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

Will I become the last unemployed American?

(753 words)

News that the unemployment rate has descended to 3.6 percent has me wondering if I’ll be the last unemployed man left in America.

I tell people the coolest thing about me is I haven’t had a job since 1992. Then I tell them the most disturbing thing about me is I haven’t had a job since 1992.

The opposing statements are both equally true. 

People say they drive past the Tin Lizzy and see me up here on the 3rd floor staring at the computer. They say they saw me working. A stickler for accuracy even when it’s detrimental to my reputation, I feel obliged to correct them.

“In fact,” I say, “what you likely saw was me sitting. The chances of me doing anything that would earn an actual, albeit meager, wage are next to nothing.”

I don’t look at computer porn but from street level a man sitting at a computer looking at porn is indistinguishable from a man trying to compose a compelling line. 

It’s unfathomable how much time I devote to thinking up a line that might be thoughtful to readers like you for about, oh, three seconds. A line like, say:

“Most people agree room temperature is 70 degrees. Elmer Fudd says womb temperature is 98.6 degrees.”

Took me about 20 minutes to compose and craft that one. Then I spent another 10 minutes trying to find just the right Fudd photo to best illustrate the word play (it’s the one up top).

Then I sat staring at the computer and admired the resulting tweet for like 15 minutes and concluded, "Well, that’s the best I got this afternoon. Might as well call it a day. Time to hit the bar.”

It was 1:45 p.m.!

I used to dream my life would unwind like one of the great, noble figures in literature I so admired, men like Tom Joad or Atticus Finch, respect-commanding figures of substance and drive.

I was sitting up here in the window “working” when it dawned on me that life turned out just like I’d hoped. Sorta. I have, indeed, become a character from American literature. Just one problem.

The character is Ferris Bueller!

I must make it look easier than it is.

People ask me what it’s like to be a “successful” writer. I tell them I aspire to success. Hell, I aspire to mere solvency. I respond to break even the way many of you do to getting lucky on some band kid’s strip ticket.

I’m a 56-year-old man whose idea of a really good day is one that involves me finding a quarter. 

And while I do not consider myself a successful writer, I am becoming a locally  acclaimed one. People know my name. I like that. But mine isn’t the kind of name that’s ever going attract sneaker contract dough. I’d like that better.

Other writers tell me they want to be like me. They ask how I do what I do. I quote to them Bob Dylan from the song, “High Water.”

“Don’t reach out for me, she said, can’t ya see I’m drowning, too?”

My poor wife. I suspect about once every other month or so she wishes she’d married a plumber.

Heck, it’s about once every other month or so I wish I’d married a plumber.

I think the worst part for her is when we’re out and somebody starts to gush about something I’ve written. And, God bless ‘em, some people hold nothing back in their manic praise. Goes straight to my head. 

What I lack in deficient funds, I make up for in baseless ego.

I wake up every single day convinced something wonderful is going to happen to my career and I’ve been saying that every single day since June 31, 1992, the last day the U.S. Department of Labor considered me a gainfully employed individual.

There is a Fool-on-the-Hill sort of beauty in such simple-minded optimism.

The problem is that it keeps smashing up against the complex realities that go hand-in-hand with being the fool in the window on the 3rd floor of the Tin Lizzy, the one who spends so much time wondering WTF.

What The Fudd?

See, I with my whole heart and (most of my head) believe the people who tell me I’m great and that one day I’ll be truly successful in ways more tangible than flattering name recognition. 

And if and when that happens, then the story of my life will become one of the  very best stories of my life.

It wasn’t  my intention, but I guess now is as good a time as any to pass the hat. Donations accepted at PayPal (Chris Rodell) or get in touch about book purchases at storyteller@chrisrodell.com.

Related …

Happy Birthday to this Blog (& Pledge Week)!

A blog on bloggin’

Searching for Mr. Stupid

My history of drinking at or near work

Let’s change Labor Day into Leisure Day

Optimist gets world's worst rejection letter

(702 words)

In my evergreen attempts to gauge my occupational results (pathetic) versus my potential (monumental), I think I’ve settled on what kind of following I have. It is thus:

I have a cult following.

That sounds presumptuous until you consider the kind of cult writing like mine inspires.

My cult is polite, proper, has good posture and excels at things like living room “Jeopardy.”

This is opposed to the kind of cults that indulge in drugs, random sex and stand on street corners and harass strangers as to why they should sell their possessions and follow me in ways that have nothing to do with my lame Twitter account (seeking followers @8days2Amish!).

But I’m always tickled when someone tells me how much they enjoy my blog or my books — and some of them are sober folk, too!

One of my favorite’s is my buddy Greg who’s told me, “You’re the reason I’m glad I have insomnia.” It’s true. He says when he can’t sleep, he goes back and reads in reverse order nearly all my 2,000 blog posts from the past 10 years.

He says he laughs out loud, which inevitably awakens his wife, who I must assume either hates my guts or at least wishes my blogs were full of things like golf or pottery tips or other LOL-free topics.

But he’s not alone. I’m always hearing the kind of feedback that buoys me into believing one day all this deliberate typing will pay off.

I keep thinking I’m on the verge of some breakthrough where literary agents and publishers see me through new eyes. A prestigious agent who was once indifferent to my book proposals replied to my latest idea to say just that.

I now make him sick.

The book proposal is “The Art of Living Suddenly: How to Deal with a Parkinson’s Diagnosis (& other things that suck).” It’s about how anytime we hear of anyone dying suddenly we need to commit to living suddenly.

Here’s what he wrote:

“Thank you so much for writing. Your book hits me too close to the bone: both of my parents had Parkinsonism-induced Alzheimer’s disease, and I watched them die from it. I’ll likely get it, too. More specifically, Robin Williams was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia, a particularly nasty variety of Alzheimer’s that I’ve also seen up close and personal. I’m afraid it’s a pass from me. I do not think you should pursue a project that has the potential to upset readers the way this upsets me.

Frank

I swear I went back and read it twice to be certain I didn’t miss the part where reading my proposal made his penis detach.

Really, I think a guy like Frank would benefit from reading a book about sudden living. He seems haunted by a future that may or may not ever come to pass. Who knows? They may find a cure for what killed his parents or he may enjoy a symptom-free life.

Or he may get hit by a bus today on his way to the Friday bowling meet.

I mean, you always have to look at the bright side.

I without fail do. I mean, I was floored by the scalding desolation of what I consider to be among the worst rejection letters ever sent — and, by God, I’m something of an expert.

But I got up and am back up and at ‘em today, forever convinced I’m right and anyone who rejects me is wrong, wrong, wrong.

In that way, I’ve always considered myself the Lucas Jackson of rejection-riddled writers. Luke is the Paul Newman character in the peerless “Cool Hand Luke.”

“Dragline” (George Kennedy) beats Luke so thoroughly he becomes exasperated at Luke’s stubborn insistence on rising to rejoin a battle he cannot possibly win.

“Stay down, man,” Dragline pleads. “You’re beat.”

“You’re gonna have to kill me …”

In the end — spoiler alert! — they do just that.

I’ve for years tried to divine some profound lesson from Luke’s struggles and all I can figure is it’s "don’t buck the system or the system will kill you."

So I’ve perhaps learned the lesson.

I’ve just never applied it.

And I never will.

Related …

Reject me, please

Too self-deprecatory? Me? Here’s why …

My novel frustrations

Praise for “Last Baby Boomer”

Someone stole my book!

The why & how of my brand new signature -- it's legible!

(678 words)

I heard what by now are familiar compliments from robust audiences this week in Mt. Pleasant and the South Hills of Pittsburgh. 

They said I was witty, eloquent, composed and other gushy compliments that would convince my family everyone who comes to hear me talk is either shit-faced or susceptible to mass hypnosis.

But of all the heady praise — and I’m on a bit of a roll here — one stands out as the kind I’ll likely replay over and over in my mind.

A man said I had beautiful signature.

“It is!” he said. “Beautiful. Just beautiful.”

I think by “beautiful” he meant “legible.” But it can be both. And it is because you can read it. Yes, after about 48 years of signing my name in cursive, I finally have a John Hancock worthy of John Hancock.

I’ve been signing a lot of “Arnold Palmer” books lately; 200 this week, in fact. That’s how many UPMC Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh Foundation bought in advance for me to bring to a gala fundraiser Tuesday at Laurel Valley Golf Club on Tuesday. I’ll be the featured speaker for both lunch and dinner. 

It’s a big deal.

That was going through my head last week as I cracked open the first box of 25 books. and began my traditional scrawl. 

My standard inscription in block print is: “This is NOT a golf book. This is a LIFE book!”

That’s true, too. And people seem to like that. I know many authors merely sign their names. So my note is above and beyond.

Then, gulp, I’d get to the actual signature. See for yourself. 

The R could be a P; the o masquerades as the circular part of the d; and then the d loop, the e and the two l’s form like a chorus line of showgirls too drunk to know when to quit kicking. (Note: For years I teased my daughters by telling them our names are spelled with three l’s: “The second l is silent, but the third is silent AND invisible.”)

It’s always embarrassed me when people ask me to sign their books.

I contend the stakes are higher for me because the book is about Palmer, who was famous for both his penmanship and the promiscuity of his autograph. He’d brag that his name was worthless on eBay because he’d signed so many. 

And it was immaculate. Surgeons suturing scars on supermodels were less careful than Palmer was with a pen.

Now, it’s ridiculous for me to hold myself to the Palmer standard. 

No one expects me to golf like he did.

But the poor penmanship made me look sloppy. So about four boxes in to the eight-box stack I decided enough’s enough. I decided it was time to alter my signature, to give it some manners, to make it appear presentable.

I took a stack of scrap paper and began to practice. I’d do about 15 at a time — just the surname. I think my Chris is decent.

It was very painstaking. For some reason, we’ve all been conditioned to think a good signature is a fast one. That might be the root of the problem.

Palmer, who may have signed more autographs than anyone in history, didn’t think it ought to be done quickly. I saw it. He took his time to make it appear perfect.

That’s what I began to do.

But if you want to improve yours, I’d encourage you to persevere until you develop what I think of as a “twitch.” That’s when your hand takes over and leaves your bossy-ass brain in the dust.

I only wish I’d have embarked on this character-enhancing project before I’d signed so many books, like the one I did for you, maybe?

So that’s all for today. I just wanted to share with you the news that you can change something as elemental as your very signature. It just takes a little will, a little patience and a little practice.

Thank you for reading and have a great weekend.

This is me, signing off and signing on.

Chris

     Rodell

Summer tweet round-up

I used to do a monthly Twitter round-up and for the 5 or so years I was doing them I never once heard a reader say, “Man, I really look forward to those monthly Twitter round-ups.”

But that’s not the reason I went, yikes, 5 months without a round-up. Blame Twitter. It used to be mental jujitsu to try and craft an interesting sentiment in a mere 140 characters. But about, yes, 5 months ago they announced they were doubling the character limit, taking what was essentially a sushi bar and turning it into an all-you-can-tweet buffet. The craftsmanship was gone. 

Still, there’s a utility to me for saving tweets like this. Some of them wind up as the start of blog posts or in book chapters.

I mention all this because my friend Greg told me when we were having drinks at Nadine’s on Pittsburgh’s South Side that he’s crestfallen when he sees it’s a Twitter round-up.

“I want to see the 700-word blog post that is well thought-out and has a beginning and end.”

So, sorry, Greg, to disappoint. I’ll have one of those for you and all my friends tomorrow.

Happy Labor Day. For completists like my friend Greg, here’s a ’16 post where I suggested we change Labor Day to Leisure Day.

• My next big money maker: Gonna start a tribute boy band of unruly young posers capable of performing credible versions of "Kashmir," "Whole Lotta Love," and "Stairway to Heaven." "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for ... LAD ZEPPELIN!”

• Watchdog group says EPA's Pruitt's $43,000 Cone of Silence is unethical and must be returned. Can I suggest it be placed over the heads of every single person on the planet?

• I will devote part of the day to teaching my beloved daughter how to drive, the whole time feeling like a warden who's cheerfully teaching an inmate how to escape.

• My ego is so massive whenever I spy my 15 year old texting in the car when it's just the two of us, I imagine she's alerting friends, "I have the greatest Daddy in the world!”

• I enjoy asking the waitress at the family restaurant if she has chicken fingers and when she says yes, saying, "Oh, you're being too hard on yourself. Sure, they're hideous, but they still appear human.”

• I may be misjudging the man, but I suspect every time Trump leaves the White House he steals a towel or two.

• Did your Mom ever write your name on your undershirt tag? She was years ahead of her time. Mom: inventor of the original Collar ID.

• People who want to appear more interesting get tattoos. People who want to become more interesting get library cards.

• Dressmakers who grow their own cotton sew what they reap.

• Which of these two colossal oxymorons is more endangered of becoming extinct: common sense or common decency?

• If I were a geologist, I'd become famous by writing a scholarly paper declaring precisely when Mother Nature lost her virginity and describing in detail all the earthly consequences.

• I have no fear of women ruling the world. My fear is that when women rule the world they will begin to behave like men.

• Does anyone else find it odd the man who did more to advance the cause of reminding America to get its pets spayed and neutered was named Barker?

• We seem doomed to live in an era where the dominant sounds are a dreadful cycle of gunfire followed by moments of silence broken by gunfire followed by more moments of silence broken by gunfire …

• Partisans disdain Obama being a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Others mock the idea of Trump getting one. Me, I dream of living in a world where EVERYONE did something to make them eligible.

• Trying to explain the value of books to someone who does not read is like trying to explain the value of air to fish. 

• World’s greatest sales people must work for Spam. Think of the intrinsic hurdles they must overcome just to get calls/e-mails returned.

• If women are, indeed, the fairer sex then that must by default make me a member of the unfairer sex. So it's all beginning to make sense.

• I used to think I had a brain but it was all in my head.

• Anyone who aspires to teach the whole world to sing in perfect harmony has never spent a minute at a karaoke bar after 10 p.m.

• When you're diagnosed with a bad disease and some well-meaning friend says everything happens for a reason you can't help but feel the reason you've been diagnosed with a bad disease is God must hate you.

• On this day in 1975, Steven Spielberg released "Jaws," thus marking for the first time in Hollywood history even marquee actors were happy to boast about having "bit" parts.

• Had a great family OBX vacation marred only by one incident initiated when kids asked if they could bury me in sand. Sure, I said. I'm game. But when they had me completely immobilized, the little bastards stole my shoes & wallet. I should've known better. They weren't my kids.

• Do the females who make Elmer's Glue consider themselves Bond girls or would that make them stuck up?

• I have no objection to common ignorance. What I object to is so much ignorance masquerading as certainty.

• It’s not uncommon to hear people say people suck. Don't you believe it. Try this: Walk down the street and smile at every stranger. Most every stranger will reflexively smile right back. They don't suck. Soon there won't be any strangers left and everyone will be smiling.

• It boggles my mind that in '96 multi-millionaires Johnny Cash and Tom Petty collaborated on an album called "Unchained." Imagine the cover possibilities had they called the obvious: "Petty Cash.”

• Rising oceans threaten shorelines while wildfires rage across the West. Am I the only one who believes we could solve two problems with one really long hose?

• I wonder what kind of Mother's Day gift Mick Jagger got his Mum the year after he made a lot of loot singing a song that included the line, "I was raised by a toothless, bearded hag.”

• Saw angry parents running after a boy they'd named Chase and screaming for him to come back, oblivious to the irony.

• Because of the noisy commotion associated with the happy event, I propose we change "orgasm" to ‘ROARgasm."

• People say my career is really taking off. They're right. It is. It's just that the  damn runway is really, really long.

• Abraham Lincoln urged we move on from the Civil War "with malice toward none." Today our leaders promote so much malice toward anyone with whom we disagree it's surprising any one with an opinion can walk down the street without being drenched in spit.

• Imagine the money some savvy entrepreneur is going to make when he or she figures out a way to harness the last great source of untapped clean energy -- converting to electricity all the energy generated round-the-clock by those pedaling exercise bikes or running treadmills.

• Gettysburg, Antietam, Vicksburg, Bull Run, Chickamauga -- the Civil War lasted 4 years and I can name dozens of battles. Our war in Afghanistan will soon be 17 years old and the only battle most can name is Tora Bora. My question: Has war changed or have we?

• News of declining newspaper circulation saddens me. You could say it de-presses.

• I’m friends with many old white guys who claim to be "woke." The problem is many of them keep pounding the snooze alarm.

• Commentators keep pointing out how Aretha Franklin made President Obama cry during his inauguration. Big deal. I'll bet Trump does something twice a day that makes Obama cry.

• The literalist in me revels in the fact that the Great Plains state of Iowa has a senator named Grassley and yearns for the day when Wisconsin voters send to Washington their Senator Cheesey.

• Just enjoyed afternoon at @WestmdCountyPA Fair. The highlight? As always, walking through the rabbit exhibit singing, "Cannn ... any bunny ... find me ... some bunny to love? Some bunny! Some bunny! Find me some bunny to love!" 

• If a handwriting expert said analysis of your signature indicated it was likely that you're an obnoxious asshole, would you vow to become a better person or simply begin altering your signature?

• He’s such a fuddy-duddy I'm not sure it would even help, but if I were advising the VP, I'd tell him to hold a press conference and say, "It's time for me to come clean. My name isn't Mike Pence. It's Mike Pants!” Like “Mike pants when Mother bends over in the garden.”

• One of the great oddities of the human existence is that many otherwise mature adults will answer in the affirmative when asked, "Do you want to see something disgusting?”

• If John McCain is as meticulous about posthumous details as we've heard, I hope he's hired security to monitor his grave to prevent President Trump from sneaking in to piss all over it because that's the kind of guy he is. I'm being totally serious.

• Woke up this morning furious to realize that while both the guitar and the sitar are wood-based fretted instruments whose names rhyme, the guitar is spelled with an utterly superfluous "u." I'll get over it but, man. C'mon! 

Related …

• March ’16 tweets & 4 random thoughts

• March ’15 tweets

• July ’14 tweets

• Best tweets of ‘14