Friday, October 24, 2014

My facial procedure & aversion to big ass needles

The unbidden gusher of tears came squirting out of my face the instant the dermatologist stuck the needle into the soft skin one half inch below my left eye.

I felt an instantaneous wooziness that usually takes about three hours, two cigars and a half a bottle of bourbon to acquire more organically.

I’d gone to the doctor to have a small growth removed. I’d had it removed once before in 2009. It grew back. If friends said they didn’t notice it, I think they were just being polite.

My 8-year-old, an unflinching accountant of fatherly flaws, enjoys pressing it when I’m laying down until I say, “Doooot!

To me, it was huge and ugly. My vanity would not abide it.

The doctor told me he was going to biopsy the mass to determine whether or not it was cancerous.

I told him not to bother.

It’s not cancerous.

I have foreseen my death and won’t be in some sterile hospital bed. It will be out of doors and it will be violent.

It’ll be in the year 2055 on my 91st birthday. I have a vision of me stumbling out of a local bar and right into the path of a speeding bus. Witnesses will swear they saw my soul shoot straight up to heaven and that my soul wasn’t wearing pants.

My death will make news all around the world because the bus will just miss striking Keith Richards, too. 

I believe Keith will one day hear about what a great drinking buddy I can be and will venture to Latrobe to see for himself. And then Keith’ll never leave.

Or die.

Moments before the doctor had been starting at my face and intermittently speaking a language that was either Latin or gibberish. His pretty assistant was taking notes and nodding like she understood and cared deeply about my pending disfigurement.

He told me I had nice skin.

I asked if he was hitting on me.

He pretended he didn’t hear me and just kept staring like he was trying to hypnotize me, which I’d be fine with if it’d save me a buck or two on anesthesia.

I view my body the way I view my utilitarian vehicle. I don’t love or pamper it. I demand it be mobile in all conditions and take without complaint the necessary beating it requires to travel with reckless abandon through all life’s obstacles.

I like that my body has a high pain tolerance and has survived some hangovers so severe they equate, I believe, to the female birth ordeal, but am baffled why it so weakens whenever a needle pierces the skin.

Of course, I like to think even John Wayne would wobble seeing a big needle coming straight for his eyeball.

What’s funny is right after the needle prick began my foreseen slide into oblivion is right when the doctor started feeling chatty. He began asking me a bunch of questions while he chiseled away chunks of my face.

“So what do you do?”

I’m a writer.

“What do you write?”

I told him about the crayon book and slurred some examples. He liked the one about telling friends you’re going to open an art gallery and have them enter a room with nothing on the walls and be greeted by 40 guys who say nothing but, “Hi, I’m Art!”

“You know, I should write a book about being a dermatologist. I have some great stories.”

I told him I thought he was onto something. A book about a skin doctor would be a huge hit because none of the nudity would be forced or gratuitous. Throw in a little exam room bondage and maybe make the doctor a vampire and he’d have a bestseller: “Fifty Shades of Flesh.”

The whole procedure took about 6 minutes. They let me lay there with a cool towel on my forehead for about 20 minutes before I could resume mobility.

So in order to get rid of a small blemish no one really noticed, I’m now walking around with a huge navel-sized bandage on my face everyone notices.

People have been very considerate. They ask concerned questions and tell me they hope I’ll be all right. No one’s been jagging me.

It’s very comforting and more prudent than cruel mockery.

You don’t want to see what happens when a guy like me gets needled.



Related . . .







Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Dreamt I got a parking ticket (woke up pissed)

I woke up this morning with the memory of a terrible dream in my head. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was just really annoying.

I dreamt I got a parking ticket!

Yes, great men like Martin Luther King Jr. have dreams that all men will be judged, not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

I dreamt I’d been wronged by the meter maid.

So I woke up all pissed off.

Parking tickets are one of the most annoying aspects of modern life. Heck, as we’ll soon see, they’ve been one of the most annoying aspects of life since 700 years before Jesus drove a donkey.

Those of us who pay to park probably do so legally about 80 percent of the time. We read the signs, pump the meter and race the clock.

But about 20 percent of the time we’re on the cheat. We play the odds. We see the meter maid down the street and figure we can get back before we’re busted.

Most of the time that’s just the way it works out.

Some of the times it does not.

And it’s infuriating. We plead for understanding. We make excuses. And it’s usually just a humiliating waste of time.

We’re stuck paying the parking ticket.

I’ve been issued scores of them, some of them for as much as $40, in downtown Pittsburgh where I often push the scofflaw envelope.

It’s in part because city parking meters have become so complicated. In fact, many true meters are gone. In their place are remote stations much less convenient than popping a quarter in a slot

I hate it, too, because the stations — if they’re even working — eliminate the joy of finding a meter with time to mooch. Now, you often pay for more than you need and the time you paid for expires. Both you and the next guy are screwed.

It reminds me of a favorite Henry David Thoreau quote about the how it is impossible to kill time without injuring eternity.

City parking authorities do it all the time.

Amazingly, small town Latrobe is at the vanguard of hassle-free parking.

We have a great smart phone system called Pango (Pay ’n’ go). It’s simple and fair. The system is available in 11 cities including Boston, Scranton, Alexandria, Va., and amazingly, Latrobe.

Too bad Pango wasn’t available in my dream.

I remember arguing with the stupid meter maid that no one was around, that I was on business, etc.

It was no use. The tyrannical old bitch still gave me the ticket.

You’d think the history of parking tickets would have begun with the advent of motor vehicles.

You would be mistaken.

It’s true, they began becoming a popular form of easy government revenue back in 1926 when vehicular congestion started becoming a problem.

I’ve always wondered if old West sheriffs ever issued parking tickets for unattended horses outside rowdy saloons. I’ve never found any stories relating those facts.

I wonder if it was because, unlike tucking a ticket under a windshield wiper, there was no place convenient to put one on a pony.

If the revelation makes you nostalgic for the days when bucolic horses reigned, you haven’t thought it the whole way through.

Sure, cars are a major source of pollution, but so in their own way were horses. And say what you want about choking vehicular exhaust, you can’t step in big pile of smog.

Interestingly, the very first parking citations pre-dated cars by about 2600 years.

Archeologists say the first evidence of parking restrictions were found in a dig near ancient Nineva, the 700 BC capital of Assyria. They say they found a sign that read, “ROYAL ROAD — LET NO MAN DECREASE IT.”

I wonder if they found the sign on a pole on a sidewalk next to an ancient fire hydrant.

From Wikipedia: “The penalty for parking a chariot on this road was death followed by impaling outside one’s own home.”

Even though the old laws had some inherent deterrents, I still imagine scofflaws were common. I mean for people in a hurry death and public corpse mutilation is only slightly worse than The Boot.

I guess the lesson is this: We should be grateful that parking tickets are merely a nuisance because the penalties used to be much tougher.

So, too, I guess, were the meter maids.



Related . . .






Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Pennsylvania license plates among nation's worst

My 8-year-old daughter is like her old man in that she sees the world and recognizes it’s full of petty irritants.

That, to me, is just another petty irritant because it increases the likelihood that one day a guidance counselor will advise her the only thing she’s cut out to do is blog.

But unlike your typical blogger, she sees something that annoys her and she does something about it.

That’s how she began re-designing the Pennsylvania license plate.

She says it’s too boring. She’s correct.

Pennsylvania is a scenic and historical state that’s home to about five or six great native breweries. Famous Pennsylvanians include Christina Aguilera, Ben Franklin DJ Jazzy Jeff, Sharon Stone and “Gong Show” host Chuck Barris.

And if that’s not an A-list roster for a historical party, I’m canceling my Entertainment Weekly subscription.

We’re Independence Hall, Valley Forge, Gettysburg, Kate Gosselin and Three Mile Island, the latter two being warning reminders that even the best places can be marred by human error capable of sickening innocents.

Yet, what is our license plate? It’s a bar of blue with “PENNSYLVANIA” in white letters above a white bar with blue license numbers atop a bar of yellow that in blue says, “visitPA.com

How awful. How mundane. And subliminally urging motorists to click on a cheesy promotional website when they should be paying attention to driving is downright reckless.

What’s most infuriating is you know that some lame Harrisburg marketing firm was paid hundreds of thousands of taxpayer dollars to come up with it.

I could sketch a more compelling license plate on a beer napkin in less time than it takes to pour an actual beer.

How’s this? An image of Ben Franklin waving a Terrible Towel above the sudsy Franklin observation: “Beer is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy!”

As license plates go, mine practically polkas.

I think everyone would love it, especially our plate-making convicts. The only thing worse would be a plate-maker in New Hampshire and having to make license plates emblazoned with “LIVE FREE OR DIE!”
The situation confounds even us ardent fans of irony.

My favorite PA plate was the simple blue one emblazoned in gold letters with the cheery motto: “You’ve Got a Friend in Pennsylvania!”

But state mottos can be easily satirized. I think it got to crooked legislators when newspapers kept headlining stories of their corruption with “You’ve Got a Felon in Pennsylvania!”

I still have an uproarious ’92 clip from a West Virginia newspaper that had snarky staffers responding to then Gov. Gaston Caperton’s $880,000 contract to replace the outstanding “Wild, Wonderful” plate motto with the lame, “A Welcome Change.”

Here’s some favorites:

“West Virginia: Live Poor and Die!”

“West Virginia: Where All That Government Cheese Goes”

“West Virginia: The Edcuatoin State”

“The Ballcap and Tube Sock State”

“West Virginia: The Persistent Vegetative State”

“Thank God for Mississippi!”

“The Show-Me-A-Bribe State”

“Land of 10,000 Jakes”

“West Virginia: Charles Manson Lived Here”

My daughter’s version has no motto, but features an enormous shining sun, two half-man/half-bird creatures waving finger wings, and our family (including the stupid dog) in a car about to drive to our certain death right into a huge tree.

And Pennsylvania is spelled differently.

Note: I said it was spelled differently, not incorrectly. I don’t judge and wouldn’t want to say anything that might stunt her elementary school creativity.

She’s very proud of it.

She should be. It’s far superior to our current plates.

So I’m going to send her drawing to Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett, who polls say is fighting an uphill battle for his second term.

And I’m going to tell Corbett if he announces my daughter’s stick figure drawing is the new state plate, well, he’ll have my vote. Hers, too, if he can hold onto office through 2024.

It’ll be a big deal.

My daughter will have seen something incredibly lame that didn’t work and taken positive steps to whip it into shape.

I just hope she never looks at me and realizes just how much her Daddy has in common with our Pennsylvania license plates.


Related . . .







Monday, October 20, 2014

Playing Oakmont (and Arnold Palmer says I'm the best)

(715 words)

I’m set to golf today at Oakmont C.C. in about four hours. The fact will no doubt stir resentment among my golfing friends.

Oakmont is one of the most prestigious golf clubs in the world. 

Well, let me rub it in a little more. I’ll tee off after I bid Arnold Palmer bon voyage on his way to Florida. One of my partners today is Doc Giffin. He’s been Palmer’s able assistant for the past 45 years, and Doc asked me to pick him up at Palmer’s Latrobe office where he wants to say goodbye.

And I get to tag along.

I’m on a bit of an Arnold Palmer roll right now.

And by “Arnold Palmer roll,” I don’t mean the man behind the hip Arnold Palmer tea has added a trendy new sandwich to his culinary endeavors.

I interviewed Palmer Friday for about the 75th time in the past 10 years. I started off, as I always do, with a real toughie.

“Mr. Palmer: on Monday you’re departing Latrobe for Orlando where you’ll spend the next six months while we here in Western Pennsylvania endure the wind, the snow and ice. My question is: Will you please take me with you?”

He roared with laughter.

Then he said no.

The whole interview couldn’t have gone better. It was the highlight of my day. Heck, it might have been the highlight of his, too.

I know this because at the conclusion he told me I’m the best interviewer he’s ever had. He said, “You are the best. It’s always a real treat to sit and talk with you. You’re funny and you ask great questions. I always really enjoy these interviews.”

You’re probably thinking, well, one of the reasons Arnold Palmer is so popular with the media is because he says that to everyone.

That may be true, but if it is I found out he’s said it to me more than anyone else.

Bob Drum is a legendary Pittsburgh sports writer who chronicled and assisted in Palmer’s rise to legend. I asked Palmer how far I had to go until I reached Drummer status.

“You’re right there,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s interviewed more than you. And that’s saying something.”

Coming from him, it was incredibly flattering.

And I had it all recorded!

Or so I thought. 

I floated out of the room thinking I could take this precious audio and make a great YouTube clip of one of the most interviewed and popular men in the world saying I was the best.

Heck, Trump posts it on his website if Palmer deigns to pose for a picture with him.

So I get to my office and, I admit, foremost on my mind wasn’t transcribing the interview for which I was being paid. No, it was how I was best going to use the Palmer praise to make myself look monumental.

It was all I had on my mind.

And that’s probably the reason I somehow deleted the whole thing. 

Gone. All of it. From a fool-proof iPhone!

I wasn’t really worried about the interview. Everything he says is burned into my brain and the Q&A format makes it easy to duplicate (Doc later told me it read like a transcript).

But what was I to do about the part where Palmer said how great I was?

To ask Doc if I could come back and have him say it all again would be unseemly.

I did it anyway.

And to really up the unseemly ante I asked if this time I could film him doing it while holding a copy of my book. I was intent on an offhand compliment into a full-out infomercial.

I tell you, when it comes to shameless self-promotion, I got crass coming out my, er, ears.

But Doc said no. The timing couldn’t be worse.

So my hopes to enrich my life through something Arnold Palmer said were in vain.

It’s okay. 

There are other compensations. See, knowing Arnold Palmer means you can always get great golf tips from Arnold Palmer.

That’s what happened when I told him I was playing Oakmont. I asked if he had any suggestions about how I could get a really good score today.

And, indeed, he had a great tip.

He suggested I play someplace else.



Related  . . .







Sunday, October 19, 2014

Sunday encore! Lottery losers should decide winners

No reason whatsoever for re-running this April '12 entry. No surge of readers drawing it to my attenion. No related topical instigations. I just was going through the roster — blog no. 1,300 will appear in early November! — and recalled thinking this one was a good idea. Hope you like it. Thanks, as always, for taking the time to stop by. Please share with friends anytime you feel the blog is deserving.


For purely comedic reasons, I’m hoping Mitt Romney wins the presidency and announces at his inaugural address, “Oh, by the way, remember that unclaimed $656 million jackpot from back in March? I won! Ann found the ticket in the glove compartment of one of her Caddies. Just thought you might like to know.”

The bi-partisan impeachment proceedings would conclude before C-Span had time to remove the lens caps from all their cameras.

Second to winning it ourselves, the most important aspect of our national lottery mania is complaining when the actual winner turns out to be an undeserving jerk, goon or garden variety moron.

We feel cheated, as if there’s been some colossal cosmic mistake. How could karma have gotten it all so wrong?

That’s what we’re all feeling with this crazy escapade involving Mirlande Wilson, the Maryland nut job who claims to have the winning ticket -- and says it’s not from the stack she agreed to buy for her now-incensed McDonald’s co-workers. If she’s intent on spending the rest of her life being an object of public scorn and hatred, her plan is succeeding brilliantly.

Winning tickets sold in Kansas and Illinois have so far gone unclaimed (Romney’s recently been in both states, by the way).

Experts say the winners are wisely waiting for the attention to die down before making a claim that’s certain to be anonymous.

I think that’s wrong. A desire for anonymity should be a disqualifying factor. You shouldn’t be able to use your fresh millions to insulate yourself against all of us losers who just forked it over to you.

In fact, this being a democracy and that states reap financial benefits from hosting the lotteries, I think lottery rules should be refined so everyone who plays has a say in how the winner spends his or her money.

Say if one $100 million winner is a common hillbilly. We should all get to vote if he gets to blow it all on hookers and fireworks of if he has enough of an intellectual spark that educational improvement is warranted. Either way, we should all get to watch.

In fact, I’d go even further. I think each lottery jackpot of more than $100 million should include a dozen winning tickets.

Anyone with a winner would have to step forward and agree to take part in a “Survivor” -like reality show where the jury is the American people. People who wish to remain anonymous can drop out and be given a parting gift, like maybe a toaster.

The remainders have to persuade America why they deserve the entire jackpot.

Then over the course of three months, once a week, we’d get to know these individuals and decide if they’re deserving of the money. We’d find out who was miserly and who was generous. We’d learn who was caring for a sick loved one and who abandoned his family for the cheap cocktail waitress.

Phoned-in or texted votes could cost $1 with proceeds going to pay down the national debt.

The result would be we’d get a winner who was generous, deserving and jolly enough to be bestowed with instant riches.

He’d be the kind of guy who cares about the environment, is sportsmanlike in victory and defeat and understands the importance of overtipping friendly breakfast waitresses. He’d be handsome, but not in a pretty boy way. He’d really need the money, but would be stable enough that he could be counted on to be neither miserly nor wasteful with a gaudy windfall.

He’d be articulate, witty and offer three to four times a week solutions to vexing global problems on his humble little blog.

Still looking for someone deserving -- besides yourself -- to root for the next big jackpot?


One more hint: I don’t mean Mitt.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Selling crayon books to Steelers/Bigfoot fans

I was treated to an honors tutorial in guerrilla book selling Sunday at Fort Ligonier Days.

Or was it gorilla book selling? I guess it all depends on your etymological sense of the supernatural Bigfoot.

See, bureaucratic considerations nearly caused me to tantrum bolt from the Sunday book signing. A Ligonier constabulary said the table my host at Second Chapter Books had positioned was improperly placed, even as it where it had been the previous two days and several years before that.

Moving it would have required moving me to a distant position with inferior visibility.

The unnecessary inconvenience is representative of just why the Fort Ligonier Days festival would be much more fun it were held in someplace far less uptight than Ligonier. Someplace like, say, Delmont, about 20 miles northwest of Fort Ligonier.

Happily, a sensible in-house solution was found. Two of the best and most successful self-published authors in western Pennsylvania, if not America, cordially agreed to let me share their table.

In a matter of moments I’d gone from Siberia to Broadway. I spent the day sitting at a long book signing table between Jim O’Brien and Stan Gordon.

Jim’s the author of 25 books on 22 Pittsburgh sports legends. About 25 years ago he set out to become de facto historian of the Pittsburgh Steelers. He’s in a way become like the sports heroes he chronicles, a Pittsburgh legend.

I know this because I heard about a dozen adoring fans come up to him yesterday and say, “Man, you are a Pittsburgh legend.” He is beloved.

My appreciation for his business acumen has skyrocketed since I began selling my own book. He makes eye contact with every passerby. He is courteous. He asks for everyone’s name and he remembers them all.

Stan Gordon on the other end of the table does all those things, too.

But instead of talking about topics involving Noll, Bradshaw and Lambert, Gordon’s expertise involves subjects named Roswell, Sasquatch and E.T.

Gordon is the foremost authority on all things supernatural. 

So out of my left ear I’m hearing Jimmy O’Brien saying Chuck Noll was a cerebral teacher with an appreciation for fine wine, while out of my right ear I’m hearing Stan saying he’s found what may have been Bigfoot poop near a creek just south of Kregar.

He’s traveled the globe investigating UFO sitings and Bigfoot appearances and lecturing to open-minded throngs. Reporters call Stan to ask if UFO sitings can be confused for weather phenomenon, if crop circles might be a result of fungus and if Bigfoot could be an inter-dimensional being.

I was curious as to how an observer could tell the difference between a male and a female Sasquatch. “It’s very difficult,” he said. “Sitings of them are very fleeting and they are covered in hair.”

That’s life. Go to a book signing hoping to sell books about crayons and you learn that Sasquatch genitalia could use a little manscaping.

You may not believe any of his expertise, but millions of people do and the majority of them are not at all nuts. They are just normal people who’ve seen or experienced something that can’t be explained.

Of course, I was more interested in the nuts.

I asked him what he did whenever he met someone who was truly loony.

“I listen to their experience, relate it to something I’ve heard of and then I try and sell them a book.”

Nothing nuts about that.

It’s hard to tell who, O’Brien or Gordon, had the more enthusiastic following.

Of course, their crowds swamped mine and probably cost me sales, but what I learned from observing these pros will benefit me for years.

And they were just great guys. Smart retailers would be wise to hire either to teach their sales forces how to get shoppers to buy their products.

And they were honest.

Well, Jim was.

I heard Stan lie every time a potential customer asked if he’d ever actually seen a Bigfoot himself.

“I have not,” he’d say. “I’ve seen plenty of evidence of them, but I’ve never actually seen one. I hope one day I do.”

He was lying.

He sees one each and every time he walks through the front door.

He told me earlier he has a lhasa apso. It is named Yeti.


Related . . .






Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Why I always give trusting strangers wrong directions

(707 words)
I think people are always asking me for directions because I walk with a confident stride and have a friendly face. When I’m out for a stroll, I look like the kind of guy who really knows where he’s going.

It’s yet another triumph of appearance over competence because I have no idea where even familiar places are.

But that never stops me from pretending I do. 

Happened again just the other day. A confused elderly woman pulled up beside me as I was out for my morning constitutional. She said, “I am so lost. Can you please tell me how to get to Beechview Avenue?”

“I’ll be happy to!” I said. “Make a left at the second light, turn right at the gas station and just keep going. You’ll run right into Beechview. You can’t miss it!”

You could just see the relief wash over her face. A friendly stranger had cheerfully appeared out of nowhere and vanquished all her concerns. Her thanks were effusive.

Because I’d never heard of a Beechview Avenue, I decided to send her down a long country road. It can be very unsettling being lost in an unfamiliar town. I thought on this beautiful fall day it would be far better for her if she could at least be lost someplace more scenic.

I remember the time a middle aged couple with Ohio plates asked me to help them find the Latrobe post office.

I told them they’d just driven right past it.

“People ask that all the time,” I said, eager to put them at ease. “It’s very poorly marked. Go back the way you came and park outside the store with the Dainty Pastry sign out front. The post office is in there.”

In fact, the post office is about a quarter-mile down the same road in a big grey building with an official-looking “U.S. Post Office” sign out front. But they don’t sell no donuts in there.

Dainty Pastry does and they’re delicious. They have this glazed pretzel-shaped donut I get about once a week or so. And the friendly Dainty Pastry staff will brighten anyone’s day.

The Ohio couple looked to me like people more in need of donuts than stamps.

Who doesn’t?

I think my eagerness to direct people to places they think they don’t want to go stems back to a childhood vacation when the old man was taking us to the Big Apple.

I remember him getting hopelessly lost somewhere near Newark. We could see Manhattan, but had no idea how get there. Desperate for progress, he pulled into a gas station where we were met by a kid who, I swear, grew up to play Paulie Walnuts in “The Sopranos.”

“Can you help us, please?” Dad asked. “We’re trying to get to midtown and I have no idea which bridge we’re supposed to take.”

“Why, sure, I can. Where youse folks from?”

“Pittsburgh,” my Dad said.

In hindsight, I don’t whether that was the right or wrong answer. Maybe the wise guy had a former girlfriend from Pittsburgh who’d treated him cruelly. Or maybe he loved Jack Lambert from the old Steelers and felt Pittsburghers enjoyed overcoming logistical challenges.

Either way, he spun a glorious tapestry of mis-direction that had us speeding north up the Jersey turnpike, crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge, heading west through the Lincoln Tunnel and back again.

I may be mistaken, but I recall Dad parking the old Ford Fairmont near the base of the Statue of Liberty so Mom could use the restroom — and Liberty Island is inaccessible to vehicular traffic.

Even through the recollected static of my frustrated father’s profane outbursts, it’s a wonderful memory.

Of course, today no one needs ever get lost again. We just punch the coordinates in the phone and follow the little green arrows.

That’s good, sure, but we’re losing the serendipity of unplanned discovery. 

We somehow wind up missing so much whenever we always end up going exactly where we think we need to go.

I can foresee a day not far off when telling someone to get lost is no longer an insult.

It’ll be travel advice for people interested in enjoying an offbeat vacation.



Related . . .