Knock-Knock: Who's there? Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue

(727 words)

Last evening offered more compelling evidence of why I should never try to be serious.

I was haranguing Allegheny County chief executive Rich Fitzgerald about what a  money maker it’d be if Pittsburgh dedicated an iconic Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain” statue right in the middle of Market Square, the central Pittsburgh place so oddly desolate and lacking artistic focus erecting a gallows would be a cheery improvement.

I’ve been pumping this idea for about five years now and in this case, I’m absolutely correct.

Other pop culture statues — from Rocky in Philly to The Bronze Fonz in Milwaukee — are enormously popular and have drawn droves of tourists to their towns. A Milwaukee tourism official told me in 2011 it cost $90,000 in donations to construct the statue that in its first year earned $9.5 million in worldwide media value.

I contend a statue of Pittsburgh native Kelly hanging from a lamppost would be the greatest of them all.

The American Film Institute in 2007 ranked “Singin’ in the Rain” as the fifth greatest American movie of all time. Experts ranked it ahead of “Gone With The Wind” (6), and “The Wizard of Oz,” (10) with only “Citizen Kane,” “The Godfather,” “Casablanca” and “Raging Bull” ranked (in order) better than the great Kelly flick.

Not a man or woman alive can’t relate at some level to that euphoric dance, in essence an upraised middle finger to anyone who finds themselves caught without an umbrella in the crapstorm of life.

And it’s perfectly Pittsburgh, a city that’s endured hard times and always come back swinging.

I was telling Fitzgerald this at a gathering of Pennsylvania hospitality leaders. They invited me to a board meeting to discuss me addressing their group in the fall.

Their leadership just loves my book and are very enthused about hearing me talk.

They think I’m very funny.

Fitzgerald thought I was just plain weird.

Who could blame him?

He’s used to being asked questions about traffic, housing, snow removal — the daily mundanities of running a great metropolis.

“Well, you make some very good points,” he said, backing away. “I appreciate your interest.”

He sounded sincere, but I’d lost him. I’d had a chance to make an impression on an important man and I blew it. 

Maybe I should have broke the ice with a Knock-Knock joke.

I’ve spontaneously begun thinking up lots of Knock-Knock jokes. They come to me straight out of the blue. It’s driving my family nuts. For instance:

“Knock-Knock.”

Who’s there?

“Denise.”

Denise who?

“Da knees are below da hips.”

Why a guy who comes up with jokes like that ever feels a need to be serious is a mystery.

In fact, I told mostly jokes with everyone I met last night and people seemed to really like me.

I think I owe it all to Juan and Amal.

I heard about the boys from Dave, the owner of The Pond and a master joke teller.

He told me the boys were identical twins born to parents too impoverished to care for them so they were given up for adoption. An Egyptian couple adopted one and named him Amal; the other was adopted by Mexicans who named him Juan.

The boys grew up in different worlds and remained a poignant memory for their birth parents.

Then one day Juan succumbed to natural curiosity and tracked down the address of his biological parents. He sent them a letter with a smiling selfie. The letter said he understood their decision and was grateful for the life they’d given him. He said he was strong, healthy, a straight A student. And he wanted to meet them.

The mother broke down in tears. She was overjoyed. She clutched the picture of the handsome son to her breast. 

But she admitted her fulfillment was incomplete. There was still the other boy. She told her husband she now ached to see him, too.

“It’s all right, honey,” said the father. “The boys are identical twins. If you’ve seen Juan, you’ve seen Amal.”

So there’s a good clean joke for you to share next time you want to make a good impression.

Me, I think I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to think of a Knock-Knock joke with a Gene Kelly statue punchline for next time I run into Fitz.

Related …

Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue … right now!

The Pond is for sale! Anyone wanna buy a bar?

Jeremy Renner & a really good boob joke

Me for Pittsburgh Mayor

Pittsburgh landmark defaced by Patriot fans

Playing skyline Scrabble with Pittsburgh building

Do friendships extend lives? Not friends like mine

(647 words)

I just a heard a radio news story that said having good friends is the key to longer life.

Clearly, the people working the radio news programs have cut back on their fact checkers.

In fact, your friends are killing you.

I know mine are killing me.

My friends never call me to attend a poetry reading, a vegen cooking class or join them for a bike trail fitness jag. My friends don’t call up and say, “Hey, I have a great idea. Let’s have a yoga party!”

No, my friends are the kind that call and say, “Hey, I have a great idea. Let’s have a TOGA party!”

It’s been like this since shortly after I climbed out of the playpen, stole the old man’s car keys and drove to the bad side of town to snag my first fake ID.

Name: Hap Hazard!

From then on it’s been nothing but good times with bad influences.

It was that way in high school, college, and through that slim but memorable epoch when I was gainfully employed.

The faces have changed, but the indelible characteristics are the same: My friends have always liked to laugh and to drink.

I write about being drunk a lot and some of it’s a colorful exaggeration for storytelling purposes. It didn’t used to be.

My life’s been haphazard ever since I became Hap Hazard.

I’m today a very social drinker. I enjoy being convivial amongst cheerful inebriates. It confuses the teetotaler, but getting drunk is a secondary priority to the primary motivation behind a long night of drinking.

Most people who drink do so because they love to laugh.

In fact, I could give up drinking today, but then I’d never see all my drunken friends again. They all love to drink and they like to go to places where it’s customary to order drinks if you’re going to sit there and talk.

If you’re in a bar and you’re not drinking, it’s just loitering.

Sure, I could sit there and sip booze-free Shirley Temples, but that would be fraudulent and my whiskey-guzzling friends would beat me up for what I’m sure they’d consider a rash betrayal.

Mine are the kind of friends that like me just the way I am.

In fact, I remember when I was a senior at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio, I was friends with two younger guys who sort of admired me for my recklessness. That’s common in college, especially for those educated in Athens where a popular T-shirt read: “Ohio University: A Fountain of Knowledge Where I Go To Drink.”

They said they were recounting stories of my year of bold heroics. Back then everyone called me “C.R.”

“Tim said, ‘You know if C.R. ever changes we’d have to kill him.’ I agreed. Killing you for changing even a little bit would be better because you changing would kill the rest us.”

How could having homicidal friends like that be adding years to my life?

I’m convinced if anyone ever said I needed an intervention, all my real friends would intervene before any actual intervention could take place.

This came up last November (see top link) when the doctor asked if anyone ever suggested I drink less.

I told her honestly, ““No, in fact, outside of my wife, everyone I know suggests I drink more. Without fail, every time I try and leave a bar, someone always says, ‘Oh, have one more! I’m buying!’ That makes leaving awkward. If I could have figured out a way to get paid to drink I could have afforded regular doctor visits years ago.”

So, no, I dispute the claim that my friendships are extending my life. My friends are killing me.

And may God bless each and every one of ‘em.

I’d much rather die of premature misadventure than boredom.

Related . . .

Results from my first physical … in 18 years!

My history of drinking at or near work

No 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

Friendship, The Boss & Thanksgiving drunk dialing

“I love you, men!”

Weddings, friendship and a pooka named Paul

About those rumors that I'm buying The Pond

(749 words)

I was standing in one bar on Independence Day when I heard I was the subject of a rumor involving another.

“Is it true you’re buying The Pond?”

Huh?

“Yeah, my wife said she heard you were buying The Pond and that’s why you started tending bar there,” he said.

Me buy The Pond?

There have been many times over the last five years when me buying a single $2 draft at The Pond seemed preposterous, so the rumor of me buying the whole building seemed like something I should probably encourage.

I said, “Tell your wife I’m not at this moment interested in buying The Pond. But it’s only 11 a.m. I could change my mind once the holiday parade is over. The sight of thousands of shiny firetrucks always leaves me feeling impulsive.”

It’s been years since I’ve been the subject of a really great rumor. 

There were many from when I quit my last job back in 1992. The surprising departure coincided to the day with when Val and I began what would be a three-year shack up so I was at the time very topical.

My favorite from back then was the rumor I decided to quit newspapering because I was convinced I had a promising future shooting billiards in dingy pool halls.

I did shoot a lot of pool back then and I was adept enough that I could beat most everybody in Latrobe — but for only about 90 minutes each night. And those 90 minutes occurred usually between my fourth and sixth beers.

If you caught me prior to the consumption of the fourth beer, I hadn’t built up the necessary nerve to execute the really tight shots. And if I was on the table after the sixth beer I was either too unsteady for precision or so ultra-steady — steady to the point of immobility — that my opponents had difficulty getting me to approach the table when it was my time to shoot.

So my window for excellence was narrow and fluctuated throughout the week depending on what time we started our then-daily guzzle.

I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if, as the rumor had it, I’d pursued a life of professional pool shark.

I guess I’d have wound up spending endless hours in dark taverns, associating with seedy people and living a dissolute life of wanton disregard for any meaningful purpose.

So I guess it’d be a very similar to what it’s been like freelance writing except I’d have more confidence when it came time to bank the 8 ball.

Many people are often the subject of rumors involving their health. It’s rumored they’re drinking too much, they’re hungover, that they were seen looking like they’d been without sleep for long stretches of time.

None of those rumors have ever been applied to me, although I do remember hearing one rumor many years ago that I once looked well.

Back when I was single, there were many wild rumors that I was screwing lots and lots of women. There were rumors that I’d been with married women, single moms, waitresses, cleaning ladies, professional women, and one particularly hot local weather girl.

These rumors were all started by me.

As I went years and years without getting any action, I thought it might be fruitful if people at least thought I was getting some.

What’s funny to me in hindsight is my recollection of how authoritatively these rumors were knocked down by my rumored counterparts. Their reactions ranged from angry denial to hysterical laughter.

As a group, these women could have taught Bill Clinton a thing or two on how to effectively deny having sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky.

So I think I’ll let this Pond rumor play out.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m buying The Pond!

I’m buying it ‘cause I’m loaded with dough and my savvy financial team said it would make more sense to spend it all in one lump sum instead of drizzling it out $20 a day in draft beer and fried fish specials.

I’m keeping the staff and giving everybody a big raise! And I’ll finally be free to make the one crucial capital improvement that Dave’s always resisted because he says it’s a stupid idea.

Yes, The Pond is finally getting a milkshake machine!

I’m doing all this because I’m loaded, have a sound investment plan and just because I’m such a sweet guy.

Or so rumor has it.

Related  . . .

GOP loves Clinton, 20 years too late

It’s a bobblehead world

A tale of turtles, pranks and Manti Te’o

How I nearly quit after Day 3 of my new job

(745 words)

So I’d gone nearly 22 years without a single co-worker. How long did it take for me to get involved in a petty dispute that made me want to quit?

About 17 hours.

I guess I’m just not cut out to work with my fellow man.

The dispute was over a mistaken pizza topping abbreviation.

That an unwanted vegetable was the root cause of me nearly quitting will probably give you some idea why I never enlisted in the armed forces.

Friday was my third night and all the customers had been friendly and patient and my regard for Dave has only increased as he’s become my boss in addition to my landlord, friend and the man I rely on to provide soothing inebriation. In any capacity, he’s just one of the world’s greatest guys.

And I’m not just saying that just because I’ve slipped right back into my comfortable old habit of brown nosing the guy who signs my checks. 

The Pond is famous for its delicious pizza and about half of the bar orders on a busy Friday night involve pizza. This is good for me because I have experience working in pizza joints all through Pittsburgh South Hills so I was confident I could handle those aspects of taking orders.

So when Jeff ordered a 4-cut pepperoni to eat at the bar, here’s exactly what I wrote: “4-ct, pep, Jeff, @bar.”

Here’s what came back for Jeff at the bar about 10 minutes later: A 4-cut with green peppers.

Jeff’s a regular and a good guy. He’s not going to throw a fit over what is a rare mis-order, especially when there’s a new guy who’s responsible. 

So I take what to me is a 4-cut G.P. back to the kitchen and explain the error.

Well, it was like I was a transplant surgeon explaining to a father that — whoopsie-daisy! — we mistakenly inserted into your ailing daughter a third kidney where we were supposed to put in that new heart.

The cook was furious.

“The order said ‘pep!’ Why would you write ‘pep’ on an order for a pepperoni pizza?”

As I was unsure whether he was kidding or not and he was holding a long, sharp knife, I explained I wrote “pep” as a handy abbreviation for pepperoni.

His eyes got wide. “If someone wants pepperoni, you’re supposed to write ‘meat!’ ‘Pep’ is the abbreviation if someone wants green peppers!”

I said, “Okay . . .” and began slowly backing out of the kitchen.

I told Dave and he explained that’s the way it’s always been in The Pond, which has been around since 1954.

“It goes back to when you could only get four toppings, pepperoni, mushrooms, green peppers and anchovies. Back then a common pizza order was written EBF, which stood for ‘Everything But Fish,’ which meant hold the anchovy.”

It was an interesting history lesson, but I wondered how today the cooks know to differentiate pepperoni from ham, bacon, sausage and other popular toppings that hail from the meat food group.

I went back into the kitchen about 10-minutes later to retrieve Jeff’s meat pizza and the cook was still seething. He explained it all to me again in the same insulting tone.

I told him, look, I get it. It’ll never happen again. I swear.

And it won’t. It’s now what I call a brain barnacle, something forever adhered to my cranium.

So when he brought it up a full week later that’s when I thought, f-this, I’m quitting.

And 25 years ago I surely would have. I can’t stand being talked to like that. But I realized that would be an immature reaction. The cook’s always been a friend and he’ll be so again when my brief stint as bartender concludes.

Plus I remember reading an old Arab proverb about how it’s a foolish Bedouin who sows discord in the tent where his lamb pilaf is prepared.

So I’m going to propose we have a little powwow about how we react to honest mistakes. I’m going to say we should discuss the need for mutual respect.

And because I still find it irresistible to needle anyone who’s really pissed me off, I’m going to suggest we call it a little pep talk.

Related . . .

On old girlfriends and great pizza

Thoughts on circular pizzas and horny Hut waitresses

Flight attendant’s spectacular quit

Taking my BRF (Bitchy Resting Face) for a walk

(835 words)

I was in the middle of a 1.5 mile forced march along a desolate stretch of highway when it occurred to me I really ought to be smiling even though there was no real reason to smile.

It was humid. Sweat was pouring off me. I was on the way to retrieve my car from the repair shop which was charging me $246 to repair the brakes and rotors and I was internally grumbling that the busted AC was going to remain busted after the mechanic told me it’d cost $770 to repair.

“It’s the condenser and those things aren’t cheap,” he said.

Then we are at AC loggerheads because even though condensers aren’t cheap, I am. I can’t see paying that much for AC as long as the windows roll down and my barber excels at bestowing nice tight haircuts that appear presentable no matter the weather conditions.

So why was I thinking I ought to be smiling?

Because my friend Jim does.

He’s an old buddy from my Nashville Banner days and he runs marathons. That’s not unusual. Many of us are familiar with fitness buffs who endure extreme conditioning.

But Jim makes sure he does it with a smile on his face.

He posted a picture of himself smiling at mile 22, a marathon benchmark when many other runners are either vomiting or appearing miserable.

He said he was doing something he enjoyed and wanted observers to know by the look on his face that he was having fun.

“I have to remind myself to do it, but I think it sets a good example.”

I’m reminded of Jim every time someone sees me in public and says I look really pissed off.

Happened again last week when I was crossing the street to come into the bar. 

Now, when I walk into a bar, especially The Pond, I’m usually approaching peak happiness. My cares dissipate. I’m looking forward to laughter. People are happy to see me. I’m often surprised my entrance isn’t accompanied by showers of confetti.

That’s why I was surprised when one of my buddies said, “What’s wrong with you? We saw you crossing the street and you looked like you were ready to kill someone.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” I said. “I was just lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“About how finding, securing and putting a rabbit into a hat requires just as much if not more magic as pulling it out of one.”

It’s something to think about next time you see my wife and wonder how come she’s not smiling.

I’ve heard what I guess is my condition sardonically described as BRF (Bitchy Resting Face). It started out as a “Funny or Die” video, but it’s now an appearance disorder being heralded by plastic surgeons eager to find another way to enrich themselves by preying upon the ever-descending self-image pop culture inflicts on us all.

They’re doing “expression surgeries” so BRFers like myself can appear more sunny when we’re standing at places like bus stops.

I was conflicted about grinning on my walk. It was no metaphorical walk in the park. It was down a desolate stretch of highway littered with trash and raccoon roadkill. I passed only one lone pedestrian and he wasn’t smiling either. He wasn’t exactly friendly, but he was at least informative. He said, “Watch out, there’s a bunch of needles up near the cloverleaf.”

So this was no barefoot tiptoe through the tulips.

I considered smiling and deemed it inappropriate.

I imagined people would see me and say, “Well, lookee there. It’s Rodell, on foot and grinning like an idiot. I guess he finally got his DUI. He’s probably already drunk right now and it’s only 2 p.m. ... Jackass.”

But it’s also different for me because I’ve authored a book that purports to be able to make readers happy.

Maybe someone sees me walking down the street with my BRF and says, “Would you look at that miserable bastard. That’s the guy whose book is supposed to teach ME how to be happy? I was going to buy one of his stupid books just to be nice, but I think I’ll just take that $15.95 up there to adult book store and splurge on some cheap porn.”

I’m proud of my book and believe in its message, but I’d have a real difficult time arguing the point if it’s ever put to me the way it is in that hypothetical.

I guess what I’m saying is if you see me trudging along some mean stretch of hypodermic-strewn highway and all you notice is my bitchy resting face, know I’m grinning somewhere deep inside

And if under those same conditions you see me beaming sunshine, you can surmise I’ve taken the admirable advice of my good friend and decided to let all the world know I’ll meet all its many marathon challenges head-on and with warmth and cheer.

Either that or I’m already good and drunk.

Related . . .

No AC making me cool

The vanishing stigma of typpos 

Honked off about Egyptian nose jobs

My one-man neighborhood trash crusade

Results of my weekend crashes, my computer/my car

"Use All The Crayons!" YouTube promo (behind the scenes)!

(1,060 words)

First off, I think our my initial mistake was having Dave Carfang and I appear as ourselves in the “Use All The Crayons!” FAQ video we produced and posted last week.

We should have hired actors.

I’m thinking Morgan Freeman for me and Ellen DeGeneres for Dave.

Having the great Freeman, an Oscar-winning 76-year-old African-American, play me, a white 51-year-old blogger/author/worm farmer, would be controversial among people to whom race most matters and controversy sells books.

I could maybe have met Bill O’Reilly!

I can hear the questions: “Did you feel like you had to pander to the blacks?Couldn’t you maybe have just acted a little blacker yourself?”

And casting Ellen to play Dave would just have been funny so that would have been worth it.

As it was, in addition to acting, I designed and dusted the set, wrote the screen play, directed and co-starred. I almost earned catering credit, too, but Dave wasn’t in the mood for Frito’s. 

Oh, if only you could seen the conceptual version in my head!

It was going to be professional. Scintillating. Inspirational. At under 2 minutes and 30 seconds, it was going to be hipster snappy.

It’s none of those things. It’s verbose. Sloppy. Sluggish. At 6 minutes and 32 seconds, I’d say it’s kind of flabby.

It’s almost like I’m describing Dave and myself!

But it was economical. We did it in one take.

Of course, in fairness to guys like Spielberg, we weren’t exactly filming “Schindler’s List.”

As there is no additional footage over which aficionados can pour, you’ll have to consider this the director’s cut, the behind-the-scenes peek that explains what we were thinking.

And what were we thinking?

I think it was this: “This is something really weird for two adult males to be doing.”

So it’s a good thing I didn’t include a scene were we look soulfully into one another’s eyes and kiss.

But I was intent on having something on YouTube that might further my mission of snagging speaking engagements. I thought it would be helpful to have someone interview me and post the answers to questions any perspective event planners might have.

No detail was overlooked.

I made sure my big poster of the cover was in the background. That’s what they in Hollywood call “product placement.”

The video begins with me pretending to type something on my laptop, as if Dave simply appeared out of thin air. I must say, I think I look pretty convincing. But to be fair, I’ve been pretending I’ve been typing something on my laptop since 1992.

In the background, careful listeners will hear Bob Dylan singing my favorite line from “Where Are You Tonight?” the 1978 rocker from Dylan’s “Street Legal” album. Many people have heard me quote it when they say how great it must be to have been my own boss for 22 years.

If you don’t believe there’s a price for this sweet paradise

Just remind me to show you the scars!

I gave Dave two minutes to read over the script before we rolled. I knew he didn’t have much time. The Friday lunch crowd was starting to come in and he’s yet to making acting in my cheesy promotions his priority.

Nerves, unfamiliarity with his lines and having to read and simultaneously operate the camera are the reasons why the camera sometimes shakes so bad my head completely disappears from the picture.

You can hear the script rattling as he pauses to turn the pages.

It was so bad, YouTube noted the chaotic filming and asked if I’d like to apply a stabilizing technique to the clip.

Never. I was as always striving for authenticity and I’d no sooner stabilize the film than I would stabilize Dave.

Some of my favorite parts are when I forget my own answers to my own questions and offhandedly ask Dave for a prompt.

“So, what makes your book so special, Chris?”

I went blank and ad libbed, “Well, that’s a great question, my friend. But could you be more specific?”

“Sure! Do people often buy more than one copy?”

“Funny you should ask. In fact, I once sold 23 people 168 copies. One woman bought 150 for her youth group.”

That’s true, too. In fact, everything I say is true. It’s just that I say it in so many contrived ways it sounds like I’m really laying on the old bullshit.

My favorite part of the video occurs at the 4:18 mark when Dave asks, “A lot of people have read your blog, ‘Eight Days To Amish,’ and are curious about your office space here above The Pond. Mind if we snoop around a little bit?”

“Be my guest!”

This was the part I did my most detailed directing. I told Dave to take the camera and slowly walk around the apartment showing the layout and all the neat stuff I have on the walls and ceilings. I thought people would get a kick out of seeing what it’s like for me to work in what is in essence a giant scrapbook.

I even walked around with my hands up making a little finger box like I’ve seen the real directors do.

So Dave asks the question and starts to pan away toward the corner.

Then he freezes!

It’s like he’s been hypnotized by the Bose stereo cabinet (made it myself in 10th grade!) sits surrounded by 50 bright copies of the book (more product placement!).

It’s like watching a Derby horse that can’t leave the starting gate. Then he starts making little observational noises like, “Hmm,” and “Ahh!”

You can hear me faintly in the background shooing him away, “Move, damn it! Don’t just stand there! Go!”

Area casting directors take note: it becomes obvious he takes direction well, because he races through the rest of the tour so quickly you can hear him starting to lose his breath.

It concludes with me thanking Dave and inviting everyone to come visit us both at The Pond.

I mean everyone, but I’m talking specifically to you, Morgan Freeman and Ellen DeGeneres!

Until that happens, I’m thinking of other ways to entertain and enlighten our little audience.

You know what that means.

Yes, it’s almost time for the Chris and Dave Puppet Show!

Related . . . 

Giving away my book a blue chip idea

Golf Channel at The Pond, a snappy recap

Busted naked at work again

2009 office party recap

I pranked the trash man today

Zombies at The Pond

I am now The Pond’s official twitterist