RIP Zack & the tears we shed for the ones we love

 

(715 words)

Zack Starrett, 33, died having never seen “Cool Hand Luke.” I blame myself for the shortcoming.

It was a night a couple years ago. We were talking music, movies, etc. when I told him my all-time favorite movie is “Cool Hand Luke,” the 1967 Paul Newman movie about a laid back convict in a Dixie prison who refuses to bend to the tyrannical authority determined to break his indomitable spirit.

Spoiler alert! They can’t so they kill the sassy bastard.

Zack told me he’d never seen it.

I seized his arm and said, “What are you doing the rest of the night?” By the urgency in my voice, he could surmise what I had in mind.  I wanted him to toss the 20 remaining customers, grab a 12-pack and come back with me to watch “Cool Hand Luke.”

Like four straight times.

Sure, he’d lose his job and I’d get in big Dutch with the missus, but I thought it was essential that Zack see “Cool Hand Luke.”

I think it’s because I didn’t want my friend to change.

I wanted him to, like Luke, smirk at hardship, defy conventional thinking and mock the mindsets that say march on the days you’d really rather float.

And now he’s gone. He died early Thursday morning, a victim of a cascading spiral of ever-worsening Covid-related maladies.

Friends are trying to console me by telling me he’s “gone to a better place.”

Better place?

I contend there’s no better place than pre-Covid Flapper’s on a Friday when Zack was on one side of the bar and everyone of us who was on the other side couldn’t imagine being any where else.

There’s a happy babble of conversation — laughter, encouragement, flirtations, complaints, defeats and victories — the whole stew of humanity condensed into one warm tavern.

It was such reliable fun I was sure it wouldn’t last.

I remember warning Zack and some friends to not take it for granted.

“Good times can overnight go away,” I said, pointing out that the owner could sell, the old building could tumble over into the parking lot “or, gadzooks, Zack, could pursue career stability.”

I never dreamed his departure would be so morbidly final.

And as much I liked and admired the 33-year-old Zack, I was looking forward to spending time with Zack at 40. Or 50.

I was looking forward to seeing where his ambitions had taken him, how he dealt with the challenges of fatherhood and if he ever planned on giving up chasing full lunar eclipses all over the globe (I hoped not).

Nothing in my planning folly had him exiting our lives so soon and without a proper goodbye.

Yeah, 2020, you just keep on giving.

Or is it taking?

I often wonder about how old we’ll be in heaven. Do we assume the age we are when we die? Do children who die in tragic circumstances remain children or are they allowed to grow up, to enjoy the illicit thrill of sneaking that first beer and then make out in the back seat with the pretty neighbor girl who all of a sudden has become interesting for reasons he can’t explain. 

Will Zack still be Zack next time we see him?

I hope so because that Zack was close to perfect. He was charismatic without ever appearing over-bearing; just without being judgmental; and ready fun in any circumstance.

That’s the trade-off: Die young and unblemished and your golden memory will be revered for eternity.

His death reminds me how almost every tear we shed stems from selfishness. We cry not for the fate of others, but for how the fate of others affects our own.

We fall and skin our knee. It hurts. We cry.

Our hearts get broken. Our lives and routines are plunged into tumult. We cry.

A parent or spouse dies. Emotional and financial support is disrupted. We cry.

Shortly after learning that Zack had died, my daughters busted me in the kitchen sobbing like I imagine my Mom did when Dad told her they’d just shot Kennedy.

They thought I was weeping because Zack had died.

Someday I’ll explain the reason I wept was because we’ve been denied the opportunity to watch Zack live.

Related …

We Heart Zack! A love story about a man and his bartender

We Heart Zack! A love story about a man and his bartender

It was about two years ago the bartender startled me by telling me out loud and in front of potential teasers, “I love you.” And it wasn’t said with even a hint of sarcasm like when I leave a quarter tip on a $25 tab.

Hey! You try properly positioning the decimal point on your tip calculator after four Wild Turkeys.

The bartender has long, dark hair, smokey eyes, bold tattoos and a great figure. The bartender is 33.

The bartender is named Zack.

So get those gooey romantic motivations out of your head right now.

He said it like he knew I’d be touched by the earnest declaration and that was all the motive he needed.

I tell you, the kid has a big heart.

Flummoxed by the flattery, I gathered myself up and said, “And I’ll see you tomorrow night!”

I’m of a generation that is still awkward about proclaiming our love for other men.

But I was touched because I like Zack and am aware he considers me a bit of a role model, albeit one who unwisely spends far too much time and money in Flappers, the cozy second floor tavern conveniently located precisely 27 steps below my Tin Lizzy office.

It’s an interesting time in my life. I have enough accumulated wisdom to be engaging and am still (for reasons even I cannot fathom) hopeful enough about the future to not be maudlin about the past. 

It helps, too, that he thinks I’m funny and puts thought into my less-obvious jokes, many of which I test drive with Zack before posting. It’s how I knew my ancient Egyptian reference worked.

“Did you know, Zack, that most mummies are daddies?”

He did not react. He just kept mixing another tropical rum-based drink he calls a “Zack-quari.”

Then he snorted. That kick-started a chuckle that led to genuine laughter. It wasn’t quite a belly-laugh, but it was thoracic in origin.

Brightening his day had brightened mine. It’s essential in life to have at least one person you see near daily who gets all your jokes. 

Not only does he get my jokes I entrust him to deliver the punchlines.

Sometimes I’ll play straight man and ask in a voice loud enough to be overheard throughout the bar, “Say, Zack, do you happen to have a robust, full-bodied wine that hails from the sunny slopes of Australia?”

With no pause, just full confidence, Zack will say, “You bet Shiraz we do!”

You don’t have to be a wine snob to get that one.

I don’t want to mislead anyone to think I believe he loves me exclusively. Far from it. He loves and adores his parents, his brother Josh, his girlfriend Michelle, and scores of friends and most of his customers.

Hell, I’ve even heard him say nice things about ol’ Buck.

And doing that takes a really, really big heart.

(Just kidding! Everyone loves Buck.)

What I’m trying to convey here is that Zack is a funny, loving, optimistic, cheerful, caring guy. He’s absolutely wonderful. Like I said, big-hearted.

Incredibly, his big heart is what doctors worry might kill him.

He overcame a nasty bout with Covid that left him susceptible to double pneumonia. It was November 14 he drove himself to Latrobe hospital where doctors were so alarmed they ordered him Life Flighted to UPMC-Presby in Pittsburgh.

He’s been in-and-out of Cardiac ICU ever since.

The reason? He has an enlarged heart. The valves are malfunctioning. He needs open heart surgery to install a heart pump, likely a bridge procedure until my friend can get a new heart.

And I am devastated. 

We live in a world awash in utterly heartless bastards thriving in malicious pursuits. They think only of themselves. Do they care more about money than humanity?

You bet Shiraz.

I ghoulishly scan the obits for those with hearts I feel are worthy of my friend.

You’d think with nearly 300,000 U.S. Covid deaths there’d be a bumper crop of useful organs on the shelf, but current research about the viability of transplanting organs from infected donors is inconclusive.

You could say it’s very disheartening. 

That’s the kind of joke I used to look forward to sharing with Zack. 

I miss my friend.

And at a time when pandemic reigns and millions of good-hearted Americans are fighting infection, I’m saving the majority of my prayers for the big dude with the bad heart.

Because, Zack, I love you, too.

We all do.

 

Tin Man Shoe Shine open for business!

(510 words)

Here’s a sampling of the supportive comments I got when I told friends I am starting a shoe shine business:

“You’re kidding, right?

“Did Val throw you out before or after you told her?”

“What? Did you think opening a bait shop would thrust you into a tougher tax bracket?”

As an old worm farmer, I should have thought of a bait shop first. Worms are good office mates — quiet, industrious, don’t cause office squabbles by wearing their tiny MAGA hats.

But selling worms by the cup sounds boring and I’m afraid it would lead to exotic recipe browsing whenever my stomach began to growl.

So please give a warm welcome to …

TIN MAN SHOE SHINE

“He’s Got the Heart if You’ve Got the Soles!”

Tin Man is an obvious nod to my Tin Lizzy base of operations. The name won out over …

• “Goodfella Shoe Shine! I Got Your %#$@-in’ Shine Box Right Here!”

• “Toe-tal Eclipse of the Shoe: Shines So Dazzling They Blind!”

• “The Shining: Heeere’s Johnny … With Your Like-New Shiny Shoes!”

So why shine shoes (Professional shine, $8; Presidential Shine, $15)?

About two years ago, I started becoming enamored with nice shoes. This roughly coincides with when the goddamned Parkinson’s began to impose a limp. I figured quality shoes would ease any discomfort.

And I sensed there might be an interesting book in it. The proposal I’m pitching is called, “No Business like Shoe Business.”

It’s about how man, the only animal to spend 80 percent of its entire existence on its back or its butt, became the only animal to spend $93 billion-a-year on footwear.

I got a pair if nice if unpretentious dress shoes — Johnston & Murphy, Oxford black CapToes, $199 — and from scratch began to acquire the brushes, polishes, waxes and dressings one needs to enhance the appearance of fine leather shoes.

I’d stumbled — limped, really — into a satisfying hobby. Shining shoes with the aromatic potions felt therapeutic.

But I only had two pair of dress shoes. I’ve since learned the average man has 12 pair of shoes; the average woman 27 (four pairs of which never leave the box).

I began to realize I was scanning pricey shoe web sites with the same enthusiasm the adolescent me once saved for the porno magazines.

I dream of buying some real show off shoes.

Still, I could own two dozen pair of shoes and not exhaust all the polishes.

A community shoe shine business could solve a lot of problems. I could pitch it to church men’s groups and tie it in with book talks.

I see no downside.

I already have one satisfied customer. Prominent Latrobe attorney and all-around good guy Chuck Mason got two pairs of loafers done last week. That’s them up top (afters above). I contend the difference is dazzling.

So please get in touch, my local friends, if you have some shoes that could use a shining. People who matter will notice.

Plus, there’s this from master English shoe maker George Glasgow Sr.:

“Invest heavily in your bed and your shoes. Because if you’re not in one then you’re in the other!”

Related …

Arch comments on footwear

My new shoe fetish

Keynoting in my beloved “pimp”shoes

Ugly shoes/cute butts

Thumbs up to professional shoe salesmen/women

Today my 5th anniversary at Tin Lizzy; Stop in!

(667 words)

Had I known I was destined for local infamy, I would have certainly kept the registered legal notice.

Because it was historic. I mean, lots of garden variety bums get thrown out of Latrobe bars, but I’ve never heard of any who’ve been evicted from one.

It takes real staying power to require an attorney to file papers demanding your removal. 

Well, either staying power or a really big ass.

But that’s what happened to me 5-years-ago this week. And — get this — it wasn’t just any bar. It was The Pond! At the time, Latrobe’s best bar!

I was telling this story the other day with all the dramatic flourishes to Buck Pawlosky, owner of the Tin Lizzy and since this very day in 2015, my landlord.

I wish I could say, he kept interjecting, “Then what happened? Then what happened? Don’t leave anything out! Details! I want details!”

But he said none of that. He stood there with the look of a man who is impatient for someone to buy him a martini. It’s his native dispoosition.

When I finished, he said, “Has it really been 5 years? Seems more like 2.”

I don’t know whether that conveys he’s enjoyed my company or if he was thinking, well, it’s about time to start drawing up eviction papers of my own.

But it really has been 5 years.

A change in Pond ownership meant they were clearing the building and that meant after 8 years there, I had to go.

It hit me hard. Not only was I losing my regular bar and all my A-Team drinkin’ buddies, I was losing my office — my identity.

I was adrift. I was bereft. And, yes, I was thirsty.

I stopped in to The Tin Lizzy and told Micah the bartender of my woe. In an instant, he transformed from bartender to problem solver/realtor. He said the whole 3rd floor was vacant. He gave me a tour.

It was disheveled and in need of repair. Parts of it looked like it could use a good scrubbing.

We were practically twins!

I hung posters, pictures, keepsakes and cranked up the stereo. I was right at home — that is if home has beneath it three distinct bars, one fantastic kitchen, and numberless interesting and friendly folk.

I contend my office, free of any stuffy pretense, looks like every office would if powerful executives didn’t feel compelled to impress visitors with how their offices looked.

For instance: One year Val asked what I wanted for my birthday. I told her I wanted a Bob Dylan Theme Time Radio Poster.

Her: “What are you in the 8th grade?”

Me: “Nope, but my office is.”

I’m reluctant to gush about just how much I enjoy being here because I know Buck will threaten to raise my rent.

In the past three years, I’ve written three popular books with The Tin Lizzy playing an increasingly large role in the stories, so much that numerous readers from all over stop in to see the place and meet me up here in the office. It’s very flattering.

Invariably, each is very respectful, sheepish almost, like they were encroaching on a VIP operating room where solitude was required.

They peek around the corner and say, “Ooh, we’re sorry to disturb you!”

“Disturb me?” I say. “Hell, I’ve been disturbed since 1992!”

(That, by the way, is the year I quit working for other people. Twenty-eight years. Now, THAT’S disturbing.)

But I feel very privileged to enjoy some notoriety in such a charming, quirky place. 

So today calls for a big party. Unfortunately, big parties are to be discouraged these dreadful days.

But if you’re comfortable wearing a mask, all are welcome today — heck, any day — to stop by for a chat, a building looksee and maybe a socially distant beer up here on the 3rd floor, The Land The Mops Forgot.

We can giggle, joke, belch and behave all juvenile like we're still in the 8th grade.

Just like my office.

Related …

Banned from Latrobe C.C. … Me!

I am being evicted from The Pond

My Tin Lizzy ghost story

It’s a bobblehead world

My new Tin Lizzy office

A mishmash of catch-up items

I let an important “professional” anniversary pass without comment the week before last. June 30 marked the 28th year since I walked out on the last job I’ll likely ever have. Thus, I’ve only had three jobs since I began sprouting chest hairs — and one of them was at the Pizza Hut. I quit working for the man because I was convinced I had a bright and lucrative future as an author/freelance writer/bon vivant.

A bon vivant is someone who enjoys a sociable and luxurious life.

So I guess I’m one out of three.

• I remember coming home in those early years and Val would ask how my day went, if I’d achieved anything productive. “I won’t know for six months.” I I was lying. Twenty-eight years later and I still don’t know.

• I’ve had people ask me what’s the longest I’ve ever gone without blogging. “That’d be from 1963 through 2008.”

• I am an incorrigible smart ass

• This is my first blog post since June 15 when I wrote about being a white guy and getting out of a traffic citation. I apologize for not blogging more frequently as of late. And why I feel compelled to apologize for not doing something that pays squat is something I can’t explain.

• As of late I was busy putting together this video about how my new book got its new title. The book is a collection of essays taken mostly from this deadbeat blog. I wanted to call the book, “A New York Times Best Seller (by a small town BSer).” ’twas a tantrum of a title by yet another writer who’ll do anything for attention.

• So the new book is called, “Undaunted Optimist: Essays on Life, Laughter & Cheerful Perseverance.” How do I think it’s going to do? I’m, duh, optimistic it’ll do well, but fearful I won’t really know for 28 years. My publisher is encouraging me to stack up pre-orders, as robust interest at this stage will boost launch/marketing budgets. Interested in helping? You can pre-order right here.

• The cover is already scoring a lot of flattering attention. Taken by Brian Henry, it’s one of those pictures that looks so good I’m surprised they let me in it.

• A friend just said I’m “lookin’ fine” in the picture. In fact, that picture was taken in, gulp, 2015. She asked how I’m feeling. I feel good, but not like I felt in ’15. The difference? Today I have Parkinson’s, but in ’15 I was likely hungover so I guess you could call it what the bookies say is a push

• In hindsight, I feel like I lived four straight decades like I was a lit stick of dynamite, ever ready to detonate. Lately, I feel more like a candle, one that gives off a steadier, more illuminating burn. But a prank candle, one that keeps reigniting just when you think you have the damn thing blown out.

.

• In an effort to preserve the remaining tatters of blog tastefulness I’ll resist seeking the perfect “blow me” punch line to that tempting set up.

• Another milestone surfaces on Wednesday, this one too momentous to ignore. The 15th marks the 5th year since I moved my office from The Pond — incredibly, I was evicted — and into the fabulous Tin Lizzy. I think how I got here and how being here has influenced my writing deserves a stand-along blog post on Wednesday …

Any volunteers?

• I’m not going to call it a party and I don’t want to encourage anyone to violate prudent social distancing protocols, but I’ll have a half-assed open house from 4 to 8 if anyone wants to stop by and say hello. More on Wednesday.

• Thanks for all your cheer and support!

Birthdays; Dylan & this blog & my Michael Jordan story

(940 words)

This past weekend this blog turned 12 and Bob Dylan, 79. It is pure coincidence, but I’ve always used Dylan as a creative benchmark against which I measure the blog’s success.

By that standard the blog is clearly superior to Dylan and has been since Day 1.

The blog, you see, was communicating in complete sentences since its inception, something Dylan didn’t do until he was probably 18 months.

He didn’t write “Like a Rolling Stone” until he was 24. The blog was just 4 when it came up with this gem: “Loud bulimics make the worst neighbors. They can never keep it down.”

Just imagine what greatness the blog will display when its voice changes and it begins to sprout pubic hairs.

Of course, it’s all speculative. Another difference: The boy who became Bob Dylan eventually matured.

No indication that’s in the cards for this blog.

A friend — known her since high school — sweetly wondered if I’m feeling okay. She said she detected a lesser visibility on the blog and through social media.posts

Fear not. I’m fine. I’ve not tested COVID  positive. My Parkinson’s symptoms are stable. I’m not an unarmed black man walking down a Minneapolis sidewalk (or one jogging through Brunswick, Georgia/ eating Skittles in Sanford, Florida, etc).

Generally, it’s a good rule of thumb that the less you hear from me here, the more I’m thriving in places that make a difference to our accountant.

In fact, yesterday was the best day of my career. And it’s grown-up stuff, not like someone gave me a coupon for some free Cheese Stix down at the Sheetz, the ubiquitous area convenient mart that sells everything but sheets.

I’ll share the news with you next week.

—-   <<  >>   —-

It was an ironic COVID pity that I was in a building with three bars and I couldn’t find a soul with whom to drink. 

“There are those who worship loneliness. I’m not one of them.” That might sound like me, but it’s not. It’s Bob Dylan, a quote on his website right below a news post announcing the cancelation of his summer shows.

Is this the end of his fabled Never Ending Tour? Begun June 7, 1988, Dylan has toured ever since. That’s 3,066 shows, the last being Dec. 8. What the hell is he going to do this summer without the road routine? He hasn’t been married since 1992 so there’s no mile-long honey-do list. Maybe he’s cultivating bonsai trees or binge-watching Ozarks.

It would be super cool if he read this blog and decided — what the hell? — I think I’ll stop by the Tin Lizzy and have a drink that guy whose blog was born the same day as me. It could happen. He’s very capricious.

I’ll let you know if he does. 

—-   <<  >>   —-

My Michael Jordan story: It was probably 2001. I was a contributing writer to flashy upstart Maximum Golf magazine. They asked me to snag a press pass for the Mario Lemieux celebrity tournament at Nevillewood C.C. near Pittsburgh. Matt Lauer, Charles Barkley and others from that crowd were there. But the biggest deal was MJ. My editors wanted me to score an exclusive interview with him.

My editors thought nothing of requesting the impossible

He was such hot stuff, the press was given instructions on how to deal with him. The instructions were, in essence, do not. Do not address him. Do not make eye contact. And do not even think of asking him a question.

We were to treat him as if he were invisible.

I couldn’t do it. I remember seeing him on the practice range and thinking, man, that is the most magnificent specimen of a human being I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t believe we were of the same species. Tall, perfectly proportioned, poised and rippling muscles from head to toe, he looked like something out of Greek mythology (if Greek mythology were integrated).

So I decided I had to mess with him.

As he began heading to the tee, a posse of 7 or 8 dumpy little white guys fell in to shield His Airness from me, a dumpy little white guy.

My press pass alerted them to my professional  menace. I spoke, “Mr. Jordan,” and held out a copy of the magazine as we walked briskly across the range. I remember one guy glaring at me and mouthing the words, “NO QUESTIONS!”

Too late.

“Sir, this is Maximum Golf Magazine. The Wall Street Journal just declared it the most exciting new sports magazine in the past 20 years …”

His security ring looked like they were eager to murder me. Jordan was so supremely stoic he seemed to deny my very existence. Still, I pressed on.

“I’d like to interview you for 10 minutes. In exchange, I promise we’ll put your picture on the cover of the next issue …

“We think it’ll make you famous.”

I’ve said funnier things, but situationally, it may have been the funniest thing I’ve ever said.

The group exploded with laughter. Where there had been tension, there was now unexpected delight. No one was laughing louder than Jordan. I sensed he doesn’t get to laugh a lot and my joke reminded him how wonderful surprise laughter feels.

Still laughing, he said, “Man call my agent!”

I never did. 

—-   <<  >>   —-

Think of all the food you ate over the last 24 hours. Was any of it free? Now think of all the media you consumed to feed your brain. Did you pay even a dime for any of it? Did it nourish or decay? Happy Birthday donations welcome here.

Or you can always buy a book or two. Or …

I still accept coupons for Sheetz Cheese Stix!

Random thoughts on baseball's longest game & Tin Lizzy lawn care

Looks like it’s yet another day at The Tin Lizzy where it’s just me and Buck — and you know what that means.

Every toilet seat in the building is UP!

Because you just never know …

• I’m about finished with the best book I’ve read in 10 years. It’s “Bottom of the 33rd: Hope, Redemption & Baseball’s Longest Game,” by Dan Barry (2012). I’ve read a lot of great books during that time, but this is the first one since Tony Horwitz’s “Confederates in the Attic” that makes me want to buy by the box to hand out to friends. It’s that good.

• If you happen to see Buck, be sure to tell him how nice The Tin Lizzy lawn looks. It was mowed over the weekend and he takes great pride in its appearance. That’s it in the picture.

• The longest game in professional history happened April 18, 1981, at McCoy Stadium in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, between the Rochester Red Wings and the hometown Red Sox. The game included future Hall of Famers Cal Ripken and Wade Boggs. It was supposed to start at 7:30, but was delayed 30 minutes to correct a lighting malfunction. Once it “finally” got underway, it went for the next eight hours until it was suspended in the 32nd inning at 4:08 a.m. It was so cold that players began burning bats and benches in trash barrels to warm their hands.

• Some day I’m going to take a lawn chair, a blanket, a beach umbrella, spread ‘em all out on the Tin lawn and have a little picnic.

•Pawtucket pitcher Luis Aponte was pulled from the game at 3 a.m. He went home to find his wife was furious and, suspecting he’d been out drinking, wouldn’t let him in. “She said there was no way a stupid baseball game would ever go that late on Easter morning,” he said. Refused entry and with everyplace closed, where did Aponte go? “Back to the ballpark to watch the end of the game.”

• The Tin lawn would make a newsworthy offbeat cemetery for maybe three guys all nicknamed “Slim” or one freakishly tall dude nicknamed “Stretch.”

• My gypsy parking lot book sale can be deemed a success. Sold 14 books and was cheered by all the friendly encouragement.

• You can protest the quarantine closures etc., but you should sign an affidavit stating that if you catch the coronavirus you will agree to not seek treatment in a hospital until those who adhered to recommended considerations have been treated and all the doctors and nurses get to stay home for two weeks until they’re relaxed and caught up on NetFlix.

• It was my turn to pick the movie the other night. I took a chance and picked “Terms of Endearment,” 1983 best picture winner. It was generally well-received. I like it alot. I’d forgotten it was written by “Lonesome Dove” author Larry McMurtry.. I can never think of McMurtry without recalling him saying when he was growing up in West Texas it was so desolate his phone number was 10.

• When Boggs, regarded as a selfish show-boat by Pawtucket teammates, drove in the tying run 21st inning, he said, “There was all this commotion in the dugout. I couldn’t tell if they wanted to hug me for tying the game or slug me for tying the game.”

• Rochester outfielder Dallas Williams set a still-standing record for futility by going 0-for-15 at the plate causing sportswriters to say “he had a whole bad month in one night.”

• For the record, my phone number growing up was 412 561-0410. I still call it once in a while to see who has it now. No one’s ever answered.

• Only 17 fans remained through the entire game. Major League Baseball rewarded them each with lifetime passes to any game. The gesture caused Pittsburgh broadcaster Beano Cook to remark, “Haven’t they suffered enough?’

• After a string of frantic calls, the league president suspended the game after eight hours. The game resumed June 23 with Pawtucket needing just 18 minutes to win in the 33rd inning. Future Met star Bob Ojeda was the winning pitcher; Rochester’s Steve Grilli was the losing pitcher. He’s the father of former Pirate standout Jason Grilli.

• Sorry, this went on a little longer than I expected, but these things happen in bloggin' and baseball.