The paint doesn’t come from one of those expensive, exclusive art supply stores. It comes from Lowe’s Home Improvement. Store #0780 in Homestead. “I’m here almost every day, honestly,” artist Jesse Best says, grabbing a sample of Valspar's Gold Seal from the shelves. “You save 60 percent buying house paint. It’s basically the same thing as acrylic but it’s an artist hack I’ve applied.” When he gets back to his studio/gallery on E. Seventh Avenue a few blocks away, he opens a

Donnie Iris is sitting in what’s supposed to be his dressing room on the second floor of the Rivers Casino. Down the hall from the Grand View Buffet and a line of people waiting behind velvet ropes for the $14.99 crab legs. There are three full length mirrors pushed up against the wall and no one in the room seems to be interested in them. “This is my cousin Petey… and my other cousin Petey,” he says, pointing to a handful of guys sitting around the rectangular conference tab

The people are standing, sitting, heads down, waiting in line, eyes buried in iPhones. Dockers tucked into crisp blue Oxford button downs and rugby ties next to man buns and lip rings, neon yellow fake nails and plaid school uniforms. Black, white, fat, thin, in a rush, using a cane to slowly walk by. Waiting one hour. Two. Sometimes, three. Too cool. Too old. Asking questions. “What would I have to pay for that?” “Can you tell me if it’s backing up?” “The cloud? I don’t know

“Tell me to be brave.” Jarrell “The Samurai” Brackett is in the basement of the Priory Grand Hall on Pressley Street in the North Side of Pittsburgh. Sparring. Pacing. Praying. Purple mohawk. Fu man chu mustache. Mouth guard garbling his speech. Lime green Title boxing gloves on his hands. Red Everlast shoes wrapped around a pair of Captain America socks. WARRIOR TOUGH reads the light heavyweight’s shirt. It is 8:55 p.m., twenty minutes away from his pro debut. Into the ring

The guys are hanging out in the dressing room, the green room, the whatever room. Donnie Iris, Dave Granati, Ricky Granati, Hermie Granati, and Joey Granati, occupying subterranean quarters underneath The Strand Theater in Zelienople, like, thirty minutes before their gig. The Granati’s mom should have been here already but she’s stuck outside because someone forgot to put her name on The List. Norma. Eighty-three years old. “She looks good for her age. You’d think maybe six

Kenny Chesney is at Heinz Field. White cowboy hat. Sleeveless shirt. Jeans. Leader of the “No Shoes Nation” and wearing two cowboy boots. Sweating. Singing. And totally pissing off the hospital security guards. “I’d like to kick Kenny Chesney’s ass,” says one as he steps outside of the hospital and into the 76-degree night, a few steps from the ambulances and a few miles away from the 45,000 country music fans and Gold lots that cost fifty bucks to park/tailgate/urinate/vomit

“Oh, they are getting me to Dallas,” she says, white earphones plugged into a black Samsung. Because seriously, a windshield wiper motor? Like they couldn’t have figured out that was broken last night? When the plane landed and taxied over to Gate A9? Please watch your step. Moving walk is nearing its end. Thank you. Caution! Moving walk is nearing its end. Please prepare to exit and watch your step. Thank you. “It sat overnight,” says the other. “It was dry last night. They

“Hey,” Joe Grushecky says, resting the Stratocaster on his knee as he picks up his iPhone, the one he just had to plug in because he has like, 12 percent of juice left. “Gimmie a minute here.” All five of the Houserockers are crammed into Joffo’s old master bedroom. Strumming, picking, tapping, tuning, waiting. Sandwiched between an old dresser, a dusty eight track stereo and a a few Vox, Fender, and Roland amps. Wires crisscrossing the floor. Frilly white curtains covering t

There are nine models in Room 304 at the Ace Hotel and one of them needs some duct tape. Like, now. “My nipples are going to show.” “Do you need a Band Aid? You put it across them like this.” “I want to wear a bra, but I think it’s gonna show.” “Oh yeah, a bra will show.” “I probably should have worn a bra.” “I have a nude bra.” “Bras are overrated.” “I don’t need to wear a bra. I mean, look. I don’t, ya know?” “Time check someone!” designer Bradford Mumpower calls out. “Sev

There’s a ProScrub automatic floor scrubber and an orange, Igloo cooler shoved into a back corner of what began its life as a Catholic Churc