In flannel 'til the flowers

(603 words)

I’ve worn the same black, white and grey flannel shirt off and on the past four days and the paparazzi have yet to notice.

My wife, I’m sure, notices but on the long, sorry list of annoying things about being married to me it’s not worth a mention.

Her expressing dissatisfaction about my wardrobe redundancy would be akin to the old Arab proverb about complaint priority:

“Swallows camels. Chokes on fleas.”

The kids don’t care. Neither do the guys at the bar.

Me, I care least of all.

I daily change the t-shirt beneath to give my manly musk a chance to refresh, but unless I inadvertently squirt weenie mustard on the front I see no reason to add to the laundry pile by changing the flannel shell.

We’re — cross your fingers — nearing the end of the most drab season for my wardrobe.

Given my meager income and even less ample motivation, it’s nearly impossible for me to construct a nice appearance from about November through April.

My reasons are perfectly practical. I don’t look at any winter garment and wonder if it’ll add stylish luster to my appearance.

No, all I care about is if will keep me warm.

That’s what flannel does better than nearly every other fabric and flannel doesn’t come in pastel. So I have about five reliably ratty flannel shirts and look like I could at any moment spring right off my bar stool and begin to gut a deer.

Lots of people say I look like a lumberjack. I take it as a compliment.

I probably should have been a lumberjack. Or maybe a lumberchris. I love being in the woods running a chainsaw, surrounded by the smell and spray of sawdust, and I especially love the soulful relief you feel when you realize you’re done and your useful limbs are all still attached.

What would be great is if I became so renown for my flannel that lumberjacks would begin to insult one another by saying so-and-so looks like a blogger.

I’d think thems would be fighting words.

I have about four shaggy sweaters and some pullovers, all which I disdain. Val likes them and usually buys me one or two for Christmas or my February birthday. But I’m not a fan of pulling anything over my head.

The reason for that is all that crackling static electricity.

I pull something over my head and — POP! — my hairs all immediately Einstein. So I look like a genius, but am still at liberty to act like an ass.

My winter ware is in direct opposition to my summer outfits. In the summer season, I’m a splendid dandy. I have colorful golf shirts, leisure prints and more than a dozen Tommy Bahamas that make me look and feel great.

Ah, summer, sipping pina colada in the sunset at someplace like Mallory Square in Key West (above).

Right now, with everything all drab and grey outside my winter window, it all still seems thousand years away, as does even baseball’s April 5 Opening Day.

Sure, I could brighten up with brilliant dashes of clothed color, which would be in keeping with the theme of my manifesto (crayon-signed copies available through my website for just $10!).

But that wouldn’t seem right.

I feel obliged to give winter its due. Let Mother Nature revel in winter’s mighty miseries. This dreariness can’t endure forever.

How about this?

I’ll begin adding cheerful color to my wardrobe as soon as Mother Nature does the same to hers.

Until then, I’ve got Spring Fever with a touch of the Flannel Flu.

Related . . . 

Winter forecasts all folked up

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Future town halls to determine weather

Centerfield

Florida rental car abuse

The skinny on bomb implants

News that terrorists will be soon be smuggling bombs surgically implanted in their bodies has me again realizing I have commitment issues.

Where do they find these zealots? Where do they find these doctors? Is this sort of procedure covered under the new health care law?

The Republicans will go ballistic if they find out really going ballistic is addressed on page 1,293.

My body is my temple and I’m picky about its desecrations. No matter the cause, I’d never smuggle a subcutaneous explosive device to a public event.

I save my zealotry for screwing millionaire mullahs -- or is it moolahs? -- who charge $8 for warm domestic beer at professional sporting events.

It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve inserted beers and liquor in my body and surreptitiously sneaked them into various Pittsburgh sports arenas.

Of course, I don’t surgically insert them. I pour them in my stomach before entering the buildings (and, as always, thoughtfully recycle the cans). I’d never dream of going to some back alley quacks to have them zipper full cans in my hip for halftime removal.

Unless they’re talking about a single stick of dynamite, the scheme sounds to me as farfetched as it does impractical.

The whole thing again convinces me jihad recruiters must be diabolically persuasive.

“We want you to join the movement!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to be prepared to sacrifice!”

“Yes!”

“We want you to see Dr. Zawahari tomorrow at 10 a.m. He’s going to remove a kidney and fill the vacancy with TNT. If that doesn’t kill you, we want you to board the red eye to London and detonate your new explosive kidney over the Atlantic. Cool?”

“Uh, couldn’t I start by just firing up the internet chat rooms and work my way up?”

And you thought airport pat downs were already too invasive.

A radio report said specially trained dogs will be deployed to the airports to combat the threat. I heard this and immediately thought of my old dog, Casey. A sweet, aggressively affectionate golden retriever, he’d be perfect.

Then I learned I’d misheard. They were talking about bomb-sniffing dogs.

Casey was a bum-sniffing dog.

Still, a dog like him would be perfect in tedious security lines.

Think about it: any doctor who’d agree to perform this procedure couldn’t possibly have the refined skills of the pros who work at places like the Mayo Clinic.

After all, what they’re doing is a clear violation of what Homer Simpson calls their hippopotamus oath.

So if you’re going to get a dangerous explosive implanted in your torso, timing is key. You’re likely going to go on a beeline in still-tender condition from the operating room straight to the airport.

That’s when you’d say hello to Casey.

I always enjoyed introducing Casey to refined and dignified women (I had that rarified opportunity, I think, twice).

“Oh, what a beautiful doggie!” they’d gush while bending way over to pet his luscious blonde fur.

Then, quick as burglar, Casey was behind them goosing his snoot in places where only the boldest proctologists go.

The effect was similar to what would happen if a surgically implanted explosive device went off in their rear ends. Their arms would flail, their hair would instantly Einstein and they’d scream in equal parts terror and delight.

They’d emerge from the intimacy looking disheveled, but oddly invigorated.

So a dog like Casey would be an extraordinary boon to airport security.

He’d be sure to startle any would-be terrorists into post-surgical heart attacks.

And he’d appease ACLU busybodies by never racially profiling.

Christian, Muslim, Hindu, it wouldn’t matter. We’d all get a vigorous butt snuffling from a dog I’ll always remember with fond affection.

As security dogs go, he’d be what could best be described as a true asset.

I miss that dog.

With him it was just the opposite.

That dog never missed.

My mini-commencement address

Tonight is the last class I’ll teach this semester. It’ll likely be the last scholarly class many of my 16 grad students at Point Park University ever attend.

This, to me, is too momentous an occasion to let slide with yet another tedious dissertation about where to put all the commas.

So as is my custom, tonight I’ll engage the students in the grave life lessons I’ve learned over 47 years. I feel an obligation to deviate from conventional wisdoms and tell them -- political correctness be damned -- some of what I’ve learned.

Here is a summary of what I plan to say. Note: this version omits all the “uhs,” “ums” and other awkward pauses where I get distracted by the sounds of passing sirens or stop for as long as 90 seconds or so to scratch myself.

Good evening,

I’ve been privileged to be the instructional portal for teaching you how to navigate the choppy waters of basic storytelling and to provide you with a handy list of excuses for when the spellchecker fails to realize you meant ‘earthquake’ when you typed ‘earthquack.’

I’ve taught you all I know about how to be a successful journalist, which can be boiled down to five words: Do everything opposite of me.

Now I’m going to tell you how to be successful adults.

First, get the hell out of the passing lane. Remember, it’s not a left lane. It’s a passing lane. Apply your left turn signal and accelerate past slower drivers on the right. Then do the reverse with the right turn signal so you can get the hell out of my way.

Remember as you go through life to mute all the commercials. You’re a savvy bunch. You don’t need Flo or the Geico gecco to tell you you need insurance. Prime-time television devotes 23 minutes of every hour to selling you stuff you already have. Over the course of a year, you could earn a law degree simply by studying while the commercials are on mute. Keep a newspaper or magazine handy.

Wait until you’re 35 until you even consider getting married, then don’t get married until you’re 40. Willie Nelson says there is no such thing as ex-wives. There are only additional wives. Always aspire to the wisdoms of Willie.

Ask your parents important questions before it’s too late. Ask mom why she fell in love with dad. Ask dad about his greatest regret. And, remember, sometimes the most important question you can ever ask either parent is a sincere, hey, how are you doing?

Smile at strangers in elevators and talk to them when you’re sitting next to one another on airplanes. We’re all in this together.

I learned this by interacting with my 3 year old, but it applies to sweethearts, too. The four ingredients for any loving relationship are: play, tickle, cuddle and kiss. You can based on need divine your own proportions, but those are the essentials.

It’ll take three baseball-sized bean bags and about a month of stooping over, but learning to juggle will help you think through a lot of life’s problems.

Avoid going through life too drunk or addicted to drugs. Be careful, especially, of prescription drugs. We live in times of national madness when people consume more drugs than vegetables. It’s a sad, sad fact that strong drink and mind-altering drugs destroy many promising young lives.

On the flip side, avoid going through life way too sober. Excessive sobriety is a societal scourge with a host of nasty consequences all its own.

Both drunk and sober, I’ve devoted countless hours trying to figure out the meaning of life. I have failed. I have not the depth of wisdom to grapple with the answer to the greatest question.

But I know someone who did, someone with even more cerebral cred than baked, wise Willie. It’s Albert Einstein.

A 19-year-old Rutger’s University student in 1950 asked Einstein the purpose of life.

Here, in part, is what the genius said: “The answer is, in my opinion: satisfaction of the desires and needs of all, as far as can be achieved, and achievement of harmony and beauty in the human relationships.”

To paraphrase: the reason we’re here is to help each other. And to convince people to get the hell out of the passing lane.”

And that’s how I’ll conclude. That bit about the passing lane came from me, not Einstein, but I thought it would have more weight if I passed it off as coming from him.

And it is pretty darned important.