GOP blows whistle on Clint's halftime

If it’s halftime in America, we’d all better brace ourselves for plenty of flushing and farting.

As a veteran of more than 200 Pittsburgh Steeler home games, that’s what halftime means to me. It doesn’t mean hoped for comebacks. The Steelers are usually favored and protecting a lead.

This may come as a surprise to women, but the men’s rooms in Heinz Field where the Steelers play don’t have individual porcelain urinals, but have instead those stainless steel troughs that stretch for about 50 feet of knee-high wall space. That means those standing at the low end of the slope can expect a communal splashing that ought to have them racing to the nearest laundromat the second the final whistle blows.

The lack of privacy is unsettling to some dainty men. I try and help by telling them the custom at Heinz Field is to put your arms around the strangers to your right and left and offer friendly encouragement.

Anyone who dabbles in public musings knows it’s unwise to say anything nice about President Obama or hint just maybe he made a gutsy call on things like killing bin Laden.

You can count on the conservative backlash to be fierce.

That’s what one of our greatest Americans is finding out.

I’m talking about Clint Eastwood.

Even though he’s never fought for our country, solved a national crisis or found a cure for something itchy, I do consider him one of our greatest Americans.

He’s for more than 50 years made great movies that entertain and help define America. He’s perfectly cool.

Unlike me, he’s never voted for a Democrat presidential candidate and looks at every issue from a conservative point of view.

I have many friends like that. We’d never let politics get in the way of our friendship.

They think about politics, but they aren’t political. There’s a big difference. They are tolerant of my liberal opinions and are open-minded in a political discussion.

And we all love Clint.

They saw the same now-controversial ad featuring Eastwood -- and if his voice gets any more gravelly it ought to be quarried -- saying of Detroit, “They almost lost everything. But we all pulled together. Now Motor City is fighting again.”

None of them reported thinking, “Son of a bitch! The outlaw Josie Wales is shilling for that Muslim tourist in the White House. That’s it. My next pickup is gonna be built in Japan!”

No, they thought, “Cool! Clint’s talking about American auto workers, guys who are as red neck and blue collar as me. Man, I’m glad we’re still making cars in Detroit. USA! USA!”

They saw no political intent. They discerned no pro-Obama messages.

They are not Karl Rove.

“I was, frankly, offended by it,” he told Fox News. Yes, to a conservative an American icon saying something obvious and positive about an American success that happened because of Obama is offensive.

Picking a fight with Clint Eastwood is the clearest sign the national GOP is completely unhinged. They are mired in a dismal primary season being contested by candidates who each have something disqualifying about their record or personality. And that’s disqualifying just to fellow conservatives. With the economy strengthening and adding jobs and foreign policy off the table, they fear they are facing an historic electoral debacle.

Those fears are justified.

Attacking Clint Eastwood might work on Fox News, but it won’t work in an America where anyone with any sense is happy they’re making money and better vehicles in Motor City.

Most Americans are smart enough to recognize when a good thing is a good thing.

Eastwood, who is on record as being opposed to bailouts, has already come out and said the ad is not meant to boost Obama and is intended “to be a message about job growth and the spirit of America,” something he thinks all politicians should embrace.

It’s halftime in America. What are you going to do?

For me, I’ll continue to try and avoid the partisan squabbles that so agitate the petty minds of people like Karl Rove.

Instead, I’ll put my arms around those to the left and the right of me and I will encourage them.

Best Damn Band in the Land

I’ve always fancied I’d flourish as part of a really successful band. I love music and am pretty sure I’d enjoy groupies.

And less superficially, I think I’d thrive being part of a band dynamic.

Of course, this is the wildest kind of conjecture.

First, I’m incapable of playing even a lick of music on any traditional instrument that doesn’t involve lifting my shirt to play an armpit concerto of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Second, I’ve worked with people before and it’s always a fiasco. I cold quit the last two real jobs I had because I grew to loath dealing with fellow humans, especially human bosses. They’d tell me I had to wear a tie. They’d tell me I had to work nights. They’d tell me to show up for work on-time and sober.

As a heroic crime fighter I’d treasure having SuperVision. But as an ordinary schlep assigned to cover things like the Unity Township Municipal Authority, the idea of any supervision drove me nuts.

It’s not like I’m exactly setting the world on fire working all by myself, either. But working for yourself brings its own sort of collegial dysfunctions. The voices I’m always hearing in my head never let me get any wage-earning work done.

This one tells me it’s time to write another blog. Then one chirps up I should really groom my ear hairs. Then I hear a persuasive chorus in the corner that says, screw all that, let’s all go grab a beer!

The voices in my head may indicate psychopathic tendencies, but there’s not a tyrant in the group. Majority rules so, hi-ho, it’s off to drink we go.

Being a regular in a friendly tavern is as close to being in band as I’ve ever come.

People show up when they feel like it, motivation to do anything productive is evasive and many of the “band” members would benefit from two months of intensive rehab.

I’ve been dreaming about being in a real band for a week now since I saw a band that kicks the asses of even the Rolling Stones. And not just cause they outnumber them 22-to-1.

It’s the Ohio University Marching 110, The Best Damn Band in the Land.

Lo and behold, the Pittsburgh Steelers brought them in for half-time entertainment last week for the home game against the New England Patriots. They did a pre-game concert in the parking lot with the Pittsburgh skyline in the background and it was one of the most euphoric music performances I’ve ever seen.

And I caught the whole thing on video. You can check it out here.

If you love great marching band music, you must give it a quick looksee (at least the last two minutes). They dance. They boogie. The horns’ll blast the hairs off your head.

It’s also fun for anyone with anthropological interests to watch, too, because you can see how much my hand shakes when I’m buzzed.

Understand, I was filming with my less dominant left hand. I was holding my Duquesne Beer bottle in my right hand so as not to jostle the carbonation.

I learned at least something at Ohio U.

Man, was I having fun. Me and about 10 buddies had spent the night at the North Shore Marriott. Then to hear the band of my alma mater, once again the reigning the No. 1 party school in America, play made it the highlight of the weekend.

We went up and gushed to a bunch of the band members after the performance.

They were so cool they even pretended they thought we, a couple of middle-aged drunks were cool, too. I think this was a reflex action from dealing with so many middle-aged drunks in Athens who serve as their professors.

I spent the rest of the day imagining the fun they were having on the bus back to Athens. They’d played a fantastic show at a great venue and they did it so spectacularly I guarantee there were a bunch of high school kids in attendance who said to their folks, “Man, I want to go to Ohio University!”

Well, me, too. And this time I’m not going to spend my years there getting drunk and chasing credentials for a go-nowhere career. This time I’m going to do something impressive.

I’m going to do whatever it takes to join the Best Band in the Land.

I wonder if they’ll let me audition my armpit.

A $5 solution to homelessness

I'm conflicted by expert advice on how to deal with the homeless.

My instinct is to give, give, give. I give them coins, I give them cash, I give them food, I give them encouragement. I’ve been doing this for about 15 years because I can’t forget what it’s like to be homeless.

Now well-meaning organizations devoted to helping the homeless -- and I give to them, too -- say this is counter-productive to the street person’s well-being.

They say it makes them dependent on begging, that they use the dough to splurge on drugs or booze. This with me isn’t exactly the moral conundrum they might imagine. If I’m in the city, guaranteed a good chunk of my change is going for hootch.

That’s what happened this weekend. Me and about 65,000 other affable inebriates attended the Pittsburgh Steeler game to watch them whack the Lady Brady and the rest of the New England Patriots.

The games are magnets for the city’s homeless. You pass dozens of them on the sidewalk with their forlorn signs and tattered cups extended.

Some give. The vast majority do not.

And those of us who give do so at the risk of hearing belittling scorn from strangers who ridicule the notion it does any good.

One truly unfortunate side effect of the drive to stop people from giving to less fortunates is it gives people permission to feel superior for being indifferent.

People now feel entitled to be smug about doing nothing.

That’s wrong.

I say this even while acknowledging the experts may be right. Maybe our meager change does little. I’ve been donating to some of the same homeless people for 20 years.

So I’m proposing a solution that will allow every compassionate soul to feel good about themselves and know we’re all making a real difference.

We need to have one day a month for concentrated and comprehensive giving to select homeless in our neighborhoods.

There are 65,000 people in Pittsburgh affluent enough to afford what the greed maestros of the NFL charge to watch professional football. Others go to the theater. Many of them work in the city and for years have seen the same homeless people on the way to work five days a week.

They know at least one homeless person who looks like he or she could use a break.

What if one day a month everyone was encouraged to give that person $2, $5, $20 or more? It’s chump change to people who think nothing of spending $7.50 for stadium beer or Starbucks coffee.

What if people brought him or her an old coat, a blanket, some shoes, a bus pass, a recommendation for a menial job or an appointment and a promise of transportation to a dentist willing to do some pro bono cleanings?

It’s not inconceivable that a homeless person could haul in $2,500 in one day if just 500 city dwellers decided they wanted to make a difference by dropping $5 in one big bucket.

Sure, the guy’s going to go on a splurge. I’d do the same (and I’d take you along, too, my friend!).

But even the most committed lush can’t blow $2,500. At some point hangover will set in and that person’s going to be forced to make a choice: do I want to change my life or drink myself to death?

I believe 90 percent of the people living on the streets don’t want to be there. Seed those lives with money and a little guidance and they will at least try to take advantage of the opportunity.

There’s no telling what can happen to any of us when given a fresh start. Lives targeted for mass benevolence can change for the better, some of them overnight.

Of course, some of them will indeed disappear from the cityscape by drinking themselves to death.

I can’t help but think that result wouldn’t bother one bit many of the people who like to think they’re doing all they can by doing nothing at all.

A sexy ode to Heinz 57 Ketchup

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.

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.

The NFL sacks itself

Prediction: in five years someone is going to offer you a cushy seat to an NFL game for just $25 and you still won’t go. Neither will the diehards who paint their faces and torsos in team colors to depict their fanaticism.

In five years, it will be impossible for the most powerful enterprise in all professional sports to give away tickets to attend games in their state-of-the-art tax-payer financed stadiums.

I know this because I am one of the most privileged people in all American fandom: I am a Pittsburgh Steelers season ticket holder.

Have been for 20 years. My father held the tickets for 40 years before that. When he died, it was understood he’d hand the tickets down to me in a way other parents hand down deeds to lakeside cottages and heirloom strings of pearls.

That’s how valuable these tickets were.

But in the last 10 years, we’ve all enjoyed a technological advance that’s rendered attending a game meaningless.

It’s the high-def big screen TV.

What was once unthinkable has become fact: people would rather watch the games on TV than attend them in person.

Who can blame them?

There’s no traffic, no miserable weather, no lines at the bathroom and the only way you’re likely to encounter a vomiting drunk is if you’re reckless with the jello shots.

I have here on my desk four tickets to Sunday’s home opener against the Atlanta Falcons. Three days before kickoff and I can’t find a buyer for the four $81 seats in section 507, row JJ. 

I’ve called all the people who always say, hey, lemme know if you ever get spare tickets. I’ve sent out word in my bar full of sports nuts.

I’ve received no offers, only lame excuses.

Now, I must face the unthinkable. I might actually have to attend the game myself.

Understand, I’ve been to over 250 professional football games in my life. I’ve been going since I was 7 and have seen and done everything there is to do at an NFL game.

In fact, by many standards I could be considered one of the NFL’s most loyal fans.

Know how they reward that devotion? They screw me every chance they get.

When Pittsburgh opened the new Heinz Field in 2000, they made me and every other season ticket holder shell out for Personal Seat Licenses that line the pockets of owners that hold cities hostage with their franchises.

They’ve steadily raised my ticket prices from $46 in 2000 to $81 this year. 

They charge me $7.50 for a glass of warm beer.

For TV purposes, they hold games on Thursdays nights and holidays when people want to be home with their families.

They make me pay full price for two meaningless pre-season games.

But now the tables are turning. One of the big stories of this year will be empty seats at these palatial stadiums. It’s happening already.

People are staying home in droves and guys like me, the canaries in the mines, understand there is a significant problem. If I can’t find a buyer for my opening day seats then the league is in trouble.

And this is when the weather will be mild and enthusiasm high. Guaranteed, if the forecast had been for 22 degrees and slushy December snows and the Steelers were out of playoff contention, I wouldn’t be able to sell my tickets for less than half face value.

But what makes my prediction so salient is the NFL is about to commit one of the most egregious self-inflicted wounds in sports history. Owners are about to lock out the players in the hopes of getting a larger share of the revenue pie.

Yes, during a down economy in a sport where rookies earn $50 million signing bonuses and owners revel in $1 billion stadiums, they’re going to tell their fans, sorry, it’s not enough.

And they’re tinkering with the integrity of the already injury-riddled sport by lengthening the seasons by two games to 18. 

So, mark my words, we are about to witness the unthinkable: The mighty NFL is on the verge of an historic tumble.

Me, I lifelong fan, will still be cheering. Only instead of yelling, “Go Steelers!” as I have my whole life, I’ll be yelling, “Go Screw Yourselves!”

Because there won’t be anyone left to screw in the stadiums.

Happy Birthday Arnold Palmer!

Some admiring jokers started www.chucknorrisfacts.com to put a farcical spin on the B-movie actor’s fantasy exploits. Example: “When Chuck Norris does a push up, he isn’t elevating himself, he’s pushing the earth down.”

It’s a hilarious bit of make believe.

In 2005, I was asked to do the daily timeline project on www.ArnoldPalmer.com and can now conclude what should be obvious to any fair-minded observer. And that is this:

The real Arnold Palmer makes even the make-believe Chuck Norris look like a candy-assed sissy.

Today is Palmer’s 80th birthday.

He declined an invitation to an interesting party this evening where some of his friends were going to salute him just for being such a great guy.

“I wish I could attend,” he told reporters, “but I’ve got some other things planned and I’ll be pretty busy that night. Sorry, I just can’t be there.”

The event? The opening night kickoff of the 2009 NFL season at Heinz Field. The Pittsburgh Steelers wanted to honor Palmer on one of the biggest nights of the year. They wanted to have more than 65,000 fans cheer him, watch video highlights of his career, and listen to heady praise of his lavish philanthropy.

But he has something better to do.

There’s an astounding humility in that polite little no thanks. I’m guessing he’s going have a small party with friends at Latrobe Country Club, but how many of our celebrities could resist the opportunity to have their already-massive egos stoked by having a crowd of that size blow kisses at them?

All America should feel better about itself today knowing we produced a man like Palmer and that he continues to thrive and inspire.

Unlike Norris, who’s becoming more famous for popping off on far right causes that embarrass even mainstream conservatives, facts about Palmer are, well, facts.

I know this because for two years it was my job to go through more than 50 years of newspaper and magazine clippings about Palmer and note what he did each and every day of his life.

As of today, the Timeline has more than 1,200 noteworthy items.

As everyone knows, he is one of the greatest golfers who’s ever lived. But a charming alchemy of small-town grit, old-fashioned good manners and heaven-sent good fortune have made his a life unique in American history. Many presidents may admire Sandy Koufax or Cal Ripken, but that doesn’t mean they’ll ever invite them to the White House to play catch.

But it’s different with golfers. And it’s different still with Palmer. That helps explain why former President Dwight D. Eisenhower showed up at Palmer’s house to surprise him on his 37th birthday on this day in 1966, and why Bill Clinton told biographers in 2000 that one of the greatest perks of being POTUS is the “opportunity to play golf with Arnold Palmer.”

An accomplished pilot who still flies his own jet, Palmer set an aviation world record on May 19, 1976, when he circumnavigated the globe in a Lear 36 in less than 58 hours.

Kirk Douglas said in 1970 that no one -- not Sinatra, John Wayne or Ronald Reagan -- has more charisma than Palmer.

He has a popular drink, The Arnold Palmer (half lemonade/half iced tea), named after him and the concoction is recognized by hip Manhattan waitresses who have no idea who Arnold Palmer is. In addition to the drink, two entire hospitals, a national golf museum, a regional airport, a PGA golf tournament, fancy club rooms and charity initiatives and scholarships too numerous to tally bear the name Arnold Palmer.

John Paul Newport of the Wall Street Journal wrote this week, “Lasting popularity of Palmer’s magnitude simply cannot be explained.”

It’s a safe bet that today Palmer will celebrate his birthday by playing some golf, laughing with some children, hugging loved ones, joking with buddies, being bold and doing something to help someone needy.

Let’s all try and join him in doing just some of the same. It’s life the way it ought to be lived.

All, but you, Chuck Norris.

You can just sit home in the dark and maybe dream about what it would be like to be a real man.

Pittsburgh columnist embraces worthy cause -- me!

The “Free Chris Rodell!” movement got off to a gangbuster start Sunday after columnist Eric Heyl of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review picked up his editorial cudgel and used it to hammer my recent arrest for trying to sell $300 worth of Steeler tickets for just $200.

It was fun for me to be on the other side of a story I’ve told so many times, that of a cherubic innocent being unjustly persecuted by stupid bureaucracy beholden to a law that should never have been enacted.

With the exception of the cherubic bit, the entirety of the previous sentence is true.

I tried to be an accommodating subject. When Eric asked if I’d been placed in hand cuffs, I was tempted to and say, “Not only that, but he tased me in place no man should ever be tased.”

When he asked if the officer mistreated me in anyway, I nearly blurted out, “Only if you believe waterboarding constitutes mistreatment.”

But those would have been lies.

Skeptics, well, my wife, keep wondering if I’m leaving something out of the story, like maybe the propositioning of an undercover hooker.

But, no, I was arrested for trying to sell an undercover officer four of my own tickets, valued at $75 each, for less than $200 for the whole bunch. That’s exactly what the citation says.

I’m awaiting a hearing date and a call from the gang over at “60 Minutes.” Justice will prevail!

Funny, in one week I was quoted as an expert in the New York Times and then just five days later revealed to be a half-assed outlaw in the paper read by all my friends.

You’d think there’d be some money in a life this interesting.

You’d be mistaken.

Eric had some fun with it and I’m happy with how it turned out. Here’s what he wrote:

Preseason games sure ticket to big fine
By Eric Heyl
TRIBUNE-REVIEW
Sunday, August 23, 2009

It shouldn't be that difficult to get rid of Steelers tickets, even if they are for a preseason game.

More importantly, no one should ever — ever — get into legal trouble over tickets for any NFL preseason game. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Chris Rodell and his cousin long have owned four Steelers season tickets. They usually charitably give the preseason tickets to people who otherwise never would get to see the Black-and-Gold players in person.

"Doesn't seem right to charge for them," Rodell said. "Not when most of the guys you're going to see playing will soon be strip club bouncers down in Dixie."

Rodell, 46, of Latrobe is a freelance writer. In this economy, that means he usually is one benevolent editor's assignment away from playing Stratego with other residents of the homeless encampment under the overpass.

So this year, Rodell was determined to get some money for the tickets, which have a face value of $75 apiece. But he had trouble finding a buyer for the Steelers' exhibition opener against the Arizona Cardinals.

None of his friends were interested.

"Everyone has a nice big-screen TV at home now and would rather drink (their own) beers than the $7 ones the crooks at Heinz Field charge for warm stadium brew," Rodell said.

He attempted to sell them via Ticketmaster's online ticket exchange site, but found it apparently only brokers regular-season tickets. He tried to peddle them on Craigslist, but got nary a nibble.

So Rodell and a buddy ventured to the North Shore the night of the game with a plan. Rodell would sell the tickets for whatever he could get, and then use some of the proceeds for liquid refreshments while watching the action at a nearby sports bar.

After negotiations with several prospective purchasers went nowhere, Rodell was approached by a guy in a Hines Ward jersey.

He asked how much Rodell wanted for the $300 worth of tickets.

Not wanting to price gouge, Rodell asked what he thought was a reasonable price of $200.

"That's when he pulled out a Pittsburgh Police badge and told me I was under arrest," Rodell said. "I was arrested by Hines Ward."

That Rodell was attempting to sell his own tickets for less than their original cost was irrelevant.

He didn't have a city license authorizing him to resell the tickets. He wasn't in the legal ticket reselling zone next to the portable toilets near North Shore Drive and Tony Dorsett Way.

Rodell has an upcoming hearing before a district judge. Ironically, he faces a fine equal to the face value of the tickets he was trying to sell — $300.

He didn't hesitate when asked if getting arrested while attempting to consummate a money-losing business transaction has taught him anything.

"If you have preseason tickets and you don't plan on using them," he said, "set them on fire."