I speak: some laugh, some cheer, some snooze

(1,062 words)

I don’t know whether it’s more flattering to me or insulting to those fully engaged in the craft, but lots of people who hear me speak say I should be a stand-up comic.

Me, have yet another discipline in which to spectacularly fail? Very funny.

I often tell aspiring humor writers it’s a mistake refer to themselves as humor writers. It sets the bar too high. People hear you’re a “humor writer” and they say, “Okay, funny guy, make me laugh . . .”

This is exactly the predicament of Marlin, the clown fish father-hero in “Finding Nemo.” And that fish wasn’t funny.

I do intend my talks to be funny. That’s why I fill them up with jokes, many of them so bad I often add a disclaimer so people will stop groaning long enough for me to get to the next big groaner.

It makes me think Roger Ebert would say about me what he said about the 1980 movie, “Airplane!”

“It’s sophomoric, obvious, predictable, corny and often very funny. And the reason it’s very funny is often because it’s sophomoric, obvious, predictable, corny, etc.”

So me and one of my all-time favorite movies are kindred sorts of souls.

For instance, I always include colorful living tip No. 396: “Open an art gallery with nothing on the walls. Then invite people to enter and be greeted by forty guys who say nothing but, ‘Hi, I’m Art!’”

The pained groans are so pervasive I’ve taken to hushing the crowd with, “Anyone who says puns are the lowest form of humor must have never seen an Adam Sandler movie!”

It’s my idea of being what the hipsters call “edgy.”

While humor may be the biggest part of my talks, it’s far from the only one. I also strive to be thoughtful, poignant, engaging, inspirational and maudlin even (I at one point ask the audience to recall the pain of losing a beloved old dog). 

I tell you, I use every one of them damned crayons!

But for the last two months at every one of my addresses — whether it’s been before two dozen Pittsburgh Rotarians or 250 WVU Mountaineers — someone always comes up at the end and says I should be a stand-up comic or a contestant on one of the reality talent shows.

I am flattered. It tells me I’m onto something.

Plus, it’s a psychic balm for whenever I gaze out in the audience and see someone is sound asleep, something else that happens nearly every time I’m talking behind a podium.

It happened again Tuesday when one of the 100 teachers and staff I was addressing at the South Side Area School District in Hookstown, Pa., appeared to go into REM sleep the instant I began talking into the microphone.

It doesn’t upset me in the least. In fact, I’m such a nap advocate my instinct is to lower my voice to a whisper and ask everyone who’s still awake to follow me out into the hall where I’ll continue.

Of course, my other instinct is ask the band director to go fetch some orchestral cymbals.

Banging massive cymbals inches from the ears of a sleeping teacher would be mean, but it would also be funny. Well, funny to everyone but the sleepy teacher.

Hookstown is about two hours from Latrobe so I spent the morning and the drive rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say. I’m trying to be more extemporaneous believing that’s what people want to see — a man (or woman) talking without notes.

That’s the way it is anymore. To hold anyone’s attention you need to speak either without notes or without clothes.

But as happens anytime my mind is free to ramble, it began scheming on how I could take advantage of the talk before I’d even delivered it. It settled on an idea to have someone go up to the attendees after the talk with a video camera and ask, “So, in 20 seconds or less, what did you think of Chris?”

I predicted (ahem, correctly) that many of the comments would be favorable. I thought I could string them together and post it as another promotion. But then I thought that would look insufferably pretentious because I’d deliberately omit all the ones who said I sucked or “Get that camera out of my face!” which happened about six times.

Then I thought it’d be funny to ask my friends and family the same question and include little vignettes of friends saying I’m cheap, talk too much, aren’t as funny as I think I am, etc. Then I’d turn the kids loose so they could say I’m mean, ugly, boring, balding, “too farty,” at the dinner table, etc.

And I’m going to do just that. Feel free to get in touch, too, if you’d either like to say something either nice or snarky (Please, nothing too cruel; remember I have daughters for that).

What was interesting to me about the Hookstown address was that I was brought in to bat clean-up, to talk after a nationally prominent motivational speaker.

He’s John Miller, author of the million seller “QBQ! The Question Behind The Question.” He’s paid big bucks to speak before thousands of people seeking buzzword motivation.

But the organizer chose me to keynote the thing, to make the last, best impression. He’d heard me speak at the WVU fracas you can read about in the “greatest author ovation ever” link below.

Motivator Miller is a really big deal and it was a genuine coup that he chose to attend this charming little district’s kick-off seminar. 

He’s sold a million books. I’ve sold fewer than 3,000.

The fact should alarm veteran speakers that a new kid’s on the block and they’d better up their game or get ready for a real ass kicking.

That the line-up was arbitrarily set because he happened to need to catch an early flight is a possibility my massive ego refuses to consider.

But the reaction was again very positive. 

Even the teacher who’d slept through the whole thing applauded with enthusiasm.

Can I seize on this momentum?

That is the question.

So what’s the question behind the question?

I hope it’s this: Where does all the stuff go when the stuff goes into the black holes?

That’s what I want to know.

Related . . .

“Greatest Author Ovation Ever! (Bullies, my ‘stache . . .)

What’s my favorite movie? Hmmm …

My fears of public speaking

Book signing recap & The Great Chris Rodell

Word Master! I’m the boss of the bee

Fame & the night Bruce Willis & I owned the red carpet

(1,022 words)

I guess the idea came to me at about the Bridgeport exit of I-79 South, about 40 miles south of the Pennsylvania/West Virginia border.

I’d been trying to think of a way to conclude my speech to 250 WVU 4-H students so the film clip would make it appear I’d just given the greatest speech ever, something I knew I was incapable of doing on merit.

This was the biggest crowd I’d ever addressed and they were college students, a very demanding demographic in terms of entertainment. And I’m not yet a great public speaker.

So how did I get them to react the way I wanted?

I asked them nicely.

I did my usual conclusion and received a warm ovation.  But in mid-applause I held up my hand to silence the crowd and said, “I now want to ask you a favor. I’m taping this for promotional purposes. I want to film the greatest ending ever. So I’m going to do the last 30 seconds all over again and this time I want you to go out of your minds. I want you to pretend that I’m Oprah and I just promised you each a brand new car. So here goes …”

Here’s the clip.

Check it out. It’s pandemonium. And then I really ham it up. I bow, blow kisses to the audience and then take off to high five half the crowd. The camera loses me for about 20 seconds which will allow me to enjoy telling the lie that I went for a jiffy little crowd surf.

I swear, Oprah herself would be envious.

So would Bruce Willis.

I thought of him after I saw the clip because it was with him I’d previously felt such a surge of mass adulation.

It was June 1998, back when I was still doing lots of stuff with National Enquirer. My editor called and asked if I could scoot down to Baltimore where Planet Hollywood was opening a short-lived restaurant on the gorgeous Inner Harbor.

“We snagged an invitation to the opening party and we want you to go and just see if Bruce Willis does any misbehaving.”

I did very little celebrity reporting for them, sticking mostly to oddball features. But every once in a while they’d need me to eyeball a celebrity and I was happy to oblige.

That’s what happened in Baltimore. Hollywood insiders often play ball with the Enquirer for cash or favors.

I’m guessing what happened was some low-level staffer who had access to the guest list called the Enquirer and said I’ll sneak one of your guys in for maybe $500 or maybe $1,000. The Enquirer never flinched on lavishing bucks that might lead to story tips.

Besides Willis, whose band was playing, guests included Tara Reid, Shannon Dougherty, one or two of the godforsaken non-Alec Baldwin brothers.

And me.

The party was really a bit of a bore. What I remember most was when Willis was performing with his crappy little vanity band, he kept motioning for the girls in the audience — there were about 5,000 people there — to reveal their breasts. He did it nearly every tune from the five-song set.

If any did, I missed ‘em.

I suspect most of them refused because he was married to Demi Moore at the time and we all understood how important marriage was to a couple like Bruce and Demi and none of us wanted to see this devout family man subjected to any carnal temptation.

But what I’ll never forget was it somehow became my first — and probably only — experience on the red carpet.

I took my party invitation to the make-shift HQ and was told my invite said I was to go in through the front door. That meant the red carpet.

I said, no, there’s some mistake. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not even a Baldwin cousin.

“No, this is a VIP invitation. You go down the red carpet.”

And so I did. It was such an odd sensation. I was all by myself. There were thousands of people flanking the walk, each of them wondering who the hell I was, and me walking and waving like I’d seen all the A-listers do at the Academy Awards.

I was feeling the love people bestow on celebrities. The men were admiring and the girls were all smiling and come-on friendly. 

I understood I could have probably with very little effort snagged one of the more wanton young lovelies and taken her into the party with me. I’d have given her what would be one of her life’s greatest thrills — maybe two or three hours before giving her one if its most momentous disappointments.

What was odd was how comfortable I became as my 500-foot stroll continued.

As they were celebrating me, an unknown stranger, I was becoming before their eyes the celebrity they thought I must be.

Who knows what kind of egomaniac I’d have become if that Baltimore red carpet was a mile long?

As I approached the doors of the restaurant that would unceremoniously close within 39 months, I noticed a swag table loaded with special edition Planet Hollywood shirts for me and the celebrity guests. The sight led me to an impulsive act.

I ran over and grabbed an armful of shirts, raced back to the ropes, and started throwing them into the adoring crowds.

They went crazy! They were getting free shit from someone who might or might not be a celebrity!

I did it two more times before one of the handlers grabbed me by the arm and led me inside. I’d probably given away 25 shirts.

The recipients were ecstatic.

I’ll bet some of them said, “I don’t who the hell that guy is, but I’ll bet one day he’s going to be famous and then I can find out his name and always brag about the night he gave me a free t-shirt.”

I hope they still have that shirt.

Because I am famous. At least to 250 WVU students.

Oprah would be proud.

Related . . .

The coolest I’ve ever been

Remember Elvis, again

Long live National Enquirer!

Hollywood hoo-hah, “The Butler,” and me

My night with Julia Roberts

Bullies, my 'stache & insane reaction to my speech

(764 words)

Of the 100 or so questions asked of me by West Virginia University college students last week, two stand out.

One was how did I get my mustache to be so cool; the other was how do I get the bullies to stop tormenting a special needs girl.

This was at the school’s Jackson’s Mill retreat in Weston. I was asked to address 250 4-H students about how to pursue happiness as they go through life. They bought 250 books and paid me a 30-minute speaker’s fee so tidy it took my breath away.

And to think of all those times people offered to pay me just to shut the hell up.

It could not have gone better and at the conclusion the students rose from their seats and reacted like I was Oprah and I just announced they were all getting free cars.

They did this because that’s what I asked them to do. My address was being filmed and I wanted to post on YouTube an insane reaction. So I concluded the speech the way I always do and then told them I wanted to do the last 30 seconds all over again with as raucous a reaction as they could muster.

Right on cue, they went absolutely out of their minds. It was very funny and I ought to have the clip posted by tomorrow.

It’s something I’ll not soon forget.

I basked in the warm reaction as students came up to talk and thank me. One of the first was the guy with the peach fuzz.

“How do you get your mustache to grow like that?”

I’m getting so many compliments on my mustache these days I’m thinking of seeing if there’s a need for a mustache model. It’s full, gentlemanly, luscious and prosperous. It looks like it belongs on a much wiser man.

There are days when I bet my wife wishes she was married to my mustache instead of to me.

I asked the kid how old he was.

“I’m 20.”

“What you need to do is live another 25 years,” I said.

I told him my mustache was every bit as crappy as his from 1992 to about 2007. One of the keys, I said, for me was to grow a scraggly beard every winter. That frees you to let your mustache sprawl to an unsightliness it needs to flourish.

Then the only part of the ‘stache you should trim is the line right above the lip. This will give your lip the push-broom brush effect I think you’re seeking.

He thanked me and walked away.

I was blessed to touch many lives at the camp, but if it turns out I only helped one person then I hope it’s that kid. I know how important a great mustache can be to soulful happiness.

Oh, how I wish the advice I had for the special needs girl was nearly as coherent.

She came up all smiles and sweetness. She said she thought I was very funny and she had a question:

“I’m a special needs student and I have a friend who has Downs Syndrome. What can I say to get the bullies to stop being so mean to us?”

It was a question for which I was wholly unprepared.

I stammered a bit and said there will always be mean people and what she and her friend need to do was not let what they say bother them.

It was utterly feckless, I knew. She wanted something concrete, a silver bullet. She wanted some action she could take that transform souls.

In hindsight, I wish I’d have told her to tase them in the testicles.

That, I’m sure, would do the trick.

I guess there are laws against that, but there shouldn’t be.

I despise bullies and right then and there I wish I could have said I’d accompany her and her friend to the next time she was sure they’d be seeing the bullies. I’d give them a stern talking to and tell them that their meanness was wrong and they should change their ways.

I’d sell them crayon-signed copies of “Use All The Crayons!”

And if that didn’t work I’d tase them in the testicles.

I wish I’d had some pithy wisdom to impart, some insight that could ensure she and her friend would never be troubled by the cruel meanies again.

Maybe next time I’ll be more prepared. I doubt it.

I can only hope one day I’ll be even half the man my mustache has become.

Oh, and here's the link to the YouTube video of my stunt. Check it out. Funny!

Related . . .

Movember & my magnificent mustache

How I look with half a mustache

Oprah & the art of the interview

Bullies, fart jokes & rampaging Muslims

My fears of public speaking

Chris Rodell: Word Master! I'm boss of the bee

(786 words)

The list was given to me in strictest confidence with explicit instructions not to share it with another soul.

Nuclear launch codes?

Nah, all 276 words to be used at the 3rd grade spelling bee tomorrow at Stanwood Elementary School near New Stanton in the Hempfield Area School District.

So just in case any elementary schoolers are reading today’s blog, I’ll not dare spill any of the test words.

But I will say this: I used six of them in the first four paragraphs — oops! I mean I used six of them in the first four “sentences.”

Why was I entrusted with the list?

Because I am a Word Master.

Hell, I am THE Word Master!

At least I will be tomorrow night to about three dozen 8-year-old spellers.

I was asked to perform the duty after a friendly organizer heard me speak at an area Rotary presentation. I think I impressed her when I didn’t stumble over three-syllable words like syllable.

She said it’ll be my job to read the words aloud and answer questions about usage, part of speech, etc.

Word Master.

Care to hear me use it in a sentence?

“Because Chris Rodell is now a certified Word Master, no one can make fun of him if he ever missspellz another word.”

Word Master. It has a faintly dominatrix connotation to it, don’t you think?

I wonder if I can get my wife to join me in a little Word Master role play. I can rattle off a sexy verb, define it, then just sit back and let the games begin. If I find the result unsatisfactory I can just reach over and ring a little bell — ding! — and she’ll run crying from the room.

Oh, lord, I hope none of the children cry. I’ll probably leap over the judge’s table and give the little weeper a great big consoling hug — and we all know what kind of trouble stranger adults can get into hugging children they’ve never met.

It’s just one of the ways that the evening will be fraught with peril for a guy like me. Worse is my propensity to be such a smart ass joker in these types of situations.

All the grown ups will be watching. Nerves will be on edge. The stifling room will be utterly still.

Can you think of a better time to rip a really good, loud fart?

Outside of a good buddy’s funeral, I can’t.

I’ll be disgraced, of course, but I know it’ll crack up at least half of the 3rd grader boys on stage and that reaction remains a strong motivator for guys like me.

One of our favorite family movies is “Akeelah and the Bee” about a wonderful inner city girl who overcomes challenging circumstances to become a national spelling champ. The 2006 flick is to spelling bee movies what “Searching for Bobby Fisher” is to chess movies, which is to chess movies what “Rocky” is to boxing movies.

So it’s really enjoyable, and about 100 times better than the recently released spelling bee movie, “Bad Words,” starring Jason Bateman. USA Today gave it “1/2 out of 4 stars,” which is what all movies get if the film stumbles through to the credits.

I sat there fidgeting thinking, man, I could do a spelling bee movie better than this.

Remember, I have a rich history with the Scripps National Spelling Bee, having twice been a chaperone for contestants (links below) and set still-standing records for outlandish expense account profligacy.

Even better, I last year authored history’s greatest grade school spelling bee joke. 

It started when I was helping our darling 7 year old with her spelling words. Test words included “took,” “play,” “jump,” “help,” etc.

Then I came to the simple word “rule.”

Here’s what happened:

I said, “Spell rule.”

Lucy said, “R-U-L-E.”

She’d spelled a word, but it sounded like she’d asked me a question. I said, “You know I’m not Ellie. Now spell rule.”

Some of you may have to read that part twice.

We went on like that for about 10 minutes, her getting increasingly agitated spelling “R-U-L-E” and me insisting I wasn’t Ellie and demanding she again spell “rule.”

So you get some sense of the minefield we’re about to enter.

There could be brawls, shin-kickings, hair-pulling and ear-bitings — and that’s just between me and the angry 3rd graders. Concerned parents will no doubt wade into the melee shouting in unison, “It’s go time!” 

It has all the ingredients of being first spelling bee to ever warrant pay-per-view cable interest.

Yes, me being Word Master might really spell trouble. 

Just don’t anyone go asking if my name’s Ellie.

Related . . .

Expense accounting the national spelling bee

An alphabetically-ordered world

Searching for Mr. Stupid

The Herman Cain Mutiny

A night out with all the groan-ups

My rock star requirements for Greensburg library book signing Saturday

(784 words)

The friendly woman from the Greensburg/Hempfield Area Library e-mailed yesterday to see if I’d be needing anything for my 2 p.m. Saturday talk there.

I told her I was glad she’d gotten in touch.

I’d be requiring a security team of at least 10 off-duty police officers, four plain clothes, all trained in crowd control and instinctual threat detection. A bomb-sniffing dog, preferably a German Shepherd, who I’d want stationed near the state-of-the-art metal detectors she’d need to install just inside the library foyer.

There will be pyro so she’ll need to alert the local fire marshall.

I’d be needing a case of Evian water bottled no later than February 2012 and chilled to 43 degrees. Why 43-degrees? Because 43 is Pittsburgh Steeler Troy Polamalu’s number and I want her to arrange to have him there, too.

I told her I understood it was short notice, but I’d be needing six women from the local gyms -- two blond, two brunette, a red head and a bald chick -- to carry me to the stage the way the perfumed eunuchs used to carry the Roman emperors to the coliseum.

And I’d like some inflatable beach balls and a bowl of M&Ms with all the brown ones removed.

Oh, and I’d like a podium.

She said she’d get me the podium.

The real reason I was requesting so much outlandish on-site personnel is because I’m always nervous no one will show up.

The Tribune-Review was kind enough to do an advance on my appearance and the librarian told me 10 peopled already signed up, bless their hearts.

What can attendees expect?

About an hour of me talking.

There will be no fireworks. No powerpoint displays. No fancy graphics. No beach balls.

Why not?

Because I’m convinced there is nothing more compelling than the sight of a talking human being with something to say.

Whether or not I’m that human being is yet to be determined.

I’m resolved to become very good at public speaking and I believe I’m on my way. I’ve probably done about two dozen public speaking engagements in the last 18 months. They’re never the same. They’re never scripted.

And with the book doing well, I’m making a push to do more. My tech guys are adding a new “Motivational Humorist/Public Speaker” crayon to the “Use All The Crayons!” homepage.

The section will include proposals about why businesses, civic and philanthropic organizations and schools and universities should pay me to come to talk to their supporters, employees and students.

Audacious, isn’t it?

Maybe not. I see a lot of really dull people making a really nice living appearing on TV and being invited to address crowds of listeners eager for something interesting to hear.

I see them and think, man, I could do better than that.

My recently re-published book just earned its second 5-star (out of 5) review from another industry review mainstay in two weeks. An agent is shopping it around to major publishers.

And I hear near daily from someone who loves the book. Your reactions embolden me. Now’s the time for me to really sell it -- and myself.

So I really should spend the day preparing some sort of formal speech so I won’t fall flat. I should hone my phrasings, game plan my gestures and envision what I’ll do to somehow hold the attention of an audience for 45 to 60 minutes.

Instead, I’ll have some lunch at The Pond and then putter around in the office until it’s respectable to head back down to the bar to watch golf and engage in the pointless Friday bull sessions more ambitious sorts would never dream of attending.

Then I’ll take a pizza home to watch the opening ceremonies with my three darlings and the stupid dog.

I won’t do any prep until about an hour before tomorrow when I’ll jot down about ten key words that’ll trigger stories I want to tell.

I may or may not use them. I plan on being completely extemporaneous.

That makes it so much more fun, for both speaker and audience, I hope.

Afterwards, I’ll be selling the $15.95 book for just $10 each. I want to make sure it’s affordable for anyone and have found the low price is an incentive for people to buy multiple copies.

Plus, the math is way easier.

So I do hope you’ll show up and bring some friends. I’ll do my very best to keep it lively.

Oh, and just in case, someone please bring an inflatable beach ball.

We can all hit it back and forth if things get boring.

Related . . .

Mom’s coming to my Lebo book signing!

Bar book signing Thursday

Arnold Palmer NOT attending my book signing

Book signing recap & The Great Chris Rodell