Blog tourists coming to Youngstown!

(638 words)

I’m hosting an office warming party Wednesday after nearly nine months because the office has been a bit chilly lately.

Yes, my trusty little space heater accomplishes the same thing but I’m feeling social and there’s a risk of electrical fire when you pour beer into a functioning space heater.

And that’s a mistake you make just once!

Plus, tomorrow starts the tourist season in Youngstown. I have two blog tourists coming all the way from Nadine’s Bar on Pittsburgh’s South Side to visit.

It’s confusing to anyone not from Latrobe when I say I live in Youngstown. They think we live in Ohio.

Nope. This Youngstown is a one-stop light bedroom community to those who commute 1.1 miles to bustling Latrobe proper, sort of what Queens is to Manhattan. Another key difference: unlike the City That Never Sleeps, parts of Latrobe seem to have been sound asleep since 1958.

But we love it here. It’s why I’m always promoting Latrobe, pop. 8,338, in general and today Youngstown, pop. 320, in particular.

Youngstown is hoppin’!

Sure, in some ways, it falls 66 percent short of having all the criteria of being an actual town, which in the words of one of my attorney buddies is “one store, one whore and one barber.”

We have a store and I imagine we have at least one whore, although she’s yet to introduce herself — and there’s a lot of inherent charm in any town where the whores are shy.

And we have no barber, which thanks to near-universal male pattern baldness isn’t as great a grooming crisis as you’d imagine.

What we do have is seven distinct places to drink and dine.

And Youngstown has Arnold Palmer! Yes, Latrobe Country Club is actually in Youngstown, right down the street from Arnold Palmer Regional Airport, the Arnold Palmer Marriott SpringHill Suites and Arnold Palmer himself.

Right in town, there’s the popular Falbo’s Rainbow Inn family restaurant and tavern. Our kids love their spaghetti. We have the fireman’s club and last fall, the Youngstown Grille & Market opened. They’ve been a key addition, providing superior diner food, friendly staff and convenience store staples available at the front counter. 

And as of last month, Youngstown has a prestigious structure few other major metropolises enjoy.

We have our own Trump Towers!

The candidate has some ardent fans who are decorating our town with yuge “Make America Great Again!” posters. 

It’s controversial. Half our residents are supportive, the other half are left to speculate if the nearby security camera works or is dummy enough to allow scot-free sabotage.

Overseeing it all is my office on the third floor of the Tin Lizzy, the building that has history, great food and booze! Booze! Booze!

The building dates back to the 1750s and Arnold Palmer spent his infancy on the second floor.

It’s this kind of boosterism that just the other week drew my first two blog tourists — Earl and Greg — to Youngstown.

What are blog tourists?

They come to your bar, invite you down for drinks, buy your books and demand you accept money for entertaining them for free with the years of faithful blogging.

My kind of people!

We had such a great time I asked them to come back tomorrow.

“And this time,” I said, “bring more money!”

I was kidding. Really, it’s just fun making friends like that and is very gratifying to hear people enjoy the blog and the books so much.

So stop by tomorrow. Festivities commence at 4 p.m.

We can all enjoy a good giggle, some drinks, some good food. If you have too much to drink, you can stay at one of our fine hotels or crash on the floor.

Yes, here in tiny Youngstown, Pa., you can get it all.

All but a whore and a haircut.

Related …

Brushes with celebs & #TooCoolToSelfie (featuring Earl/Nadine’s!)

I’m loving cornhole! Who wants to join me!

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Jaffre’s opens today at Tin Lizzy!

Is the Tin Lizzy haunted?

Someone stole Buck’s book at Tin Lizzy

Bird watching in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood

Those of us who raise our children in small towns feel superior to the uncouth louts raising theirs in big, rude cities.

This is particularly acute with me because we live in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

It’s true. My mailing address is Latrobe, Pennsylvania, but in fact we live in tiny Youngstown, pop. 981, birthplace of both Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers, two international icons renown for sportsmanship, kindness and proper manners.

I understand it’s unbecoming of the legends, but the association makes me feel snobby.

But along with that social cache comes responsibility. We residents need to live up to these stellar examples. Thus our sons and daughters will be polite, mannerly and kind to strangers -- at least until they’re 16 and start driving in traffic when all bets are off.

That’s why this was such a disturbing weekend. Our youngest -- she’ll be 6 in June -- expressed a cheerful eagerness to give the finger to a neighbor with whom my wife had a nasty public parking dispute.

It happened four doors from the town stop light where someone subversive has altered the pedestrian crossing sign so “don’t walk” appears to be permanently giving everyone the finger.

Yes, birds are flying all over Youngstown.

All this takes place days after I coined a new parenting guideline that came to me when my wound-up daughters were hoochie-cootchie dancing around the living room.

“Girls! Girls!” I beseeched. “How about a little more class and a little less ass!”

As child-raising homilies go, “More class, less ass” isn’t exactly the kind you’d hear Mr. Rogers share, but it rhymes so I find it irresistible.

The parking incident took place on Thursday at the school bus stop. My wife parked along Main Street in a perfectly legal manner. No paint. No signs. No meters.

The girls got off the bus and dashed into our arms. It was a scene of wholesomeness worthy of “The Waltons.” That’s why it was so jarring when the elderly lady came out on her porch and began screaming at Val.

“You can’t park there! You think you can park anywhere you want? I oughta call the cops!”

The girls were alive with interest. They’d never seen anyone shout at Mommy before.

Val responded admirably by pointing out we were only there five minutes and there was no need to be so mean.

I remained quietly alert. I noted the woman’s roof had a satellite dish, which meant she had access to cable news programs. I sensed by her irrational hostility to gentle things like Val she was a Fox News viewer.

That meant she was well-versed in the “Stand Your Ground” laws and would have felt well within her rights to gun Val down in front of her family two days before Mother’s Day.

I began searching the driveway for heavy rocks to chuck in case she drew her Glock.

Val wisely de-escalated, said she was sorry for ruining her day, and we left.

As this is a small town, Val realized on Sunday from her prominent seat at the church organist bench that the crazy woman is a fellow Lutheran who sits about 15 pews from the pulpit.

What we small towners gain in quaint, we sacrifice in anonymity.

The incident occurred during an interesting time in the lives of our daughters. 

The 11 year old, the one who’d never dream of helping her little sister learn things like basic arithmetic, is an avid educator when it comes to teaching swear words and gestures she’s learned during 5th grade recess.

Just last week she taught her how to flip the bird and told her do so whenever anyone makes her angry. I expect I’ll see it tonight when I tell her having a third Oreo might diminish her appetite.

What’s odd is how something that comes so naturally to any adult with a driver’s license is actually a motor skill that requires childish practice.

She intently holds her little right hand up and with her left hand gently pushes the middle finger out. If you saw it from a distance, you might think she’s cradling, not flipping, a different kind of baby bird.

I don’t know who’s strategically applying electrical tape to the cross walk sign, but it’s becoming a local tourist attraction. People gather on the side walk to point and laugh.

You could argue it’s not very classy, but I prefer to think of it as a harbinger of cultural migration.

The big city birds have winged their way clear to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.