastic measures. It could be time for a complete makeover. It could be time to call on the Fab Five ... Kyan Douglas (grooming), Ted Allen (food & wine), Carson Kressley (fashion), Jai Rodriguez (culture) and Thorn Filicia (design) ... from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" ... except in this case, it would be "Queer Eye for the Straight City." In their latest Bravo episode, the FF have gone on a road trip to overhaul an entire Texas fraternity. How much more difficult could Pittsfield be? And where should they start? City Hall? The Business Roundtable? The Highland? The Subway? The Rotary Club? The Colonial Theatre? (I'd like to hear from readers on this score.) Would they be up to the challenge, to convert a prissy, prudish, pinched and provincial culture into a vibrant metrosexual ambience? Is anyone?

Here's how you spin bad news. The Colonial Theatre Association held a press conference the other day to celebrate the extra $4 million it's going to have to spend, making the renovation of the 102-year-old South Street relic a $20.6 million project ... so far. Almost all the money for the restoration derives from public funds, making the Colonial Theatre the Big Dig of Pittsfield ... or is it Pittsfield's National Music Foundation, the institution which outfoxed most of Lenox and the Statehouse, then hightailed it to Florida? Hard to tell. A little of both.

And now the Colonial has real competition in Pittsfield, for audience, for money, for pre-eminence as a producing venue. Barrington Stage Company from Great Barrington is in serious negotiations to purchase ... and may have purchased by this time ... the Berkshire Music Hall (the former Public Theatre) on Union Street. Currently confined to the schedule and facilities at Southern Berkshire Regional High School, BSC has desperately sought a home base for its award-winning productions ... a space where a run can be extended to meet demand. Will the city welcome an outfit that really knows what it's doing, and could bring luster to downtown, or will officials cow-tow to the Colonial's fear of being shown up?

The market has spoken. A 7-year-old of my acquaintance whose reading skills are growing exponentially got into a giggling fit in the bathtub the other day. When her mother asked her what amused her so, the girl replied, "Whoda Man" body wash from Blue Q. "Do you see what it says on the tube?" she asked. "Lemon scent for your fruity ass." And she went off into giggles.

I reported this event to the Q of Blueness's co-founder Seth Nash. He replied: "Thank god you're starting them on the right track while they are still young! Sorry you had to explain fruity ass to a 7-year-old."

I then suggested that in view of this same youngster's fondness for Q's Balls for Her bar soap ("Don't let anatomy get in your way"), he might consider a new product line, "Ovaries for Him."

His answer: "Balls for Her was not a big success, so Ovaries for Him is most likely not happening anytime soon."

Thanks to Gige Darey of Stockbridge for my autographed copy of the 2005 Town of Ripton calendar, which contains such significant dates as the end of mud season (April 10), town meeting day (April 31), the beginning of Black Fly Season (May 1), George Wislocki's birthday (June 3). For those of you unfamiliar with Massachusetts lore, Ripton is the quintessential Berkshire community that time and geography have forgotten. For those reasons, Scribbyworld would like to run regular accounts of Ripton meetings, disputes, department budgets, projects, land sales, visitations from afar, and events of note. Interested Riptonians should contact Scribbyworld pronto.

In coming weeks: "The holy shopping mall," "The Golden Chair," and "Brother, can you spare a dime," fables for our time, plus news you won't find in the newspaper. Send your queries and comments to bibblings@scribbyworld.com, or stop by Digital Blend or Bellissimo Dolce on North Street, Pittsfield, Mass. For more irreverence, go to www.bimbopolitics.com, where Juliane Glantz, Jacuzzi, Ben, and friends hold court.