Zombies at The Pond

My first impression was we were three besieged men in a lifeboat adrift amidst a sea swollen with undesirables trying to claw their way to safety.

We were using our oars to beat them back to their doom.

Then I realized my analogy was all wrong.

We were Shaun, Ed and Liz in the Winchester Pub fighting for our lives against the hungry zombie horde.

We were a real-life depiction of the 2004 zom rom com (zombie romantic comedy) “Shaun of the Dead.”

The Pond had been closed for the entire week while Dave and staff took their summer vacation.

The social vacancy turns many of Latrobe’s most devoted inebriates into zombies.

The week just drags.

People know the bar’s closed, but they still walk up to the doors and press their beaks against the glass. They tug at the door handles.

They call me at my office above the bar and ask if he’s open.

“I swear I saw someone moving around in there. You sure he’s closed?”

Oh, I’m sure.

Of course, if he opened on the sly I wouldn’t tell a soul.

I’m too sentimental about the opportunity to have a closed bar open only to me.

Being welcomed to imbibe in a locked bar is the drinker’s equivalent of joining baseball’s 3,000 hit club.

It’s just you, the owner and several soothing walls of free hootch. It’s something only elite bar patrons ever get to experience.

I’ve lost count the number of times it’s happened to me. I guess that makes me the Pete Rose of drinkers.

I’m dependable, play hurt and every three weeks show up sporting another really bad hair cut.

That’s why I started to tingle when Dave said, pssst, stop in if you see my car out front.

It happened on Friday afternoon.

He unlocked the door and waved me in. I imagine I felt like Charlie did when Willy Wonka welcomed him into the chocolate factory.

He locked the door behind me.

The front door commotion drew the first zombies. They’d seen me enter and thought their Friday Happy Hour was back on.

But Dave just shook his head and mouthed, “W-E’-R-E C-L-O-S-E-D.” The two looked confused and staggered away.

Next at the door came Chuck. He’d texted me earlier that Dave’s car was out front (my office faces the back).

I told him I’d text him the instant I knew if Dave was letting a privileged few in. He must not have trusted me because he showed up without waiting to hear back.

Truly, I was about to text him. He’s an enthusiastic reader of my blog and I reserve all my best favors for those of that designation.

It’s something you might want to keep in mind if a zombie outbreak ever occurs.

They were coming now about one every five minutes. Dave was steadfast in his refusals.

We speculated about who we’d let in. It was a short list.

Cheap tippers were ruled out, as were people who like to argue about politics. We split up some families because we liked the husband, but not the wife and in some instances the reverse.

Regulars include about five regular Joes who are all helpfully named Joe. The Joes would each get a pass.

We agreed it would be wise to let Bill the bartender in. Zombie or not, he terrifies us too much to risk his wrath.

By 5 p.m. zombies were filling the parking lot. Chuck, not wanting to overstay his welcome, made a break for it. He hasn’t been heard from since.

His bravery, not to mention his manners, exceed my own. Plus, there was still plenty of booze.

I wasn’t about to budge.

It’s a true pleasure to spend alone buddy time with Dave. He’s usually busy treating every other customer like they mean the world to him.

Some people go through their entire lives never knowing how much they mean to the people in their little orbits.

Dave is beloved enough he could be mayor or even Santa Claus.

Instead he chooses to run a little family bar where maybe 100 or so otherwise strangers feel welcome to visit and share a little bit of their lives.

It’s one of those rare kinds of thinking man’s taverns where one of Dave’s signature jokes involves Mahatma Gandhi and a squeaky clean punchline that concludes: “He’s a super calloused, fragile mystic who’s hexed by halitosis.”

The telling of it is its own sort of field sobriety test.

Of course, it had to end and that was too bad.

I could have spent the night with him as we roared clear through to that stage of drunkenness where two guys get to weeping about their daddies.

The zombies looking in and seeing us with our arms around each other might have even softened their homicidal appetites. It would have been splendid.

See, Dave’s as cuddly as he is cerebral.

You’d have to be a zombie to not love a guy like that.

Home opener, movie reviews & tweets

Out of petty protest, I once again will not be attending the Pittsburgh Pirate home opener today. I won’t further enrich owner Bob Nutting who reaps enormous profits and never does anything to improve the once-proud franchise team.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t exercise my inalienable right to play hookie.

Happily, The Pond, the Latrobe tavern that rents me the shabby second-floor penthouse, understands this. Dave and Jill bring in a popcorn machine, offer deals on hot dogs and get a nice friendly crowd of inebriates to enjoy watching the festivities.

If Nutting could hear us booing him it would be just like being there.

So that makes it a good day to fire off a round of observations and sprinkle in some recent tweets before I take myself out to the ol’ ballgame.

• We’ve seen a bunch of movies, old an new, lately. Just saw “Paul” with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost and Seth Rogan as an errant alien. Pegg and Frost are the Brits behind two of my favorite movies of all time, “Shaun of the Dead,” and “Hot Fuzz.” Just hilarious. It was very good, but not in the league of their best, both of which score in the upper 90 percents with reliable critic compiler, www.rottentomatoes.com. “Paul” is scoring a still-respectable 74 percent, which is about what I’d give it. Still, it was a hoot and I recommend it.

• In a confounding deal they signed when he was over-the-hill in 2000, The New York Mets are obligated to pay former Met (and Pirate) Bobby Bonilla $1.2 million every July 1 through 2035. He was a fine Pirate -- I guess in at least one way he still is -- back in the early 1990s. I remember the Pirates in ’91 offered him $25 million, a then jaw-dropping sum. Bonilla declined and said he had to “take care of his family.” The line prompted this memorable outburst from manager Jim Leyland, “Heck, for $25 million you could take care of Guam.”

• Just saw reports that a Knoxville air traffic controller is extending the snoozing pilot tracker scandal after getting busted napping in the tower for five hours. I don’t sleep five hours in my own bed. Maybe I should apply for his job.

• While “Paul” was enjoyable, “Hop” must be avoided at all costs. We have two young ‘uns and enjoy supporting the local family-owned theater so we make an exception and will see what we’re certain will be crap there. We were right. It’s awful. Yet, it was made by the people who made “Despicable Me” and included many talented people. At some point, somebody had to realize that they were filming a charmless stinker. This will surprise critics of this blog, but I pull the plug on some topics when I think it’s not worthy of my feisty band of reliable readers. Does my blog have more integrity than Hollywood? Apparently.

• Last week I played the world’s worst April Fool’s Day joke on my daughter, 10. Told her I was offered a prestigious full-time job that would require relocation. She thought it preposterous.

• Oprah’s ending her show on May 25, four days after Christian group declares scripture says the world is going to end. Coincidence or just more evidence of Oprah’s business savvy?

• If grandma truly has a heart of gold, you might want to re-think that organ donation. It’s worth about $14,860.

• Americans should be required by law to watch at least one Alfred Hitchcock movie every six months. We just enjoyed “Strangers on a Train.” Wonderful. I guess my favorite Hitchcocks are “Dial M for Murder” and “Rear Window.”

• HBO cast Ed Harris to play Cheney in the mini-series. It could be fatal to Harris: Only Cheney can play Cheney. The role will kill lesser mortals, not to mention many innocent bystanders.

• Boutique urban lodging places that were once brothels and are now trendy spots for business travelers to stay should be called ho’ tels.

• I’m embarrassed by my ignorance of Libyan geography, but will rebels need to go through Singoli and Douboli before getting to Tripoli?

• Josie, 10, is getting old enough to watch some of the great PG movies that we hope will show her there’s more to entertainment than iCarly and “High School Musical.” It’s working. We recently let her to stay up late to watch two of our very favorites, “Sneakers,” and the rarely remembered Stephen Spielberg/Leo DiCaprio film, “Catch Me if You Can.” “Sneakers” is a cerebral 1992 Robert Redford caper flick with an outstanding ensemble cast that includes Sidney Poitier, Dan Ackroyd and the late River Phoenix. “Catch Me If You Can” from 2002 is the true story about impostor con man Frank Abignale. Josie loved ‘em both. She may be lax about cleaning her room, but that kid’s going to have good taste.

• I’ll try and post a reminder, but I have a funny story due to run tomorrow on MSNBC.com. It’s about Lake Jackson, Texas, the most confusing town in America. It has streets named This Way, That Way, Any Way, Which Way, Circle Way, Center Way, etc. The city manager told me it’s not uncommon to give directions that include “Go three blocks on This Way, then make a left on That Way and bare right on Any Way.” When the confused motorist inevitably asks, “Which Way?” they have to say, no, that would be the wrong way.

• As previously, mentioned the aggregate totals on www.rottentomatoes.com are a reliable gauge about a movie’s worth. That’s why I felt immense relief when I checked to see that critics are thinking about the Russell Brand re-make of “Arthur,” another favorite of mine. It is currently tracking at 8 percent. Japan is dealing with a nuclear nightmare and news of another earthquake. Still, if they offered to take Russell Brand off our hands in exchange for their woes, I’d consider the swap.

• More random tweets can be found @8days2amish.

Go Bucs!

A wee bit 'o bummin' on St. Patrick's Day

I opened the newspaper this morning and it dawned on me: these could be the best two days of the year.

Yet, I’m pessimistic it’s going to work out that way.

On the plus side, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, a great reason for boozy merriment.

I like any holiday that prioritizes drinking over exchanging gifts and greeting cards. There has to be some mathematical formula that proves the more greeting cards that are involved -- Christmas, birthdays -- the worse the holiday.

On the flip side, three of my favorite holidays are St. Patrick’s Day, the Fourth of July and April Fool’s Day.

Nobody gives out “Happy Fourth of July!” cards, thank God.

Then there’s the drinking. The psychoanalysts won’t advise this to their morose patients, but every activity is better when it involves at least some alcoholic consumption.

But today’s shrinks don’t make any money off prescribing things like Jameson or Jim Beam over things like Xanax so that’s not likely to change.

It’s a real pity that all life’s most aggravating endeavors with which adults must wrestle -- commuting, working and wise parenting -- require at least some degree of sobriety.

So we have St. Patrick’s Day, a day when heirloom drunks like me can usually indulge. But I can’t afford to vaporize a day to hangover so cutting lose isn’t an option.

It’s like someone told me I need to send a dozen “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” greeting cards to people who could just drop dead, for all I care.

Then there’s the start of the NCAA basketball tournament. I always plan on spending the day in the bar with good friends all day watching college basketball from around the country.

But two days ago I got a call from an old buddy who used to run a bar I’d frequent.

Note: Nearly all my old friends have at one time or another either run a bar, tended bar. Today, they’re either fundamentalist Christians who wouldn’t dream of touching Demon Rum or are serving prison sentences and looking forward to their release and their first beer in 5-10 years, pending time off for good behavior.

There’s no middle ground.

But my old friend is trying to revive his sagging bar business by opening at 3 p.m. He called to personally invite me to be there to watch the afternoon Pitt game.

This I will gladly do.

Yet, it’s taking me away from my core bar and my core friends on one of the best bar days of the entire year.

Now when my primary bar owner finds out I’m returning to my former bar owner, he’ll be furious at the betrayal. He’ll think the former bar owner will charm me in ways that will lure my affections back to my ex-bar.

And, yes, I’m aware of all the Freudian undercurrents here. But it’s not like that, I swear.

A lot of lonely adolescent boys dream of a day when they’ll have two girlfriends and all the illicit fun that implies.

Trust me, son, it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

And I guess the thing that’s bothering me most is Paul. I’ve for two years looked forward to Paul’s arrival. I dreamed about Paul. I couldn’t wait to see Paul.

Well, tomorrow, Paul will be here.

“Paul” is the new Simon Pegg/Nick Frost movie about two sci-fi geeks who find an smart ass alien.

Pegg and Frost made two of my all-time favorite movies, “Hot Fuzz” and “Shaun of the Dead.”

They couldn’t be any funnier. So I’ve been eager to see their new movie. But as details emerged, I began to feel a sort of dread.

First, there’s Paul himself, a little alien voiced by Seth Rogan, who’s never made me laugh.

I sensed what was happening was Hollywood producers wanted to take these two comic geniuses, Brits, and make them more palatable to dimwitted American audiences who’ve made Rogan and movies like “Super Bad”  and “Knocked Up” big hits.

Early reviews on the reliably accurate www.rottentomatoes.com are, “eh.”

Well, I don’t want, “eh,” I want, “Ah!” I want, “Oh!” I want, "Ha!"

So I feel bad about feeling bad that my perfect little world won’t be all I’d hoped it would be.

I wonder if anyone near the Fukushima Daiichi plant is bumming because their St. Patrick’s Day isn’t working out how they’d hoped.

My TV reality

I invited 20 complete strangers into my home on Wednesday. Some are surly, some are stupid, and all of them stink.

They will inhabit our home and insinuate themselves into our consciousness for the next three months. I’ll find out which ones are divorced, gay, have bowel problems and which ones are so carefree about their grooming that they think nothing of letting their toenails grow long and sharp enough to spear rabid armadillo.

Yes, “Survivor” is on CBS again and again my life has meaning.

Our 10-year-old daughter is the same age as the popular reality show -- and please let’s not demean fatherhood or TV viewership by giving me some Sophie’s Choice -- Josie or Jeff Probst.

There’s room in my heart for both.

My wife delivered Josie during the September week when the first season was in frenzied nightly re-runs to capitalize on the blockbuster success of TV’s first and still finest reality show.

Against her will, I forced my wiped out wife to watch as she lay in the hospital bed breast-feeding a baby so new we’d yet to name her. Val protested, but was too weak to reach the remote. She said she was sure she wouldn’t like it. It would be boring. It would ruin our lives.

She’d said the same thing about motherhood.

Ten years later, she’ll concede she was wrong both times.

She loves “Survivor” and she loves being a mom.

Me, there are days when surviving the perils of fatherhood make me want to vote myself off the family island.

Mostly, it comes down to TV. I just don’t get enough of it.

We tell our children that commercial television is evil. It’s boring. It kills braincells. It turns us all into vapid morons easily manipulated by the most base influences of soulless consumerism.

Yeah, right. We also tell them supportive fables to convince them of the Tooth Fairy’s existence.

In truth, I love TV. If I could I’d watch it round the clock.

I’d watch old movies, documentaries, mindless sitcoms, political shoutfests -- you name it.

Yet the rules we impose on our children we must impose on ourselves.

Because we don’t won’t let the kids watch too much TV, we can’t be hypocritical and watch too much ourselves.

It goes against my every instinct.

That’s why I so revel in any rare home alone time. So does Val.

I remember my mother watched the kids for one slim night last year. Val and I went to a great music festival, but left early so we could, ahh, watch adult TV.

Sure, we did all the other things loving couples do when they have time alone, but I guarantee the TV time meant more to my wife than any of our randy antics.

And that’s certainly no reflection on my romantic skills, she swears.

C’mon, how could it be?

Even so, how could I compare with guys like Tony Soprano and vampires Bill and Eric from the “True Blood” town of Bon Temps?

If we watch shows like that now, we have to wait until the kids are sound asleep. In order to watch shows about vampires we have to live like them.

So the programs that dominate our viewing are children’s movies and Disney Network shows sickly sweet enough to cause cancer in lab rats.

I need to hear someone other than myself spewing profanity.

So last night I snuck down to the basement to watch the 2007 Simon Pegg movie “Hot Fuzz,” maybe the funniest movie ever made. Ever. I mean it. Top critics give it a cumulative 91 percent on www.rottentomatoes.com

I’ve watched it 50 times and it gets funnier each time. If I watched it once a week my mood would improve. But Josie came down and busted me with, “How come it’s okay for you to watch something over and over and over and you yell at me for watching Hannah Montana once or twice?”

She’s right and now I’m thinking about constructing a basement below the basement.

At least “Survivor” is back after a 3-month hiatus. It’s the show we all can watch together. And I do love it. There’s no one in America better at their job than Jeff Probst is at his. The man’s a reality show genius.

But that’s one night a week.

Take this weekend. I’d love to do nothing but sit on my can and watch about 20 hours of college and professional football. All my friends will.

Alas, I cannot. I know the female outcry would be too great.

The tribe has spoken.

And they’ve told me to just sit there and shut the hell up.

Tweet of the week at http://twitter.com/8Days2Amish: “Anytime you hear of someone dying suddenly it should reinforce the need to ensure you're always living suddenly.”