Long live National Enquirer!

It happened Saturday, as it nearly always does, when I’m introduced at a party by anyone who’s known me for the past 15 years or so.

“This is Chris. He writes for National Enquirer.”

I could have become indignant and pointed out I haven’t written a word for the notorious supermarket tabloid in more than seven years. I could have mentioned Esquire, Sports Illustrated, People, Playboy or nearly a dozen other mainstream publications deemed more prestigious than the Enquirer.

Instead, I just nodded my head. In a way, I’ll always be writing for National Enquirer. It was there from 1992-1999 that I cranked out more than 1,000 stories. I still look at every potential story through the journalistic prism I learned at their Lantana, Florida, offices.

It’s not, “Will this be relevant?” “Will this alter policy?” Or “Will this effect the lives of readers?”

No, it’s always “Will this be fun?”

The Enquirer is one of the last bastions in the publishing world where wage-earning reporters and editors understand the exuberant joy of really great storytelling.

That’s why at parties I’m always happy to acknowledge my Enquirer days and stories like, “Town Saved by Giant Ball of Twine!” Or “Man Struck By Lightning Never Feels Cold Again!” Or “Baby Born with Wooden Leg!”

I did mostly the wacky features, but also did my share of celebrity skullduggery. I nearly got arrested trying to crash Julia Roberts’s 30th birthday party, I snuck flowers to Tammy Wynette in the hopes of getting a death bed interview, and I checked into rehab with Courtney Love (I don’t think it helped either of us).

If you’ve never done so, please visit the National Enquirer page at www.chrisrodell.com. It features my three greatest hits including the time I gained 20 pounds in one week eating like Elvis Presley. It’s all true and was based on the popular Elvis cookbook, “Are You Hungry Tonight?”

And I still contend Eats Like Elvis would be a really nifty name for aspiring punk bands.

So you see, I have great affection for the Enquirer, the people there and what it’s meant to me and my career.

It’s why I was rooting for the Enquirer to be on-the-money when it first published the story that John Edwards was having an affair way back in October 2007. At the time, I was a staunch Edwards supporter and I still believe no one would do more to help the godforsaken poor than John with the dreamy hair.

But when it comes to pure partisanship, I’m more National Enquirer than Democrat. I guess it comes from all the “true” journalistic types who’ll always look down their noses at me for having reveled in the tabloid world.

This was from media critic Howard Kurtz of the August 11 Washington Post:

“Those who blithely dismiss a brash supermarket tabloid -- what New York Times Executive Editor Bill Keller called the "hold-your-nose quality about the Enquirer" -- had better check the record. The Enquirer's reporting of the O.J. Simpson extravaganza of the '90s was good enough to be cited by the Times itself. In 2001, the tabloid reported both that Hillary Clinton's brother had been paid $400,000 to secure a presidential pardon for a convicted businessman, and that Jesse Jackson had fathered an out-of-wedlock child. In 2003, Rush Limbaugh acknowledged an addiction to painkillers after the Enquirer reported that Florida authorities were looking into his drug use.”

So there.

Oh, and that story about the baby born with the wooden leg? That was one of my favorite stories from the uproarious Weekly World News, the Enquirer’s now-defunct sister publication.

Like a lot of publications, they wouldn’t hire me because I worked for National Enquirer. For them, I was just too mainstream.

Text messaging menace under my roof

Add “Getting killed in my sleep by a 13-year-old girl” to my ever-growing list of fears that go with living in these tumultuous times.

I’m fairly certain I can kick the ass of almost any 13-year-old girl on the planet who’s not right now swinging from a parallel bar in Beijing. I’m fairly fit, have a high pain tolerance that’s helped me survive countless hangovers that would have claimed lesser men, and I’m skilled at dirty fighting.

So square me off against a 13-year-old girl and you’d be smart to put your money on me.

But have a crazed one attack me in my sleep and that changes the odds. I’m a sound sleeper who’s used to enduring the tiny stabs of Buster, the 19-year-old cat who won’t die, as he puts his fresh-from-the-litter-box paws all over my face. I might not recognize the mortal wounds until the waterbed mattress was filled with my diluted blood.

That’s why I’ve spent the past two nights hiding the knives and rigging up an empty beer can alarm system that’ll give me a head’s up that danger’s approaching.

In our house, danger’s a doll.

She’s my wife’s 13-year-old niece up from Virginia Beach for the week. She’s sweet, smart and pretty by nature, but she’s having a tough time because her mother got divorced and remarried within a year. She’s been thrown into a new house in a new neighborhood with three new siblings.

I’m totally sympathetic towards her. Growing up, she never imagined this would happen to her family. What kid does?

I don’t think she’d ever do anything to hurt me or my family.

But the people who seem to be controlling her mind through sinister text messages would.

It’s utterly unnerving to be sharing so much space with someone who doesn’t talk to you, but is constantly staring at you as she tap, tap, taps secret messages to unseen strangers. In my mind, I imagine seizing the cellular device from her and reading in bold LED letters, “KILL THEM ALL!”

Part of it, of course, is my massive ego that just can’t accept that anyone wouldn’t want to devote their entire waking minutes to my philosophical discourses on religion, politics, sports and which local taverns serve the tastiest pizza (The Pond, of course).

I realize this makes no sense. No one in the family listens to me. And the only reason the kids, ages 7 and 2, haven’t succeeded in running away yet is they both take such tiny strides. Guaranteed, once they realize their father will fatigue and give up running after 15 steps, those gals are gone.

In the meantime, we’re trying to show our niece love and warmth, to let her know that we believe in her and laughter is a better dinner companion than sullen insolence.

I’m hoping it’s a daily groundwork that’ll help my daughters avoid falling into the same doleful demeanor when they reach that difficult age. If not, there’s always what we dubbed Plan A.

If the kids become too immersed in diabolical text messages, cell phones, instant messages and other technologies that insulate them from family love, we decided long ago to go to Plan A. That is Plan Amish.

Plan Amish means we school both children in the humble ways of the Amish, while Val and I continue to enjoy the heathen lifestyle to which we’ve become so accustomed. I’ll still have my iPod, my HDTV and all the technological doodads that make life so nifty for anyone with either disposable income or credit card company that hasn’t already been scorched by foolishly leisure lending habits.

You never see Amish girls on reality shows. They don’t get tattoos or spend their time text messaging when they should be milking cows and churning butter. And you don’t see them calling their Amish pappies “Daddy Doofus,” the name to which I reflexively respond “Yes?” every time it’s shouted, doggone it.

Daddy Doofus will stand there having the last laugh as he watches them type their very last text messages to their corrupted friends.

“Goodbye cool world!”

Free to the people

I was recently rebuffed after I offered a good friend of mine, a new father, the greatest gift of all. I gave his son a name. It’s the name I would have used for our second child had she conveniently been born boy.

Here’s the story. We didn’t peek at the sex -- and shame on you if you ever do -- before the birth. But both Valerie and I were convinced the kicking little rascal was going to be a son.

She liked the name Sawyer because she has the hots for Sawyer on the aptly named and endlessly confusing ABC show “Lost.” I liked it because I could pass it off for its literary allusions to my hero, Mark Twain.

But as she was in labor and under heavy sedation, she agreed to my brainstorm name that is the key to the greatest boy name in the history of boys.

Buzz.

It’s short, punchy, unique and, I said, was the given name as one of the original seven astronauts and an authentic American hero, Buzz Aldrin (I belatedly learned I was wrong, wrong, wrong. Aldin's given name is Edwin Eugene).

Put them together and you get Buzz Sawyer.

This is perfect because years later I envisioned some future Pittsburgh Steeler announcer shouting, “And Buzz Saw Rodell rips another hole in the Cowboy line and dives in for the winning Super Bowl TD!”

Buzz Saw Rodell.

Then the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” and screwed the whole thing up. Now some future announcer’s going to be saddled with, “And there goes Lucinda Grace Rodell . . .” It just won’t have the same ring to it. And the magnificent daughter I love to cuddle is going to have to endure a really, really awkward phase in the teens for it to happen.

So I’ve been magnanimously giving away the name Buzz Sawyer free to every expecting couple I know. The reaction’s always the same.

“Uh, no thanks. We’re naming him Robert.”

So instead of having the greatest name in the world, I end up getting Bob a stupid diaper genie.

It always surprises me when the world turns its back on my generous inspirations.

Take pick-up lines. Years after I’ve lost any need for them, I’m a prolific creator of some of the best ever.

I give them to single friends and young men who need skillful mentoring from someone wise like me. And, check ‘em out, these are perfectly unisex. They can work in both directions. Remember to always say them deadpan with a straight face.

* “Tell me, was it as difficult for you growing up beautiful as it was for me?” This works great for really ugly guys because it combines a fine compliment with humor and absurd confidence. Most beautiful women are uncomfortable about their beauty and this addresses that silly nonsense.

* “You have really beautiful skin. How can I see more of it?” The issue of lustful intentions should be settled right up front. If this innocuous little come-on offends, the speaker can just move right on to the person on the next bar stool. Who needs to waste time pussyfooting around with, “Uh, do you like sushi?”

• “You look like an observant person. Tell me, what can you suggest in terms of diet or exercise that’ll have me looking as great in my jeans as you look in yours?” This, again, disarms with a deft compliment -- people like it when anyone seeks their advice -- and then closes with a devastating animal lust.

I have more, but these three should be sufficient to end loneliness around the planet. As noted, I’m all about helping people.

And why does a happily married man feel the need to compile pick-up lines? Besides the obvious humanitarian reasons, I suppose it’s basically for the same reason I resisted ever getting a vasectomy after the birth of our second and last child.

Deep in every guy’s heart, there is a profound belief that unforeseen cataclysmic events could one day wipe out the rest of the entire male population. And it’ll be up to the lone survivor to singlehandedly repopulate the human race.

And, given our history in dealing with women, even the last man alive is still going to need a really dandy pick-up if he’s ever going to get anywhere.

How to win a race war

The bar stool racists informed me I’d be a minority in fewer than five years. No, they’ve not developed a cellular ray gun that’ll -- poof! -- instantly turn me into an African American or a Hispanic, which would be kind of cool if any such gun existed and wound up in mischievous hands.

“I’m telling you, in about four years the white man in America is going to be a minority,” he gravely intoned. “We'll be outnumbered. And if Obama gets elected, the first thing he’ll do is redistrict so the blacks in the ghettos’ll have all the power. And what are you gonna do then?”

Well, if history’s a reliable guide, I’m guessing I’ll start smooching a whole lot more black and Hispanic butt. That’s been my pattern with anyone who’s in any position of power. Sure, it hasn’t helped me get ahead in any single situation, but it hasn’t tossed me any farther behind so I’m guessing it’s a wash at worst.

In truth, I’ve always tried to go out of my way to be extra nice to minorities. I think they have it so difficult and that so many racists hate them just for being born that I take it upon myself to show them that, after centuries of ancestral hatreds, at least the Rodells are friendly folk.

To me, it’s a truly affirmative action.

Of course, that’s nothing that the bar stool racists want to hear. Your typical bar stool racist is never going to listen to positive solutions. They’d rather wallow in hate and ignorance and go about their mean little lives.

That’s why I knew my most potent solution was going to be so tough for them to swallow. But it’s the only truly proactive solution that is guaranteed to prolong white superiority -- and for the purposes of this discussion I mean that from a purely numeric point of view.

“Boys, if you’re really serious about doing something about maintaining a white majority, here's what you do. Go home right now, fill your wives and girlfriends full of fertility drugs and make passionate love to them over and over again.”

This is a profound logic. Yet, it was greeted with an awkward silence and I knew exactly why.

Most bar stool racists like these -- ones that aren’t already divorced or dateless -- are mired in marriages so loveless that their memories of passion are more distant than the memory of their first tattoos.

That kind of advice is absolutely contrary to the bar racist’s entire way of life. In fact, it’s doubtful you’ll even find the words “make love” any place in the whole bar racist playbook. They’d rather talk about hurt than hugs.

And I’m sure their wives and girlfriends suffer for it. If I could, I’d help them, too. It saddens me to know anyone’s going through life so distant from joyful affections.

But that’s not my job, not when there are so many bar stool racists that need guys like me around to shine a little light and show them, conversely, there’s nothing wrong with a little dark. Not to mention that if my wife ever found out, my own marriage would suddenly and pitifully be a lot more loveless.

Still, it won’t distract me from my message, one that works for anyone interested in a winning the race war.

Remember, in every instance, make love, not hate.

I’d like to go on but, hey, I’ve got to pack. My sister-in-law’s getting married in Virginia Beach this weekend and we’re all invited! Regular readers of this blog (Hiya, Ronnie!) know how sentimental I am about weddings.

I’ve been weeping about this one ever since Val told me I had to go.

Warning: prospective golf story

What follows is a story I've submitted to the major golf magazines. I just got my hair cut by a woman who asked what I did for a living. I've been leaning more and more toward just saying, "worm farmer," anytime anyone asks what I do.

And it's true. I am a worm farmer. I took a vermiculture class a couple of years ago. Vermiculture is a recycling procedure where a big bin of dirt and worms are used to recycle discarded food stuffs like uneaten vegetables, tea bags and shredded newspapers. I'm an avid recycle and love this aspect of the game. The harvested worm poo makes a great, nutrient-rich fertilizer for other plants.

Plus, for the past two years I've been invited to my daughter's school to discuss the project. If it keeps up, in the eyes of some of the children I'll always be the "worm farmer guy."

That's much better than what I told the haircutter. To her, I said, "Well, I'm a writer. I work for a bunch of magazines and get rejected by the rest. I write about travel, interesting people, trends, restaurants and I do a lot of golf stuff. I work with Arnold Palmer and have covered some major tournaments. Most of the time I'll just come up with a story and try and submit it to magazines. If they pass on it -- and they almost always do -- I usually just dump it on the orphanage page at my website, www.chrisrodell.com."

At this point, I glanced up in the mirror and saw she was looking for a sharp instrument to jab into her eye as punishment for bothering to ask.

But I know some of my regular readers (Hiya, Ronnie!) are as avid about golf as I am about worm farming. For his and your benefit, here's an unedited story about an unusual practice swing I'd heard about.

So if you don't like golf or are that poor woman who had to cut my hair, you'd better click off right now. Either way, you've been warned or "wormed," as it were.




GOLF STORY!
"Super fast improving through super slow-motion practice swings!"

I’m like most busy golfers in that I’ll devote countless hours to range work, but I’m too impatient to give even a measly minute to a tedious training technique that just might revolutionize golf.

It’s the super slow-motion golf swing. I learned about it at Wintergreen Golf Academy in Virginia where I was told that reducing my golf swing to one full minute would bestow the physical and neurological benefits of smacking 1,000 range balls.

One minute. Sixty seconds. I shared the revelation with friends who greeted it with ridicule. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. You must have made a mistake.”

I checked with the super slo-mo swing’s chief promoter, renown teacher and former tour player Mike Malaska, and he told me my buddy was correct. I had made a mistake.

“Actually, it’s a three-minute swing. One minute for the back swing, one for the downswing and one for the follow through.”

You won’t find many beginner’s licenses out on the Autobahn, but we all practice the golf swing with our foot slammed on the accelerator. In fact, most practice ranges are populated by golfers who resemble lumberjacks. They thoughtlessly swing at the ball-after-ball like woodsmen eager to split all the logs before the last bowl of Dinty Moore’s gone.

The result is that most range practice simply reinforces bad habits and makes it harder than ever to improve.

The super-slow motion swing rewires the brain so that a lifetime of bad habits are thoughtfully displaced by exemplary ones. The drill is based on the wisdoms of Tai Chi martial arts that seeks to focus the mind solely on movements of the form to bring about mental calm and clarity.

“The results are dramatic,” says Malaska who daily practices the three phases of the swing in three five-minute increments. “I’ve seen guys go from shooting 100s to 70s in one year. I have made more progress with my swing under pressure in one year than in all my years on tour.”

Malaska says it’s hard to convince golfers to commit to the swing. Your friends, none of whom wants you to get any better, will make fun of you, as did mine. But an even more ruthless adversary stands in the way. My own mind brims with an impatience for anything in these days of instant messaging . . . that . . . deliberately . . . moves . . . so . . . slowly.

I’ve tried it in the quiet of my own back yard. My self-timing mind rushed through the whole swing in 45 seconds. When I vainly try and stretch it out to three minutes, I feel like Rory Sabbatini’s going to rush out of the woods and take a swing at me for slow play.

But I vow to stick with it. Years of beating balls on the practice range have done nothing to improve my game, something I desperately want to do.

I believe in the wisdom behind the super-slow motion swing. I have the motivation to master it. Now, if I could only find the time.

The future of smart meters for dummies

A recent New York Times story detailed how two English villages have cut their energy consumption by half in five years since the installation of “smart meters” that let homeowners know when energy usage is redlining.

When Jeffrey Marchant and his wife, Brenda, power up their computer, turn on a light or put the kettle on to boil, they can just about watch their electric bill rise. Turn on a computer and the device — a type of so-called smart meter — goes from 300 watts to 400 watts. Turn off a light and it goes from 299 to 215. At 500, the meter is set to sound an alarm.

“I’ve become like one of Pavlov’s dogs,” Mrs. Marchant said. “Every time it bleeps I think I’m going to take one of those pans off the stove. I’d do anything to make it stop. It helps you change your habits.”



Normally, my in-home strategies for conserving energy are confined to pretending to be asleep when my wife asks me to get up and feed the cat, but I’m already looking into getting my own smart meter to torture my family every time someone snaps on a hairdryer or a blender.

I’ll get a whistle, a nightstick, an energy police badge and storm into the kitchen whenever the slightest burp in usage sends the smart meter higher than, say, 50.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” I’ll demand. “The smart meter’s ringing like there’s a prison break.”

“Why, I just wanted to make some toast to feed the baby.”

“You’re wasting electricity! Use a candle!”

“But I’m already using a candle because you’ve removed all the light bulbs.”

“Not to see! Use the candle to make toast! Just hold the bread over the flame. And use it for the soup, too. Heat it as ya eat it, one spoonful at a time.”

But more than that callous fun, I’m romantic about what these meters will mean to the future. I envision a day when meters will inform every aspect of our lives.

Computers of the future may be able to determine down to the mile just how long a vehicle will last. Instead of odometers starting at zero, they’ll start at 250,000 and count down. After a year or so you might dip to 225,000, but you could actually add life miles if you get an oil change or new tires. Truly safe drivers may be able to maintain their life miles at virtually static numbers.

People everywhere will be much more conscious of waste. Meters attached to TVs will show how you’re draining the life of your big screen by leaving it on when you’re not in the room. Refrigerators will tick, tick, tick away their potency as you stand their dawdling over whether to snack on the turkey or the leftover Chinese.

The greatest benefit will, of course, be when each of us gets our very own smart meter. Smoke a cigarette and your life meter will inform you you’ve just scissored 15 minutes off your longevity. Go on a long bender with your buddies and you’d better hope it was damn well worth it. Your life meter will show all that wanton revelry just cost you four days. Eat a spinach salad and you’re just earned another day with the grandkids.

It’ll make every day seem as precious as those given to terminal patients who've just been told they have just six months to live. They draw up their bucket lists and squeeze more zestful fun into two months than they’d done in the previous decades.

Of course, the real breakthrough will be when they develop meters that will be able to determine if we're bound for heaven or hell. Help an old lady across the street and your meter swings toward the heaven. Mistreat your mom and, gadzooks, your meter will tell you may have made an eternally fatal mistake.

We just have to hope the meters won’t make any miscalculations that’ll fool some of us into thinking we’re coasting to heaven when, in fact, we’re bound for a cruise on the lake of fire.

End up there and you're toast.

Bob Dylan, multiple marrieds and me

I’ve long maintained that nobody -- and I mean nobody -- should be allowed to get married without checking with me first.

I’d spend about 15 minutes with every prospective bride and groom. If they fail to convince me they’re going to make a worthy couple, then that’s it. They’re done. “You guys had some swell times together, but it’s over. Time to move on. Good luck to you both.”

And that would be that.

(I believe the same procedure should be in place for every driver before he or she gets a license renewal, but let’s not get off track.)

This would be extremely time-consuming for me, but in the end it would result in a lot less emotional anguish for everyone.

Especially me.

Case in point: Back in June it was announced that Bob Dylan would be headlining an August 9 street festival on the South Side of Pittsburgh. I’ve seen him 43 times before, but this clearly was going to be special. The South Side of Pittsburgh is my favorite neighborhood. It teems with lively ethnic bars, great restaurants and smoke shops. If it was any cooler they could store frozen foods on Carson Street.

I said to my wife, “This is incredible. We’ll drop the kids off with my Mom. Go to the show. If a band stinks, we’ll split and have some drinks and then come back at twilight to hear the great master play. It’ll be the greatest weekend of the year.”

Then, one week later, it all came crashing down. Val told me her sister was getting married. For the third time. It was on the sandy shores at Virginia Beach, an eight hour drive from Latrobe. It was August 9, of course, and then to jab the stick into my eye even further, her sister decided to forbid alcohol.

The only thing that would have made it worse was if she’d have told me that I had to be the groom.

Dry! Under normal circumstances, I might perish under such cruel conditions. And, yes, I’m aware of the stunning incongruity of having a dry wedding yards from the world’s second largest body of water.

On top of all that, I’m actually in the midst of an incredibly busy time. Two misguided publishers have given me advances to work on books. Now, I’m having to weigh whether I should blow off my family on the long drive and stay home looking like a heel. Or go to something I’ll have no chance of enjoying and won’t improve a bit by being there.

“The only difference between in-laws and outlaws is that outlaws are at least wanted by someone.” That’s what my brother said and it’s absolutely true. Her family’s disdain for me is palpable and perfectly understandable, of course. Me, I always take the high road and would never betray my feelings for her whack-job family.

See, if she’d have had to check with me first, she’d never be in this situation and I’d be spending my time dreaming up potential playlists for the Dylan show. I’ve been happily married since 1996 following a sensible three-year shack-up. But what’s good for me isn’t necessarily good for the weak-minded.

Even my 7-year-old daughter understands that. She asked: “How come Aunt Laurie’s getting married for the third time and she’s not even famous?”

I told her that, in my eyes, she’s becoming famous. Really, for the past six weeks or so, she’s all I’ve talked about.

I knew her second husband and disliked him instantly with an intense kind of dislike sovereign people used to reserve for invading Mongols. He was there making microscopic small talk at my favorite holidays. Two or three times I actually had to take him golfing with me and I’d line up for multiple lobotomies if I could get those memories erased from my tender mind.

I never met her first husband, but I’m confident I would have despised him, too.

The third husband-to-be? Seems like a nice enough guy. But there’s no way I’d let him get married to her. Not on August 9.

I’ve long nursed a theory that marriage decay is the fault our excessive longevity. Really, back 200 years ago when our life expectancy topped out at 40 -- you can check it out -- people would get married at age 18 or so and say, “By God, I’m going to love this gal for the rest of my life. There’s no one else for me! ‘til death do us part!”

Then when they were about 38 and their marriage was a stale mess, he’d say, “I am sick and tired of this old crab and her constant nagging. But, what the hell, I’ll be dead in a year or two, so might as well stick it out.”

So I’ll spend the next few days trying to decide whether I should torture myself and her family by taking my own darling loved ones eight hours to something that’ll only provoke the worst in me. The only saving grace about attending such a booze-free yawnfest will be that it’ll keep me from blurting out myriads of hurtful truths.

It’s truly a lose-lose for me. Because if I stay home, then I’ll only be confirming the worst things Val’s family says about me: “Lazy, good-for-nothing, drinks too much, etc.”

And they’d be right. That’s exactly what I’d revel in for three days without my family under our roof. It would be splendid. I’ll never understand how how three people I love so much can make me so happy by not being here.

Plus I’d get to spend about three hours basking in the genius of the twice-married, now single Bob Dylan. You might wonder how I square my admiration for Dylan with his questionable married history.

Well, there’s still a chance he’ll ask me when and if he ever gets married again. And, guaranteed, he’s not getting married August 9.