I suffer from a glibness deficit

(729 words)

This is going to surprise anyone who remembers me from the days when I’d race nude across campus at Ohio University, but I’m really kind of shy.

Not in general. I enjoy conversation and meeting strangers.

But I’m terrible at parties, especially when I’m by myself, as I was last night at a corporate mixer on the Gateway Clipper on Pittsburgh’s Monongahela River. I last year became a VisitPittsburgh partner in the hopes it would lead to more local speaking engagements.

It has. Plus, the VisitPittsburgh people are great. They’ve been uniformly warm and encouraging. And they have these great monthly socials.

There’s food, drink and the happy buzz of motivated and engaged people ambitious to achieve shared goals.

And I’m so not one of them.

I just don’t have the icebreaker persona that would lead me to barge into any of the little conversational teepees bubbling throughout the ballroom.

So I stand all alone in the corner, nursing my drink, resisting the urge to check my phone and wondering if I should just dash out the door.

It wouldn’t be the first time. I once bolted a truly world-class party because I was alone and uncomfortable.

It was the year 2000 and Maxim Magazine invited me and other contributors to a gaudy bash in an dingy warehouse in Manhattan’s trendy Chelsea neighborhood.

Moby was the celebrity DJ; guests included Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow.

The room was throbbing with excitement.

I hated it.

It’s amazing I left so early because it was one of those parties where I was certain I could have gotten laid.

By Madonna!

But I was bored. I went down the street to a reliably divey bar and watched the baseball game.

I think I suffer from a glibness deficit.

I guess in the eyes of Tom Cruise that’s okay.

Remember in 2005 while promoting “War of the Worlds,” Cruise became enraged at Matt Lauer for daring to suggest some prescribed drugs can produce positive results.

Cruise, shaking his head in disbelief said, “Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt — you don’t even know — you’re glib.” 

Glib means performed with ease and informality; superficial or insincere.

It hasn’t gotten any better for Laurer in the past 11 years. He’s still glib, but now he’s also bald.

But right when I was thinking I could probably use some of Lauer’s glibness my isolation was shattered by recognition.

A voice from across the room yelled, “Hey, Rodell, you’re a (sounds like) truckin’ bassmole!”

I beamed with joy. I was someone! Truly, being called a (sounds like) truckin’ bassmole is preferable to the soft pain of nothingness.

In fact, it was someone who’d heard me speak and felt familiar enough with my sense of humor to address me with profanity.

He was right. I busted out laughing.

And the night started to get better. He introduced me to a friendly circle of people and several of them, too, had heard me speak and were very flattering.

It was such a relief to be included.

It’s good to be aware of the feeling, I’m sure, because it pushes me to reach out anytime I see someone looking alone and uncomfortable in the bar or at a party where I’m on familiar turf.

It’s what we should all do.

I rounded out the night with a great conversation with another wallflower who felt the same.

We talked for 30 minutes about our families, our travels and how we’d rather sit in a bar and talk than be on the social death march of a forced mingle.

For those on the outside, they’re like high school reunions only without any awkward history of necking or study hall wedgies.

But I wound up staying the whole time and, boy, am glad I did because when it was time for the concluding raffle, my name was drawn.

“And the winner is Chris Rodell and ‘Use All The Crayons!’”

The prize was a $50 gift certificate from Pamela’s Diner in Pittsburgh.

We love Pamela’s! Everyone does.

I’m so glad I stayed. Winning the gift certificate just ratified what I was already feeling.

I am a winner. It’s just that some party-goers haven’t gotten the word yet.

But I don’t regret past party departures.

Leaving a party with something from Pamela’s was way better than leaving a party with anything I’d have likely gotten from Madonna.

Related …

Enough already! Awash in staples

Matt Lauer’s got the blues

This blog a Pittsburgh “best of.” No kidding!

Random thoughts on Letterman, speaking and my weenie ways

A 30-minute YouTube of my rousing comeback

(638 words)

The pundits are all filling out their scorecards about the winners and losers from yesterday’s big event.

The GOP presidential debate?

Nope.

I’m talking my Pittsburgh comeback special before the National Association of Consumer Credit Administrators conventioneers at the Sheraton Station Square. 

So who won? It was a tie.

Everybody won!

I call it my comeback special because that’s what historians called the August 5, 1968, NBC show that catapulted Elvis back to pop prominence. He’d been away for about five years making movies and boinking buxom Hollywood starlets.

Me? I’d been away six days moping about my colossal Richmond failure before dozens of important Virginia meeting planners.

So the only thing The King and I had in common was we were both all shook up.

What happened in Richmond had me rattled.

I’d asked for a traditional podium and mic stand — no powerpoint or other techie distractions — but wound up with a handheld mic.

Given the logistics, I eschewed the trusty podium and my notes and sort of wandered around the stage babbling.

(“Use All The Crayons!” colorful living tip of the day 313: “No matter what the situation, how dignified or refined, always without fail shout, ‘Gesundheit!’ anytime you hear someone use the word ‘eschew.’”)

So all week I wandered around in a funk wondering if I’d lost my mojo.

Turns out, I had not. I found it where it for me has always been.

Right there in the ‘burgh, baby.

This was the first keynote address I’d landed since becoming a partner with VisitPittsburgh.com

Partnering bestows me with contact info to every major convention coming to town.

The organizer said they usually don’t have speakers from outside the consumer credit field.

“We’ve tried it but it never works,” he said. “Our membership is very focused and every motivational speaker we've ever had has always failed to connect.”

I told him I was different. He wouldn’t pay a speaker’s fee, but did throw in a freebie night for me and the family at the Sheraton and said I could sell books at the end.

“But you probably won’t sell any,” he pessimistically added, saying his members are pragmatic and prone to thriftiness.

So with the previous week’s failure fresh on my mind and the the group’s mindset, I was very nervous as I approached the podium — and mic stand, thank you very much.

How did it go?

Everything about the day went exactly opposite of the week before.

At the end there was a huge ovation, the organizer came up, shook my hand and said, “Excellent!” A line to buy books began forming.

He later said, “You sure proved me wrong. Before you spoke, I didn’t think you’d sell one book. How many did you sell"

I’d sold 21 hard copies and saw a big spike in Kindle sales.

But the bigger spike was in my restored confidence. Members from as far as Alaska and all the lower 48 gave me a good gush.

Best part?

I had it together enough I remembered to push the little red record button on my video camera.

I’ll be cutting this up for snazzier promos, but I’ve had interest from people who’ve said they want to see an uncut speech so here it is The YouTube link is right here. For some reason (and I’m in too big a hurry to fix right now), it seems to start at the 3 minute mark. Drag it back to the beginning for intro.

Some rough spots, yes, but I think it’s solid record of what an audience of about 80 initially indifferent strangers get when they hear me speak over dessert.

I’ll post a full review of all my YouTubers coming up.

But it was a great day. Thank you, NACCA members from all over America, for coming to Pittsburgh to make me feel like Elvis.

Thank you. Thank you, very much.

Related . . .

The deflating results of my ballyhooed Virginia talk

“Use All The Crayons!” YouTube promo

My book signing, a pit bull & a big bag of cash

I speak: some laugh, some cray, some snooze

Ukuleles, YouTube exposure & what Jim Krenn has to do with it

The UnProfessional: I’m on KDKA Saturday night

My unending failures to get Pittsburgh a Gene Kelly statue

(729 words)

There was a homeless guy playing a battered old saxophone smack dab in the middle of Pittsburgh’s Market Square Wednesday when I strolled through.

And I’m making the stereotypical assumption he was homeless. He may just have been an eccentric who likes to dress in shabby clothes to bum money.

No matter. I tossed two bills into his case and shambled on wondering about whether it’d be a good career move for me to learn to play a beat-up old saxophone in the desolate center of one of Pittsburgh’s most iconic locations.

How hard could it be to learn the theme from “The Odd Couple?” And I wouldn’t have to spend so much money on fancy clothes.

The only thing that’s holding me back is my concern that playing the saxophone might be even harder on the fingers than typing and I don’t want to wind up in the emergency room.

Of course, the real question is what the hell is a guy who appears to be homeless doing in the center of one of Pittsburgh’s most premier pieces of real estate when by now there ought to be a spectacular statue of Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain.”

Sunday will mark what would have been Kelly’s 103rd birthday.

This is the fourth consecutive year I’ve in vain lobbied for a Kelly statue in Market Square.

But this is only the first year I’m doing so with access to the ears of an important man who can make this happen.

And, oh, how I wish by that I meant Donald Trump

I daily become more convinced that with Trump as president he’ll make wondrous things happen the way Samantha did when she wiggled her spell-casting nose on “Bewitched.”

Alas, I’m not talking about the dealmaker.

I’m talking about Allegheny County executive Rich Fitzgerald.

I met with him in June at a Pittsburgh function involving city tourism.

I spoke for about two uninterrupted minutes, a virtual facetime eternity with the man who is arguably the most important decision maker in western Pennsylvania.

Here is an idealized version of what I said:

“Look, big shot, you’re helping run one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Scores of prestigious publications are near daily listing Pittsburgh on best-of lists. But you’re failing your constituents by leaving the center of Market Square free of eye-catching art.

“You ought to convince city officials to erect a Gene Kelly “Singing in the Rain” statue in Market Square. That guy and that movie are international superstars beloved around the world. Plus, the symbolism is perfectly Pittsburgh. This city is now in sunshine, but singing in the rain is our bones. Pittsburgh doesn’t quit.”

I boldly went on citing the actual dollar value of pop culture statues around the country and finished with an impassioned plea for him to seize this common sense issue for the betterment of the city we both love.

Know what Fitzgerald did?

He pulled up his zipper, turned to me and said, “How about letting a guy finish taking a piss before you bother him, ya jagoff?”

Actually, it didn’t happen that way at all. I just said it did because I think the idea of me pestering an important public official while he — or she! — is taking a leak is funny.

What actually happened was he was stuffing his face by the dessert table.

I said a more polite version of what’s written above. He nodded, mumbled something about it being a good idea and worthy of consideration.

Then he fled to seek wonky sanctuary amidst his hovering flock of sycophantic toadies.

But he knows I’m right. It’s an obvious winner.

I’ve heard the Kelly’s third wife, (they were married from 1990 until his death in ’96), is opposed and that she may be seeking money before granting her approval.

Well, with all due deference to the widow Kelly, city officials ought to tie the old babe up and and stuff her in some closet.

There is no logical reason for opposing this tribute.

A Gene Kelly “Singin’ in the Rain” statue is an idea whose time has come.

All it needs is a can-do visionary who won’t take no for an answer.

I’d talk to Trump, but I fear the result would be a statue of Trump.

Do something today to help make it happen!

Many metal statues start out with grass roots. 

Related …

Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue … now! (from ’11)

Knock, knock; Pittsburgh needs a Gene Kelly statue

Pittsburgh landmark defaced by Patriot fans

Me for Pittsburgh mayor

My history of homelessness

I hope I don't die while the Pirate are winning and I hope the Pirates never lose

(752 words)

My daughters, 14 and 9, know I live and die with the fortunes of the Pittsburgh Pirates and are sympathetic. We as a family enjoy baseball to varying degrees and they understand I’m in a sunnier mood when the Bucs win.

So they were apprehensive Sunday morning when I solemnly told them to gather in front of the TV.

They knew the game ended late and I’d recorded the ending.

“I’ve told you before how no game like baseball can break your heart,” I said gravely. “You think you’re going to win and then something can happen at the very last second that will cause you to lose in profoundly painful ways that will leave you scarred for life.

“One of those things happened in the Pirates game with the Cardinals last night. Watch this.”

I pushed play and Pirate superstar Andrew McCutcheon came to life. It was the bottom of the 14th inning. They’d come back twice before, but now were down 4-3 with two outs and a runner on first.

We were down to our last strike in a game that had pivotal repercussions for the rest of the season between the teams with the two best records in the National League.

McCutcheon sent a fastball deep into centerfield. The girls stared rapt as the ball sailed over the fence. On TV, the Pirate fans erupted. It was pandemonium, the biggest win of this so far glorious season.

“Yes,” I said, “baseball can really break your heart . . .

“If you’re a Cardinals fan!”

I then did the kind of living room dance that will forever remind them that there are large strands of big, jolly jackass embedded in their DNA

I was euphoric.

And guess what?

The exact same scenario played out again today! And I did the whole goofy morality play all over..

The Pirates beat the Cards in another walk-off win. It was remarkable.

The consecutive stunners left me pondering at which point in the baseball season I hope I die.

Because at some point in our collective futures, it’s going to dawn on us that death is near.

At some point, it’s likely a doctor is going to say to me, “Your reckless lifestyle means you’ve only got four months to live.”

If that happens today, man, I’m going to be really pissed.

Because if I die four months from today, it’ll happen about first pitch for Game 1 of the 2015 World Series.

A lot can still happen, but there’s a happy chance the Bucs will appear in their first World Series since 1979. I could miss it.

That would really kill me.

Ideally, I’ll die on day the bank notifies me I’ve bounced a really big check. Or when the five-day forecast just sucks, which, lately, is about every day here in Western Pennsylvania since, oh, November 1975.

I’m a generally optimistic guy who always has something to look forward to on the calendar.

The mindset keeps me going.

I wouldn’t want to die the weekend before a new Muppet movie premiers. I love the Muppets and would hate to miss one of their films.

I always think anytime I get on a plane that there’s a chance I’ll die and I always hope at least it’ll be on the way home. I don’t travel much for business so if I fly I’m flying for fun. I wouldn’t mind dying nearly as much knowing it was on the way home after I’d had a really good time.

Plus, wrecking on the way home would mean neither Val nor I would have to do about 20 pounds of dirty laundry and that’s a plus.

I hope I do not die before the year 2019 because I plan on spending a lot of that year saying the year 2020 is bound to be a great year for visionaries. That cracks me up.

I guess I wouldn’t mind dying before the Iowa primaries in any presidential election cycle. People are so insane about politics and mass insanity depresses me.

I’d hate to go to either hell or heaven in a really bad mood. First impressions matter.

Of course, this is all wild speculation.

It’s likely I’ll never die.

I’m one of those Pirate fans who lived through the soul-searing heartbreak of Oct. 14, 1992. That’s when the Atlanta Braves beat the Pirates on Sid Bream’s walk-off slide in Game 7 of the NLCS.

It was the most devastating loss in all my years.

If that didn’t kill me, nothing will.

Related . . .

Pirate wins, unruly fans, skinny dipping & other random thoughts

Time for the Bucs to bury Vince Lascheid

The Pittsburgh Pirates & The KKK (not those ones)

Foul balls and Baltimore riots

The man Maz made a Communist

Priorities: Work or cheap beer baseball?

Germanwings & the art of living suddenly

(776 words)

“Anytime we hear of anyone dying suddenly, it should reinforce the need we all ought to be living suddenly.”

Is that the best line I’ve ever written? It’s one of them.

I can’t remember what national tragedy inspired the notion. There have been so many it’s hard to keep track.

I can’t tell which is more surprising: That anyone follows the news or that anyone who follows the news is ever brave enough to step outside.

Our tragedies are so redundant we barely have time to grieve and the never-ending grieving crowds out what little time we have left for living.

That’s not going to happen to me.

So right after I heard the news, I drove straight downtown for lunch with Pittsburgh Mayor Bill Peduto, Allegheny County Executive Rich Fitzgerald, and Chris Jamison, the Pittsburgh singer who did so well on “The Voice.”

Sounds like a real power lunch for such an underachieving blogger, huh?

Well, there were 495 others in the room, too, but what’s a little resume inflation among friends? It was the VisitPittsburgh annual meeting at The Westin Hotel.

Why all these prestigious organizations keep inviting me to their lavish soirees is a mystery.

Doesn’t anyone ever notice all the missing silverware?

I was very happy to be there. I’ve made some bone-headed career decisions, but picking up stakes and moving to New York or California for illusory professional improvements isn’t one of them. I never wanted to be more than an hour from the Golden Triangle.

I’ve been for 20 years telling everyone Pittsburgh is the greatest city in the world. Now, as we learned at the banquet, everyone finally agrees with me. The presentation was a greatest hits package of all the publications that over the last year have touted Pittsburgh as the coolest, hottest, hippest, most livable, etc. I can only hope it’s not another 20 years before everyone thinks my blog should be profitable.

The lunch put me in a perfect frame of mind to enjoy Pittsburgh. And that’s what I did.

One of my A-Team drinking buddies had called the night before to say he was in town. Was I free?

It was a silly question. Much to my professional detriment, I’m always free anytime anyone calls with time to giggle. We commenced at the Oyster House.

John’s my old college roommate. I love him because he has a very clever mind, says whatever he thinks, and he’s perfectly corrupt.

Example: He yesterday initiated a conversation about if we could go back in time would we save Phil Hartman or would we save the 149 victims of the plane crash. He had pity for the victims, sure, but he really loved Phil Hartman.

I wish I didn’t so enjoy the company of someone so utterly tasteless, but I’ve always found it mentally invigorating to be in the presence of anyone who just doesn’t give a shit. That’s John.

So we had a good buzz on and were strolling down the street when someone inside Sonoma Grille on Penn tapped on the window. 

A man was giving me the finger.

It was Buck!

Buck owns the Tin Lizzy, the outstanding three-tavern bar/restaurant that would be my go-to bar if I didn’t already have an office above another go-to bar. (Note: Tumult among local bar ownership led, in fact, me to me moving my office onto the 3rd floor of the Tin Lizzy three months after this was written. I'm still here.)

I love it that my friends feel at liberty to insult with such a public gesture. I choose to view it as a sign of affection. That’s a helpful attitude because if I let every time  someone who shot me the bird hurt my feelings I’d often be in tears.

So we stopped in for a chat with him and wife Louise. We told them we were heading to Nadine’s on the South Side. It’s kind of hard to find, and we didn’t think they’d show.

They did!

There was a lot of great conversation but what I’ll remember most from our afternoon is Buck sliding up to the internet jukebox and finding the 1949 Guy Lombardo version of “Enjoy Yourself.” We all knew the words.

First verse:

You work and work for years and years, you’re always on the go

You never take a minute off, too busy making dough

Someday, you say, you’ll have your fun when you’re a millionaire

Imagine all the fun you’ll have in your old rocking chair

Chorus: 

Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think!

Enjoy yourself. While your still in the pink!

The years go by as quickly as a wink

Enjoy yourself! Enjoy yourself! It’s later than you think . . .

So cheers, my friends, to sudden living.

May you make sure it is among your life’s priority.

Related . . .

My gay friend John

Pittsburgh: Overcoming my fears of public speaking

Boston: I read the news today, oh, boy . . .

How old will you be in heaven?

A Pittsburgh weekend in my hole-y shirt