Tweets of the Month(s)

 

• Val was rattled this week after seeing a picture of her late mother from when she was 4 years younger than Val is today. Her mother appeared much older. Told Val she shouldn't be surprised. She works very hard at eating right and remaining fit, has a natural beauty and, in fact, looks better today than the day we met. And if I saw her in a bar today, there'd be only one thing that would prevent me from hitting on her. What's that? I'm a happily married man.

• Don’t ask why I was looking it up, but my research reveals that all mammals fart. Skunks are mammals. My question: What is the skunk etiquette when a skunk cranks out a really foul fart in a roomful of skunks? If you call a skunk with really potent farts "Stinky," is it insult or accolade

• Who on Earth would have ever guessed the GOP would be so happy over something that makes Dick Cheney so sad?

• Until someone shows me a real guy with a solid gold penis, I refuse to believe there's such a thing as the Midas Touch. It's not that I don't believe in alchemy, it's just that I know guys never know when to stop.

• If my calculations are correct, at some point tonight someone will watch a partisan news program and will descend into an imbecilic state from which he'll never recover. And when that happens 99.99 percent of American adults will be able to wear an "I'm With Stupid" shirt with diagnostic accuracy.

• I was flattered and a little taken aback when a 20-something girl I know as an friendly acquaintance asked if I'd take her to our church. I without hesitation said yes, even though my attendance lately has been spotty. I've since tried to figure out why me. Then it hit me. She presumes me and God are on a first name basis! And we are. But then again, aren't we all?

• We’ve become a nation so hyper-devoted to the protocols of bodily hydration I fully expect the CDC will one day begin to list the number of people on dry land who drown themselves as a leading cause of death.

• I’ve come to believe Mr. and Mrs. Dumpty were two of the world's worst parents. Leaving an egg baby in such a precarious position is bad enough, but whose idea was it to name the Dumpty kid, Humpty? Did they even have the conversation, "Hon, we can't name him Humpty or he's doomed to become a nursery rhyme. Let's go with Phil or Burt." In their defense the Dumptys were just a couple of egg heads. And egg backs. Egg butts. Etc.

• Heard a song that referred to "the world's oldest profession" and it got me thinking: What did the 1st prostitute" earn for the intimacy? And what did the 1st John tell his Cavepals. Maybe, "You won't believe what that babe in cave 8 will do if you give her a handful of roots.”

• I suggest we Pennsylvanians reshape our borders -- put some wiggles in 'em -- so we don't appear on maps like the state most likely to be used as the dead battery gauge when the USA starts to run out of power.

• It is not my wish to appear controversial or provocative in a social media forum where so many others seek respite, but this must be said: The greatest single side of rock music from the vinyl era is not "Sticky Fingers" Side 1. The greatest single side of rock music from the vinyl era is "Sticky Fingers" Side 2.

• In the near future, doctors will begin offering an elective surgery that will involve suturing phones into users' palms to prevent misplacement or dunking them in the toilet. Early hipster users will be mocked when they're the 1st to be seen on their knees with a finger stuck in a wall socket. That will pass as popularity rises and pretty soon we'll all be crowded along the wall ridin' the lightning ...

• We’ve become a nation so hyper-devoted to the protocols of bodily hydration, I fully expect the CDC will one day begin to list as a leading cause of death the number of people who drown themselves while standing on dry land.

• Calling a man or woman "unflappable" is an admiring  compliment denoting grace under pressure. But it must mean the exact opposite to our avian friends. Calling a fellow bird "unflappable" must mean a bird is forced to hoof it. I don't know what to think if a penguin calls another penguin "unflappable." Penguins seem so cheerful so it's unlikely to result in fisticuffs, but that's a whole 'nother story.

• I’ve come to believe Mr. and Mrs. Dumpty were two of the world's worst parents. Leaving an egg baby in such a precarious position is bad enough, but whose idea was it to name the Dumpty kid, Humpty? Did they even have the conversation, "Hon, we can't name him Humpty or he's doomed to become a nursery rhyme. Let's go with Phil or Burt." In their defense the Dumptys were just a couple of egg heads. And egg backs. Egg butts. Etc.

• My insecurities are so vast I've begun to prop up my ego by finding petty ways in which I'm more skilled than many of America's greatest figures. For instance, George Washington was a charismatic leader, a pillar of American greatness, but I'll bet I could kick his pantalooned ass in a parallel parking contest.

• If the publishing industry were at all honest about its definitions, it would announce a new category for a highly popular fiction genre. Classy books that are well-reviewed but earn squat (books like mine) would still be called literature. But  the successful books we all agree are trash would be called LITTER-ature.

• How’d my Gbg.-Hempfield Library go? It went great! How many in attendence? Uh, well, 4. It gets worse. I was one of them. Wait. It gets worse still. Two of them were library staffers so listening to me yap was like goofing off. That means just one person took the time to hear me talk. So what did I do different? Nothing. I gave the same talk with the same passion as if I were addressing 400. So it's all good. At least until the end when I spend about 90 interminable seconds basking in an ovation of throngs only I can see. Lesson? If you can't be a true success, having a powerful imagination helps one -- and I mean one -- overcome so many of life's little disappointments

• Call it a hunch, but something tells me one of the big '23 news stories will be astrophysicists announcing that voracious black holes are now ignoring regular shaped galaxies and are instead consuming only the galaxies that are Pringle-shaped.

• NASA hits Volkswagen-sized asteroid 6.8 million miles from Earth. Whew! Now if only someone could do something to make me feel safer every single time I set foot out my front door.

• There are talented writers who succeed on the strength of their stories. They earn movie deals and adulation. They are famous. Then there are writers who earn big bucks scandalizing the best-seller lists. They are infamous. Then there are guys like me. My books earn squat and acclaim elusive. I am unfamous.

I let 15 strangers grill me about my Parkinson's

(895 words)

It was last week and I was concluding my first of 30 news gathering classes. I was just about to say the part about remembering to please get your pet spayed or neutered when an afterthought floated to the front of my mind.

“Oh, and if you see me limping or my left arm shaking, it’s because I have Parkinson’s Disease.”

I didn’t say it to gain pity or deference. It’s just a matter of fact and it suddenly occurred to me these budding journalists — all curious and observant undergrads — might notice and have some questions.

Then I thanked them and mumbled my Bob Barker tribute — and don’t you just love that a man named Barker (still alive, 98!) chose as his pet cause a cause that involves pets who bark?

(That entire last sentence could one day be used to disqualify me as a professor having anything to do with the future of journalism).

And we all went along on our merry way, one of us with a slight limp that may be symptomatic of a for-now incurable progressive neurological disorder that strikes 60,000 Americans each year.

I spent much of the intervening day trying my damnedest to think of something interesting to say that’ll consume the 90-minutes I’m obligated to justify the peanuts they’re paying. And it is truly peanuts. Given my bent for extravagant Pittsburgh lunches, I calculate I’ll eventually tip more than I earn.

And just about as we were to start class No. 2, it hit me. I’d stumbled, almost literally, into a topic sure to consume a solid 15 minutes of class time.

“We broke news here the other day,” I said. “Can anyone tell me what it was?”

One kid said it was something about Ukraine, Another meekly wondered if it involved Trump.

“No! No! No! The news we broke is that your professor has Parkinson’s. You’re news reporters. You should have responded with 10 shouted questions about my condition. You should have at least out of self-preservation asked if it’s catchy (it’s not).”

I scolded them for failing on the human level, too. Sure, we’d just met an hour ago, but the trajectory of our relationship bends toward friendship. There’s zero chance of a guy like me spending nearly 45 hours — almost two whole days — in the same room with fellow English speakers and us not emerging chums.

I’d revealed something deeply personal and got no reaction.

I told them I forgave them the slight.

“Now, I want you to fire off questions — any question — about me and my condition. I promise to be totally honest. Ask me anything.”

What I was hoping would result in 15 minutes of chat wound up taking five times that.

We started out talking about my body. We wound up talking about our souls.

How long did I have to live? (Parkinson’s does not alter life expectancy, but motor skills can deteriorate to the point where the patient loses the ability to talk, walk or even blink.)

“Know what that means?” I asked. “Kiss pickleball goodbye!”

I told them my brain doctor tells me I’m beating Parkinson’s. I said I feel like I’m distracting it. I feel like I’m standing on a trap door with a rusty hinge.

“But, guess what? You’re all right there with me. Life is perilous. They oughta give us each a medal every time we make it home alive.”

If I am beating it, I told them the experts say a lot of the success is due to exercise and attitude. I remain upbeat about my prospects. Diagnosed in 2018, I told them my goal is to appear symptom-free for so long that the people who know me best suspect I made it all up to satisfy my need for attention.

I choked up when one girl asked me how I told my family. I love them so much. It was tough, I said. I’d summoned them to the back porch and laid it all out there.

“When it was over, I put my arm around the 12 year old and asked what she’d thought the purpose of the meeting was going to be. She said she thought I was going to be funny.”

I like to think I have since at least a time or two.

I was surprised but pleased when this roomful of strangers began asking me if I was afraid of dying, if I believed I was going to heaven, and how I’d like to be remembered.

I’m much more comfortable with these topics than ones that involve where you’re supposed to put the commas.

I have no way of knowing what kind of impact I made on how many, if any, of the students. But I sensed in their questions an embrace of the rare opportunity to have an honest exchange with an experienced adult about the things that really matter.

It’s something for which even experienced adults yearn. 

We stumble through life bewildered by pain, fear, injustice and the profound suspicion we’re doomed to die ignorant of just what the hell it all meant. 

And now I’m stuck with 26 more 90-minute classes to find a way to top the one that could have the greatest impact.

Thanks for reading. Please help control the pet population and get your pets spayed or neutered.

Class dismissed.

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