The T-Shirt I inadvertently inspired

(658 words)

It is audacious, I admit, but I believe a lot of the things I write belong on posters, coffee mugs and T-Shirts for inspirational purposes.

Things like:

Enjoy being human and enjoy human beings

Anytime you hear of anyone dying suddenly it ought to reinforce the need to always be living suddenly

And . . .

A mohawk is an eccentric haircut. A MoeHawk is an irrationally angry bird that inflicts cartoon violence on a CurlyHawk.

You know, stuff for the ages.

What happened this week is an example of being careful for what you wish. Because something I’d written is now on a T-Shirt.

And it’s being mass produced.

By mass produced, I mean there are eight of them. That may not seem like much, but given that all but three of them are size Triple XL, I think it qualifies. Either way, it’s a whole lot of fabric.

On the front are cool top-hat wearing skulls with cigars clenched between their ivories. It'd make a dandy prison tattoo.

On seven of them is written “MEMBER.” On the eighth, “PROSPECT.”

Mine is the latter.

On each is the initials for the phrase I now regret coining.

It is CSL. It stands for “Cigar Smoking Lout.”

It’s an offhand line I wrote in an offhand variety post in what can be considered an offhand career. In fact, my entire existence is so entirely offhand it’s surprising I’m physically capable of typing.

Yet, it has become legend.

I was writing (link below) about how I skipped a big cigar smoker night to stay in with my family and watch the “Survivor” finale.

Here’s the exact paragraph: 

“My friends think I spend too much time with my family. My family thinks I spend too much time with cigar-smoking louts. I’m at a point in my life where every decision I make is bound to make at least half of the people who know and love me think I’m a perfect jackass.”

Not bad. It’s funny.

But my cigar-smoking lout friends took offense. Louts?

My dictionary describes “lout” as an “awkward, stupid fellow; boor, oaf.”

They’re my friends, sure, but I defy anyone who sees us out smoking cigars and drinking hootch to paint a more accurate picture.

It ain’t no GQ photo shoot.

And that’s a big part of what I love about it.

The first song on Mark Knopfler’s wonderful new “Tracker” album sums it up exactly. It’s “Laughs & Jokes & Drinks & Smokes.”

Unless you’ve absorbed the song, the lyric might confuse. It’s describing an evening, not an action.

In fact, if anyone asks what I do on my nights out with the CSL it is “laugh and joke and drink and smoke.”

It’s a perfect night.

It’s just what we do. I’m sure you do something similar anytime you’re out with good friends.

I just never dreamed it would lead to something emblazoned on a white T-Shirt for posterity, or until I inadvertently drizzle some mustard down the front making the shirt unpresentable in public.

So now next time we go out for the monthly DiSalvo’s Station smoker it’s planned for us all to wear our CSL shirts.

People will notice. People will ask. We’ll explain. I’ll smile politely. I’ll be horrified by the attention. And I’ll reveal that mine says “PROSPECT” because the “MEMBERS” do not yet deem me worthy of the club I unwittingly had a hand in naming.

Or as Val, my ever-supportive wife, said, “It’ll be like you’re back in high school again and having to worry that the cool kids might beat you up.”

(That never happened, by the way. I WAS the cool kid).

And all the while I’ll be wishing I’d earned such sartorial renown for something more profound, more cerebral, more deft.

Something like . . .

If fans of the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us who revere Moby-Dick?

Put that on your T-Shirt and smoke it.

Related . . .

Random thoughts on Letterman, Survivor & being the weenie

Cigar store ambiance enhanced by breasts

World’s biggest ash

Custer's Last Penis

The topic of General George Armstrong Custer’s penis has been on my mind for several months now. Please don’t take that literally and get that awful image out of your head this instant.

I’ll not change my profile picture to accommodate your lurid imagination.

It’s been there since about March when I finished Nathaniel Philbrick’s “The Last Stand: Custer, Sitting Bull & The Battle of Little Big Horn.”

I’ve been reluctant to address it -- the topic, not the penis -- for several reasons. First, it’s just so unseemly, as patient readers are about to learn.

Second, I know the instant I type “general custer’s penis” into a subject line it may awaken a sleeping automatonic army of Custer devotees who stir when the computer pings over that very subject.

They’re probably all very pleasant and informed people. Certainly, they’re history buffs like myself and we’d no doubt find much agreeable ground to discuss.

But the mutilated penis of a historically inept general is an unsound basis for lasting friendship. I’d much rather engage someone over, say, a shared fondness of Mark Knopfler music.

I tackle the topic now because a part of me that is very dear made what very well could be its last stand three weeks ago.

I am, of course, talking about my hair.

I’ve had long, luscious hair several times in my adult days and it’s always controversial. My many redneck friends, several of them former servicemen, stereotypically tease I’m some sort of sissy.

One joked it looked like I’d enlisted. Really, I asked? What century?

Because the second most enduring memory of the Custer era has to do with military hair. It was everywhere.

It cascaded down their shoulders. It spilled over their lips, cheeks and chins.

It was mostly that way with the mustachioed Custer, too, in 1876, the year he met his doom. Yes, one of America’s most famous and beloved generals could have time traveled a century hence and fit right in on stage with the Village People.

So when did short hair become so synonymous with our servicemen?

The most obvious answer is when the military became more mechanized. Perhaps some long-locked solider got his curls twisted in a Gatling gun. Or maybe it was for sanitary purposes, short hair giving crafty head lice fewer places to hide.

Either way, it’s a pity. Some of the greatest fighting men in literature and history -- Zeus, Samson, Robert the Bruce -- had long hair.

In fact, all the braves who slew Custer at Little Big Horn had what could be called Cher hair.

Yet, these long hairs were often virile and lady-loving men. Take Custer nemesis, Capt. Frederick Benteen, not to be confused with Capt. Benteen from the outstanding 1963 “Twilight Zone” episode, “On Thursday We Leave for Home.”

This Capt. Benteen was a warrior with an artistic bent. From Philbrick’s book: “He loved his wife, Frabbie, intensely and passionately (he sometimes decorated his letters to her with anatomically precise drawings of his erect penis).”

So primitive sexting pre-dated the smart phone by nearly 130 years.

Philbrick is even more emphatic when detailing Custer’s lusts. It turns out the man whose name is most synonymous with American military catastrophe was a serial rapist who repeatedly violated Indian women as the spoils of war.

One of the last quotes attributed to him in the book deals not with military strategy, but of sexual violence: “When we get to the village I’m going to find the Sioux girl with the most elk teeth on her dress and take her along with me!”

The reference goes unexplained, but I’ll bet elk teeth dresses aren’t synonymous with a squaw’s ability prepare a tasty meal.

His reputation for wanton massacre, treaty violation and rape was so renown that two Cheyenne women pierced the ear drums of his lifeless body with long sewing awls in the hopes he’d hear better in the afterlife. How thoughtful.

What I’d never heard before -- and can now never forget -- is those same women jammed an arrow up the general’s penis. The afterlife lesson they were trying to impart there eludes me.

So what are we to make of this man once so beloved by his contemporaries and today reviled by those of us who abhor war crimes and injustice? What would we say to his spirit?

I do not know. All I know is we’ll have plenty of time to decide.

We’re bound to see Custer coming from a mile away.

Related . . .

The true story of the Pilgrim turkey rapist

Dickin’ ‘round with Moby and other whales

Indians, Custer, downed trees & me

Boston Corbett, America’s greatest eunuch

Tweet round-up

So here you go, another occasional "Tweets of the Month" post. In the interest of titular integrity, I'm only doing one a month.

(By the way, that line was only 126 characters long.)

• AMC's discussed Stallone-tribute day means Rocky will be yo!-biquitous.

• Aging Kevin Bacon is starting to look like Kevin bacon.

• My finances have been in dire straits for so long you think by now they'd have played bass for Mark Knopfler.

• Some Latin words have corrupted meanings: Nothing hospitable about hospitals. Should be called either docitals or discomfitals.

• The only time I hope I ever encounter a monkey wrench is when I'm in the presence of a really loose monkey.

• Gnat Levi Johnson seems like such a jerk I hope Ann Coulter falls madly and blindly in love with him.

• Radioactive leaks found at 48 U.S. nuke sites. Goodness me, could this be industrial disease? (I simultaneously posted this on facebook and was surprised none of my friends recognized this as the Dire Straits song, “Industrial Disease,” proving friends can be just as disappointing as family.)

• Perverted farmers spend too much time on the lamb.

• People who start today slavishly filling out calendars for the next five days are week-minded.

• I keep confusing natural light with neon beer signs, not sunshine. It doesn't help whenever I walk into a bar and see "Natural Light" signs.

• Editors said my lead about National Nude Recreation week is too racy. I told them I'd take another crack at it.

• In 1968 the Rolling Stones released 'Jumpin' Jack Flash and gas, gas, gas was .33 cents a gallon, gallon, gallon.

• Sometimes thinking about taking a nap is as refreshing as actual napping. I wish it worked like that with Friday Happy Hours.

• I'd swear off profanity but fear it would be counter-intuitive.

• I'm so pro-organic I get suspicious whenever I see a margarine-colored butterfly.

• It's acceptable to describe even sweet-tempered bakers in pie shop kitchens as either crusty or flaky.

• Will and Kate wrap up California jaunt and return to England. I guess it's time for them to get back to work.

Thanks for reading!

Hatin' on LeBron

I was raised to love God, family and country. I was taught those cornerstone devotions would make my life whole.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I remember hearing all you need is love.

Well, that might have worked for guys like Gandhi, but throughout my life I’ve found I have to have a little hate.

My hatreds haven’t really been all that hateful. I don’t hate people of different races, shapes, sizes, sexual proclivities or religious beliefs that don’t involve killing me over our spiritual differences.

Today, there’s hatred running through the land and I must endorse it as healthy.

The whole sporting world, particularly the downtrodden sports fans in Cleveland, is hating on LeBron James.

I’ve had a complicated relationship with Cleveland. I was raised to hate them because they were bitter rivals of my Pittsburgh Steelers. And I attended Ohio University with a bunch of them back when it was a great rivalry. We’d war all fall.

But as the ‘70s stretched into the ‘10s, I began realizing hating Cleveland was like hating Barney the Purple Dinosaur.

Like Barney, Cleveland could be annoying but they were harmless. They couldn’t win at anything.

What really turned my perspective was I began working with a lot of people in Cleveland. They weren’t at all rude. They were fun. They were friendly. They enjoyed a good rivalry.

I began to realize they were just like Pittsburghers, but without the six Super Bowl trophies, the three World Series Championships and the three Stanley Cups (and that’s during my lifetime).

So I began to root for Cleveland and LeBron.

I thought a victory would erase the chip the city’s toted on its shoulder through so many years of heartbreaking loss.

Then came “The Decision” and the sound of a million northern Ohio hearts breaking.

So I ramped up my hatred right along with all my former arch-enemies in Cleveland.

Well, on Sunday the chosen one and his chosen team got thumped by the Dallas Mavericks to lose in one of the most watched NBA finals in the last 15 years.

It was tough for me to watch for a number of reasons: one, I hate Dallas and can’t root for them; two, Miami’s never done a thing for me and I can’t stand rooting for cities where the SPFs outnumber the IQs.

But for me the deciding factor -- “The Decision,” if you will -- came down to wanting to see LeBron who earned $14.5 million, humiliated.

And he was.

Then came the inevitable scolding. I was prepared to hear it from various sports nags and broadcasters.

Just not from LeBron himself.

“All the people that was rooting on me to fail, at the end of the day they have to wake up tomorrow and have the same life that they had before they woke up today,” James said. “They have the same personal problems they had today.

“They can get a few days or a few months or whatever the case may be on being happy about not only myself, but the Miami Heat not accomplishing their goal. But they have to get back to the real world at some point.”

Well, here’s what I’m going to do today with my crappy little life.

I’ll do something that’ll require me to look in my pitiful checkbook. It’s never pretty. I’ll realize I’m again in such financial dire straits it’s surprising my checking account hasn’t played bass for Mark Knopfler.

I’ll have all the same problems I had yesterday, the ones LeBron and his $14.5 million salary mocked in his graceless speech about those of us who hate.

But at some point I’ll think about LeBron and be genuinely grateful I’m not him, today a real loser in so many ways.

And, I swear, it’ll feel therapeutic.

Ah, hatred.

You gotta love it.

My 25 most played songs

It was about a year ago when my computer blew up. I didn’t lose anything, but it wiped out the play count from my iTunes library. This is not insignificant.

I try to play every one of my 7,857 songs at least once a year. The play count function helps me realize if I’m overlooking something worthy.

Before last year’s computer malfunction, I had five years worth of tallied play counts and had played every single song at least three times with three cracking 100 plays.

Now with just one year of regular play, the list seems unsettled. There are more of the newer ones than the old standbys.

So this is not a “best of” list, rather it is a list compiled by iTunes of the 25 songs I’ve played the most in the past 12 months.

It’ll be interesting to see just how much the list changes in two or five years, supposing the dang computer makes it that long.

Check it out:

25. Star Star, Rolling Stones, Goat’s Head Soup, 1973 -- I think this is one of the three greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs ever recorded. The other two are “Sunspot Baby” by Bob Seger, and “I Saw Her Standing There” by The Beatles, but that’s a whole other argument. This one's just total filth and raunch and I find that very appealing.

24. Sometimes We Cry, Van Morrison, The Healing Game, 1997 -- This elegiac masterpiece is one reason why "The Healing Game" is one of Van's best.

23. Rocks Off, The Rolling Stones, Exile On Main Street, 1972 -- I played this album a lot this year during the hoopla over its re-release. The feeling I get every time I hear it is exactly the same as when I first lowered the needle into the groove of this, the first cut, from rock’s best album

22. The Devil You Know, Todd Snider, 2006 -- Download this, print out the lyrics (they’re rapid fire enough to warrant it) and turn it up to 11. The initial guitar blast jolt will knock you on your ass. Recover and sit back and laugh at raucous storytelling at its profane best. The East Nashville setting is one I know well from my Music City days.

21. Cheer Down, George Harrison, Best of Dark Horse, 1989 -- As you’ll see from this list, I’m drawn to many of the parts of great machines, the solo work of people who made their marks in much bigger bands. This is a playful Harrison song from when he was becoming involved with his second truly super group, The Traveling Wilburys. This was written and produced with Jeff Lynne and Tom Petty.

20. This Hard Land, Bruce Springsteen, Greatest Hits, 1995 -- Last October I wrote about how I spent four days doing nothing but listening to Springsteen, the good and awful, in chronological order over four days straight. It was really fun and he’s compelling enough to warrant the exercise. This song is the joyful essence of the Boss, thus it is the essence of America.

19. Bigger Wheel, Stephen Bruton, From The Five, 2005 -- My wife and I have been enormous fans of the obscure solo stuff from this Texas session player for years. Kris Kristofferson called Bruton his soulmate. Besides, K.K., he’s written and recorded with Elvis Costello, Bonnie Raitt, Carly Simon and a host of others. But his solo stuff is outstanding. He’s finally getting his due as co-producer with T Bone Burnett on the “Crazy Heart” soundtrack. Alas, this under-heralded great succumbed last year to cancer. His music however will live on in our hearts forever. His “Right On Time” from 1995 was in the mix at our wedding party (and that ought to tell you plenty about what kind of party it was). This one kicks more ass than a team of angry mule drivers.

18. Thunder On the Mountain, Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006 -- Should be on everyone’s most played list if for no other reason than Dylan somehow manages to rhyme “orphanages” with “sons of bitches.” My wife, no Dylan fan she, still nods in mirthful appreciation every time she hears that one.

17. Monday Morning Church, Alan Jackson, What I Do, 2004 -- As I mentioned yesterday, an hour spent listening to really good country music is like an hour spent reading the Bible while the Rev. Billy Graham plays the fiddle nearby. This song about the death of a man’s beloved wife and his subsequent loss of faith will rip your heart out. I stopped listening to it when the kids are in the car. I don’t want them to see Daddy cry.

16. Vacancy Sign, Quinn Fallon & Los Gravediggers, If Heartbreaks Were Highways, 2009 -- I’d be a big fan even if Quinn weren’t a good buddy from 20 years ago. His most-played list would make for a great party, too.

15. Loose, Ray Wylie Hubbard, A: Enlightenment B: Endarkenment (Hint: There is no C), 2010

Even her mama said she was always trouble
Promise a man everything, give him half then charge him double


14. Choctaw Bingo, James McMurtry, Saint Mary Of The Woods, 2002 -- If it’s true every father wants their child to do better and be better than themselves, then this Texan’s Daddy got his wish. No small feat considering the old man is Larry McMurtry, Pulitizer Prize winning author of “Lonesome Dove.” His stories, cadence and deadpan delivery make every song riveting.

13. There Ya Go, Alan Jackson, What I Do, 2004 -- This has an artificially high ranking because it’s one I do play lots in the car hoping the message will sink into the girls’ noggins. It’s about overcoming life’s disappointments with grace and the understanding we can all help each other through this stumbling dance called life.

12. Saint James Infirmary, Van Morrison, What's Wrong With This Picture? 2003 -- A traditional folk song given the full robust blues blowout by a master. The dizzy horn crescendo makes musical madness sound like something worth succumbing to.

11. 5.15 A.M., Mark Knopfler, Shangri-La, 2004 -- I guess if there’s one song on this list I’d urge you to download, this is it. It’s mesmerizing and tells a story I’m still unable to puzzle out, which makes it even more compelling. The world is the poorer when even many tasteful people are asked about Mark Knopfler they reply, “You mean the guy from Dire Straits?” With every new textured album, he makes Dire Straits -- as great as they were -- a bit of an afterthought. 


10. Celtic New Year, Van Morrison, Magic Time, 2005 -- A joyful dance through the clover. I’ve never traveled to Ireland, but thanks to this song and many bottles of wine I’ve been there many, many times. Play this album for anyone who mistakenly believes “Brown Eyed Girl” is still Van’s best.

9. Where are you Tonight, Bob Dylan, Street Legal, 1978 -- So many Dylan songs get overlooked amidst the prolific clutter and magnificence. This is one of my favorites. It’s great rollicking fun.

8. Thanksgiving Day, Ray Davies, Other People's Lives, 2006 -- Not just the best Thanksgiving song ever, it’s one of the best holiday songs ever. It has soul, poignancy, and ragged horns and background vocals sentimental enough to coax tears. For four years now, I wake the family with this for Thanksgiving Day. What’s surprising is how much I enjoy it year round.

7. Just Us Kids, James McMurtry, Just Us Kids, 2006 -- In 5 minutes, 12 seconds, McMurtry chronicles the 40 years we spend going from getting high in high school parking lots to coming to terms with the dashed dreams that come from living hard, sad lives not meant for sissies.


6. She's Gone, Daryl Hall & John Oates, Abandoned Luncheonette, 1987 -- Took me 20 years to realize it, but this is one of the most perfectly crafted pieces of soulful pop ever recorded. Play it loud again and again and again.

5. Slit Skirts, Pete Townshend, All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes, 1982 -- This might be my all time most played song. It still gets me every time the same way I heard it in Paul Romig’s Penn State dorm in 1982. Heck, it may have become my most played song that afternoon.

4. Workingman's Blues #2, Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006 -- So weary, so majestic. The song cascades and tumbles along for six exquisite minutes. The downtrodden lyrics pair perfectly with Dylan’s ragged rumble to somehow result in something oddly euphoric.

3. After the Fall, Ray Davies, Other People's Lives, 2006 -- In a land littered with great rock stars, Ray Davies and the Kinks have never gotten their due. I love the palpable rage, the despair and the forlorn struggle he details in this one. And I love the defiant assertion that it can all be overcome.

2. Get Lucky, Mark Knopfler, Get Lucky, 2009 -- It surprises even me that this gentle little lullaby of life ranks so high. I just play it all the time. It’s sort of a penny whistle children’s song about a simple man who never grew up. I find it inspirational.

1. One More Time, Ray Davies, Working Man's Café, 2008 -- So distinctly English, yet so universal, this one always feels like freedom. It’s a great singalong, too. For such a caustic and cynical person, he sings a with a lot of heart and with such a sweet voice. I can’t imagine a day when my top 25 most played doesn’t have at least something from Ray Davies and the Kinks.


So, there you go. Thanks for checking in and having a peek at some of the music that means the most to me.

I was sober while I listened to the songs and wrote this all up -- but that doesn’t mean you have to be.

Have a drink, put on some of your favorite tunes and enjoy the weekend.