Cleveland Rocks! And other random thoughts

• I wonder if God and Jesus do anything special for Father’s Day. Like does Jesus  mind the barbecue so God won’t miss any of the final round action at the U.S. Open?

• “I’m happy Cleveland won the championship,” is for me an historic statement.  In my entire life, I’ve never been happy for Cleveland and Cleveland’s made it easy by never winning. The Cavaliers coming back from a 3-1 deficit is a great sports story. Cleveland hadn’t won squat in 52 years. So good for Cleveland. 

• Having said that, I didn’t watch even a minute of NBA the entire year. Cleveland can win that every year and I wouldn’t care even a bit. I might feel different if it were football.

• I wonder if the Cavs victory will lead to a resurgence of the very funny Drew Carey show based on his native Cleveland. It’s rarely on and deserves to air somewhere. I love Drew — and this is sacrilege — but he’s a more entertaining “Price is Right” host than Bob Barker.

• Despite securing media credentials, I was only at Oakmont for about four hours of a Wednesday practice round. Took the family, sensitive that the heat and walking might take a toll. But attending even with golf fans can be an ordeal. Two of my buddies spent an hour driving there, an hour waiting for a shuttle bus, and an hour in slowpoke transit before getting out to trudge through ankle-deep mud. If I’d have put my girls through that there would have for me been no Father’s Day.

• Contender for 8days2Amish tweet of the month: “I may always be broke but by God, I’ll never be broken.” I was tempted to write today’s post about that profound thought, but I think people get tired of reading about how broke I am. The ever-present option fatigues me, too.

• I’m hearing from more and more people who say they really enjoy the blog. That’s great. Please share with friends, and I hope you’ll all consider buying one of my books to support me and my endeavors. And if you’ve read and enjoyed a book, particularly “The Last Baby Boomer,” please write a two- or three-line gushy Amazon review or at least tell me you enjoyed the book. Remember, you don’t have to actually have enjoyed the book. What’s important is telling me you did.

• I have friends who are suspicious of LeBron James’ motives in moving back to Cleveland. They say it’s all about building his brand. If I’m a Cleveland fan, I don’t care one bit. He did a lot for that city’s self-esteem and made a lot of people deliriously happy. Good for him.

• The USGA nearly ruined their own gala by penalizing eventual winner Dustin Johnson a stroke for an assumed and petty rules violation that never happened. I would have hated to see a championship at Oakmont sullied, but would have loved to see USGA tainted by controversy. I love golf. I love golfers, but in my experience the lords who rule the game are mostly sanctimonious pricks. A lot of pros are jerks, too.

• Val couldn’t resist pointing out the high levels of nerdiness among all the golf fans (me included). She’s cruel, but correct. The only way you can be truly cool and still be at all involved in golf is if you’re Arnold Palmer.

• Next up on the sports calendar? Tour de France beginning July 7. Many of my friends think I’m nuts for even watching, but I love it. Guaranteed, every broadcast features lovely scenery or some Frenchman or woman either streaking or flashing. Every single spectator appears to be either drunk or suicidal and there’s usually one or two really great wrecks. I remember last year one of the participants was zooming down the mountain at about 60 mph when the announcer yelled, “Cow!” A cow had wandered onto the pastoral road. 

• I hear from a lot of guys who feel like I do as expressed in the below-linked, “Why Father’s Day always makes me blue.” It can be very melancholy for some of us. I think it’s cause it’s the day when, sure, we’re happy to be dads, but on that day more than any other we just really miss being sons.

• One of the reasons I’ll never be broken is because of my many good friends. My buddy Tom had a world-class cigar party at his home Saturday. There were about a dozen of us there. Just great conversation and laughs all night long. Thanks, Tom.

• I feel the same way about my family, too, of course, but they put up a big fuss if I try and light up a cigar within 2 miles of the homestead.

• This Stephen Colbert take-down of Donald Trump after the Orlando massacre was one of the funniest political satires I’ve ever seen.

• I’d watch the NBA once in a while if random cows became a surprise part of the action.

Related …

Why Father’s Day always makes me blue

Go (to) Cleveland! A Pittsburgher reconsiders  

Happy Birthday, Arnold Palmer!

Tour de France needs rickshaws

Someone needs to yank off Trump’s rug (and 25 Trump tweets)

Tech troubles & why I post when I do

(895 words)

I've long said being a freelance writer is like being adrift in a rubber raft in storm-tossed waters far out at sea. There is isolation and often grave concern.

And that being a freelance writer with tech problems is like being in that rubber raft and suddenly hearing an urgent hiss.

It's deflating in every sense of the word.

This week I'm hearing the hiss. It's my turn for computer troubles.

That explains why I didn't post anything Thursday or Friday.

Well, that and March Madness. Those are two of my favorite days of the year, so I probably wouldn't have filed anything Thursday.

This is upsetting to some of my friends. They enjoy reading the blog and not having it show up with the frequency they've come to expect is unsettling.

It's unsettling to me, too. If I don't post at least four times a week I fear people will stop paying attention and will get out of the habit so they can devote more time to priority porn.

What's surprising is how many readers complain if I miss a day or do something that makes it look like I slept in a bit.

It's like they think I'm cheating the boss like I used to when I was earning an actual paycheck to write way back in 1992. People seem to forget I don't earn a dime for blogging.

It's the reason I used to say blogging was the journalistic equivalent of running a lemonade stand. Then it dawned on me that even 8 year olds who run lemonade stands have the good sense to at least charge a quarter for lemonade.

I heard from one friend the other day and he began complaining that I'm posting too late in the day to suit him.

"You make a big deal about being at your office at 6 a.m. to write the thing and how it only takes you an hour or two to write it, but then it doesn't post until 2 p.m. What the hell?"

He's correct. It is my custom to crawl out of bed and be here at the office before many roosters rise.

I do this because I think I write best when my mind's good and cloudy. If, say, I started at 10 a.m., my mind would be functioning logically and I'd realize what a folly it is to devote so much time to writing for free.

Reader tip: I think it helps if you're foggy-minded when you read it, too. A clear, sharp mind is a brute impediment to enjoying so much of life's wonder and whimsy.

Many mornings I'll have a good head of steam up and will have to shut it all down and go drive Josie to school. And I love doing that because it gives me the opportunity to incrementally brainwash her with music she won't hear anywhere else.

So some mornings I get the blog done and ready to go at about 10.

I'd post it right then and there, if only I had wifi access. I do not.

So I go for a walk. Then I go to the Giant Eagle and get a salad and maybe some soup or lunchmeat for a sandwich.

That puts me home at about 11:30. I often file then, but if there are some compelling lunatics competing for that day's Showcase Showdown on "The Price is Right" I'll watch. Then Val and I will have lunch and watch something.

So now a blog that's been done for nearly four hours is still not filed.

During all this distraction, it's never once occurred to me that there are gainfully employed people out there staring forlornly at their computer screen and refreshing it over and over waiting for a something new to appear.

It's very odd.

It's not like I'm issuing gangbuster stock tips.

But it's becoming clear some readers are at 11:50 impatiently staring at some two-day old post and thinking, "That Rodell bastard is probably right now watching Amber reveal some Showcase to Tahiti and shouting, '$22,500! $22,500!' like Ben from Modesta can hear him through the TV. And here I sit waiting to read if he'll today share his thoughts on the human nose being capable of differentiating between one trillion different scents. Jerk."

If you do feel that way, here are some suggestions: Go read some of the older posts. There are more than 1,000 of them. Or diminish the anxiety by calling some old friends and telling them you missed them and had time to kill because the blog you look forward to may be experiencing either technical difficulties or is communing with Drew Carey.

Or maybe you'd better think about calling a competent psychiatrist.

You can tell him or her about the blog, too!

Me, I'll be spending another day calling on tech gurus and hoping to figure out what's wrong with my 2009 MacBook Pro. 

I wrote this on my wife's generic and it gave me fits, which I'll use an excuse for why this post lacks some of usual tightness to which I aspire.

Either way, come Monday or Tuesday we'll have that hole patched and we'll get back to paddling on this endless voyage to nowhere.

It's great knowing so many of you are along for the ride.

Related . . .

Tech troubles plaguing lauded blog . . . this one!

Mom struggles with new remote

Re-run Sunday: A sexy ode to Heinz 57

Recent news that Warren Buffett purchased Heinz foods led to a little burst of activity for this October 2011 post about the day we watched Dave, The Pond bar owner, mate two compatible bottles of Heinz 57. I thought I'd re-run it today in case anyone woke up groggy this morning from recollections of ketchup sex, in fact, one of the search terms that led one curious reader to this one.

So I had this news clip on my desk for about the last three months. I’d pick it up and look at it again and again. It seemed too trivial to indulge with a full post, yet too fascinating to dispense with a tweet.

But I can’t shake its import. I must share. So here goes:

Heinz ketchup travels at .028 miles per hour.

I can only assume that’s in the passing lane in front of me with its blinker on.

If it goes any faster than that, it’s deemed unworthy of Heinz and told to take a hike -- or do whatever fast ketchup does when it’s asked to depart the ketchup plant.

This is what I call a brain barnacle. A power sprayer couldn’t now nudge the nugget off my noodle.

I’ll remember ketchup is slower than slugs (.03 mph) long after I’ve forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and any obligations to people foolish enough to have lent me loot.

We in Western Pennsylvania have a visceral kinship to heirloom Heinz. It’s in our blood which, given the dynamics of the condiment, may explain why Pittsburgh still seems 25 years behind hip places like Nashville and Austin.

I guess I bring this up now because my wife and I witnessed Dave the bar owner orchestrate what’s always seemed like sexual intercourse between two identical bottles of Heinz Ketchup.

It was lunch last week and Val and I were sitting at the bar watching “The Price Is Right” Showcase when Dave began distracting us by carefully mating two bottles together in what I guess was some sort of missionary position. Or maybe that description’s misleading.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it Heinz 69.

It was like watching one of those nature programs where they show a mare being artificially inseminated.

The top bottle was mounted upside down above the recipient. There’s even an implement conceived for the job. Identical saddles link the two to ensure a successful coupling.

It’s a little white plastic thingy. Dave told us its name, but it didn’t stick. I know it wasn’t something catchy like “The Ketchup Ketchdown!”

The bottom saddle has a little two-inch wiggle post that goes up into the opening of the upper bottle to allow Dave to give natural gravity a poking assist.

Can you see why I was thinking sex not Showcase?

Like any busy restaurant owner, it’s something Dave’s probably done a thousand times, but I was disappointed at how clinically he went about it.

There were no introductions. No coaxing. No romance.

It’s this kind of deep thinking that convinces me I should have become a Heinz Ketchup timer.

It’d give me a lot of time to encourage ketchup it’s in its best interest to just slow down and take it easy, words of wisdom I frequently share with people I see spanking ketchup bottoms with a ferocity that would get them tossed in jail if they ever tried it with their moronic children.

I’d like to be the guy there with a stop watch scolding ketchup that’s racing along at 1 mph, “Whoa, man! What do you think you are, salsa?”

Like so many of the political leaders I admire, Heinz Ketchup is tolerant of same sex relationships and intolerant of Type A personalities who’d use shifty means to race ahead of the rest of us.

It’s the only condiment I’d vote for it if only it would let me.

Alas, Heinz Ketchup will never run.

Ark-building floats man's boat

Note: Computers actin' funny. Can't upload pic. Imagine an ark!

It was the middle of the night and Val awoke with a shudder.

What was wrong?

“I just had a terrible nightmare. Really scary. I remember a man standing in the corner of the room.”

Who was the man?

“I don’t remember.”

Well, was it Drew Carey? Jeff Probst?

“I don’t know. I remember trying to scream and being unable to. I was terrified.”

That’s too bad, I said. But if you’re going to continue to disturb me, I’m going to have to ask you to grab your pillow and head out to the couch. I need my sleep.

She wakes up every morning and is smacked in the face with the cold reality that she’s still married to me. What nightmare could be worse than that?

Just one, I guess.

She could wake up and tell me God spoke to her. Of course, that’s not her nightmare.

It’s mine.

It’s happening right now to some beleaguered spouse over in Holland. Her husband, Johan Huibers, a wealthy Dutch shipbuilder, said God told him to build an ark.

Those of you who attended Sunday school will recall this is not without precedent.

It happened with Noah, an ancient Hebrew shipbuilder.

Although Noah must have endured an enormous amount of pre-rain ridicule from the equivalent of snarky bloggers of the day, it all worked out well -- at least for those on board the boat.

Dreaming God tells you to do something would have a way of swamping an otherwise tranquil life like, uh, like, hmmm . . .

Can anyone think of a really good flood analogy?

Because if you believe in God, you really ought to do what the divine dream says you should do because, well, He’s God.

Once that’s established, you can kiss bowling nights goodbye. You work full-time on fulfilling the dream.

Biblical experts have praised Huibers’s Ark -- and that’s going to take some getting used to -- for its accuracy.

He spent months poring over some of the most arcane parts of the often arcane King James Bible to divine the exact measurements of the one detailed in the Book of Genesis; 30 cubits wide, 50 cubits high and 300 cubits long.

I’m unfamiliar with cubits and in my mind confuse the obscure measurement with croutons so right there my construction would be in trouble.

He’s planning on taking the ark up the Thames River in time for the opening ceremonies of the 2012 Summer Olympics in London. He didn’t say whether that was part of the dream or not.

But it makes sense. If you were going to start the human race over, you’d naturally want to start with really fit people whose physical attributes have been boosted by difficult-to-detect performance enhancing drugs.

Me, I had a nightmare where I was banging on the doors of Huibers’s ark as the waters rose above my nose.

I consider it a warning.

So now I’m going to do all I can to ingratiate myself with Huibers and see if he’ll grant me a crack at veto power over who or what else is destined for salvation.

Noah letting strains of offensive and obnoxious creatures -- snakes, stink bugs, Cub fans -- seems, in hindsight, like a manifest mistake.

I’d be a bit more picky.

And next time Val has an unsettling nightmare, she’d better keep it to herself.

I need my sleep. I’m going to be busy making lists just in case I have a say with Huibers.

And, fear not, readers of this blog get first dibs on bunks!

At least those of you who do not snore.

Undercover Boss -- me!

I remember seeing the first “Undercover Boss” promos and thinking, gee, what a novel idea. I’d love to watch a show where the CEO is revealed to be a moron and emerges with a new respect for working stiffs.

And, of course, I haven’t watched even a minute of it. I watch enough mind-deadening TV that I don’t need to pump more reality sewage into the swamp -- and that sounds like the premise for “Undercover Mob Boss.”

Yet, I remain charmed by the concept and think how much fun it would be to have a role in the show.

Since I work alone, can’t afford to hire anyone and even coke-headed producers wouldn’t dream of putting a show like that on the air, I spent yesterday pretending I was the Undercover Boss of myself.

I auditioned the 23 or so distinct voices in my head and allowed one of them to step forward into the boss role to survey what I do, how difficult it is, and gain a new appreciation for the peon employee.

That’d be me.

Undercover Boss: “Morning! I’m here to work with you.”

Me: Welcome aboard. I’m prepared to share with you all my secrets. Ask me anything.

U.B.: “Let me start by saying how handsome you are.”


Me: "And let me start by saying what a fantastic start you're off to, my brown-nosing little friend!

Camera pans to a sign on the door that says, “All Guys Welcome! My Door is Always Open, My Toilet Seat is Always Up,” as I let him in to the shabby little office right above my favorite bar.

U.B.: “Quite an office you have here.”

Me: It’s like a little clubhouse. I told my wife a few years ago I wanted a ‘Bob Dylan Theme Time Radio’ poster for my birthday. She said, ‘What, are you still in the eighth grade?’ I told her no, but my office is.

Camera flash summarizes the first three hours of the morning with clips of me tossing wadded up pieces of scrap paper into a 5-foot high waste paper basket nailed to the wall 12-feet from my desk. The ones that miss, about 50-percent, I then thud chip into a lower waste basket with my pitching wedge (camera shows startled diners in the bar below spilling hot soup in their laps as the jarring noise sparks alarm).

U.B.: “Do you ever do any work here?”

Me: Not really. I try to avoid things that make me sweat or cause my brain to hurt.

The show segues to a shots of me expertly juggling three bean bags and swapping punch lines from movies like “SlapShot!” “Hot Fuzz,” and “Zombieland” with old friends on the speaker phone. The iPod blasts a lively playlist of Delbert McClinton, Todd Snider, Joe Ely and Kris Kristofferson.

U.B. “I packed a lunch. Do we eat here in the office?”

Me: Rarely. I spend so much time deep inside my own head, I really need to get out and see people. The isolation is the worst part of the job. So about once a day I pretend someone’s phoned in a bomb threat and I dash downstairs to the bar for safety and suds. Let’s pretend that right now so we can get good seats in time for the Showcase.

Cameras cut to me and the U.B. sitting on bar stools getting ready to ridicule goofy contestant bids on “The Price is Right.” After Drew Carey announces the winner to the Showcase Showdown and the comely supermodels wave the show to commercial, we watch the local news and return upstairs.

U.B.: “What’s the biggest misconception about how you work?”

Me: “That I’m drunk all the time. I joke about it a lot, but it’s surprising and a little disappointing how often I’m sober. But I perpetuate the myth so others can have vicarious fun.

The afternoon work session is a virtual rerun of the morning fun enlivened by a segment where I show the U.B. how I prank bar patrons in the parking lot by pushing my car’s remote panic horn button the instant they slam their car doors. Hiding behind the curtains, we both crack up at their muddle-headed confusion.

U.B.: “Well, after watching you work, I think you’ve earned a little bar time.”

Me: What a splendid idea! I think you’re going to work out fine here, kid!

The U.B.’s voice over concludes the show: “He doesn’t earn enough money to warrant a raise, but I can’t fire his lazy ass ‘cause he’s good for morale. He’s worked for me for nearly 20 years and still have no idea how the hell he does it.”

The picture fades to black after the camera pans across the stoic faces of the bar regulars looking on in disturbed silence as me and my imaginary U.B. yuk it up in the corner.

The phrase “Another day, another dollar,” would fit perfectly if you just subtract the part about the dollar.

Standing is the new sitting

So I’m sitting here trying to think of a decent blog idea and all I can think about is how I wish I were laying here trying to think of a decent blog idea.

I’m doing this because in my mind I’m wrestling with recent news reports that said  standing has become the new sitting.

This is from Michael S. Rosenwald’s story from The Washington Post (I love the lead):

“Some people can’t stand working. Mark Ramirez works standing.

“He is not a waiter or a factory worker. He is a senior executive at AOL. Mr. Ramirez could, if he wanted, curl into a cushioned leather chair. No, thanks. He prefers to stand most of the day at a desk raised above stomach level.

“I have my knees bent, I feel totally alive,” he said. “It feels more natural to stand. I wouldn’t go back to sitting.”

Well, good for you. I guess none of us wants to be stuck one row behind guys like Mark next time we go to catch a matinee.

The story says standing at pricey gut-level desks (www.GeekDesk.com sells them for $799) is healthy, reduces drowsiness and is shown to increase life spans. It cited one fanatic who not only stands but walks a steady 1 mph on a treadmill while working at his desk.

Clearly, this endocrinologist missed his calling. He’d have made a dandy postal employee.

It’s an interesting debate, but I think I’ll sit this one out.

I learned early on stress is a killer and without fail I’m most stressed the more degrees I am removed from 180 horizontal. So my preferred postures are, in reverse order, sprint, jog, stand, sit, slouch and lay.

I’ve found the circumstance most geared to wellness is center bed, buried toes up in a quilt, while TV Land broadcasts a day-long marathon of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

If research proves that relaxing posture cures heart disease the way it cures hangovers it could replace CPR as a preferred emergency treatment.

I remember reading shortly after President George W. Bush appointed him defense secretary that Donald Rumsfeld’s true position was upright. With great foresight, he stood throughout the day for many of the reasons cited by today’s advocates.

I remember thinking: “Outstanding. What an innovative and thoughtful gent. Now, here’s a good guy to turn to if the country ever finds itself mired in a really stupid war.”

But successful standers are rare. The only two I could think of are “Price is Right” hosts Bob Barker and Drew Carey. Of course, if the tabloids are to be believed, both men spent considerable time horizontal and in the comely company of surgically enhanced women adept at gesturing toward things like skidoos.

At the other extreme is Hugh Hefner, the only man who’s made a success of his life lying down. But that job’s taken and when Hef goes he’s taking it with him.

So sitting to me is a happy middle ground.

I just can’t see standing catching on.

And how would history be altered if great leaders throughout history stood? What if Abraham Lincoln was renown for standing? How would that have altered the stunning Lincoln Memorial?

They’d need a hole in the roof.

How much more mayhem would Custer-killer Sitting Bull have wreaked had he been Standing Bull?

Would The Situation be more compelling if he was The Standuation?

It’s a lot to ponder, especially as I’m still trying to process just how Prop 19 was defeated in California.

You mean there is a deficit of pot smokers in California? The only thing I can figure is they’re all planning on casting their ballots this Saturday afternoon.

Now, there’s a group that’ll never be swayed by the standing-is-better argument.

In fact, many of the most avid pot smokers I’ve known through the years are perfectly at peace only when fully reclined.

Giving them the three options -- stand, sit, or lay -- and there’s only one eventuality.

Sit or get off the pot.