"Stolen Valor" and my pretend life

(647 words)

A federal appeals court ruled Tuesday it’s a free speech privilege for posers to wear fraudulent military medals. The case was brought to court under the Stolen Valor Act that in 2013 aimed to outlaw non-serving scoundrels from profiting from pretend military heroism.

So the ruling, in effect, will lead to men who falsely claim to have been maimed in service getting truly maimed by enraged men who actually did.

It says something about the degree of respect I have for our veterans that I’ve never once pretended to be one of them.

Because throughout my life I’ve been a great pretender.

And why pretend you are a Purple Heart-earning dogface when you can pretend you are some gaudily decorated Generalissimo from some banana republic nation no one’s ever heard of?

Think of the fun. You could dress in some elaborate uniform, get a hat with feathers, toy sword, head down to the local VFW and say you love America and want to defect.

At the very least, you’d get a good free drunk out of it.

I swear I’m going to do it one of these days.

My inspiration for this is one of the legendary stories I’d heard from when I did swashbuckling features for National Enquirer. This one happened back in the 1980s at the height of Cold War tensions with the Soviet Union.

One of the brainstorming editors wondered what would happen if they dressed up an undercover reporter as a Russian general, dropped him off at the Pentagon, and told him to see how deep he could get by just bluffing.

I remember hearing General Vodkov got pretty far before getting arrested.

Another inspirational one involved the time they wanted to see what happened if they dressed some hapless reporter up as an elaborately made-up alien and set him loose on some hick town Main Street out west.

It was during the summer of “E.T.” and movie goers were expressing warm fuzzies for assorted green creatures from outer space.

This reporter didn’t get arrested. Instead, he nearly got shot.

“Oh, he wasn’t there 10 minutes before three dudes with shotguns got him on the ground,” an editor explained. “He ripped his mask off and started screaming, ‘It’s a joke! It’s a joke!’ It was hilarious.”

I’ve always wondered how the editor would have written the story if the poor disposable bastard had been shot down by the Earthlings.

I for various Enquirer stories have pretended I was a flower delivery boy to get into Tammy Wynette’s hospital room; pretended I was hired to deliver a singing gorilla gram to learn the location of  TV personality John Tesh’s hotel room; pretended my invitation to Julia Roberts’s birthday party was legit; and in 1994 pretended I was in dire need of rehab to gain admittance to the clinic where Courtney Love was being treated for her addictions.

In 1994, that last one really wasn’t much of a stretch.

And, oh, the countless times I pretended I was a real reporter.

Do you ever pretend you know exactly who or what someone is talking about in the hopes your brain will catch up before the person you’re talking to realizes you’re a vapid idiot?

I do that probably three times every day before lunch.

Growing up, I used to pretend I had a tummy ache to get out of going to school. Now I pretend I’m not hungover the morning after I swore to my wife I wouldn’t get too drunk the night before.

I pretend I never grasp the soulful poignancy when Pete Townshend in “Slit Skirts” from 1985 sings, “Can’t pretend that growin’ older never hurts.”

So, no, I’m far too busy pretending I’m other things to pretend I’m a decorated veteran.

And now I’m done.

Watch me spend the rest of the day pretending by it’s been productive.

Related . . .

Long live National Enquirer!

My night with Julia Roberts

My Enquirer ethics

What happened when I spent 72 hours handcuffed to Val

My career advice: Don’t be like me!

Hats in heaven; another goodbye to another good friend

(572 words)

I never thought of wearing a hat in heaven until I saw my buddy Ed wearing his Sunday in his coffin.

It said “Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.” So people in heaven will know instantly, not only was he good on Earth, he was also very cool.

And even in death, he was.

He was Ed Guidas, 53, an owner of Mr. Toad’s pub in Greensburg.

He started out there as a bartender back in the late 1980s. That was back when I worked at the local newspaper, The Tribune-Review. The paper had a lot more employees then and we all seemed to have good reasons to drink every night.

So at about 11 p.m. after we’d put the paper to bed, the whole newsroom would pour into Toad’s to booze and bitch.

I think we all enjoyed Ed because he was as informed as we were, but didn’t share our warping cynicism. He was an appealing combination of tough, but sweet.

I’ve always said Ed could have presided at our wedding.

Because it was at Toad’s with Ed bartending that Val and I began to click. In fact, without Ed I doubt we’d have ever fallen in love and had kids.

There’s no way a girl like Val would have fallen for a guy like me if she’d been sober.

The local newspaper crowd began to change sometime after I left, but Toad’s never did. It remains a great bar.

I stopped in there after a book signing and gave Ed a copy of “Use All The Crayons!” I was hoping he’d like it.

He did, of course.

I think what many people fail to realize is how much people like Ed helped me write that book.

Not by offering suggestions or helping me craft ideas, certainly.

But just by living. Just by being someone whose laugh was so warm and wonderful you’d drive out of your way to share an offbeat observation in the hopes they’d find it funny.

It’s like that with so many of my friends.

Yours, too, I’m sure.

There’s just something about the laughter of a good friend that takes all your troubles away.

I hadn’t seen Ed in a couple years when I was at my old Pond office this summer and got a text from the owner saying Ed and his girlfriend were there and wanted to know if I was around. He’d been driving past and remembered I hung out there. 

I was and by chance Val was with me. She hadn’t seen him in years.

Well, we just had the greatest time (I wrote about a humorous aspect of it in the first link below).

I vowed that night to stop by Toad’s more often and, yes, that’s the kind of vow I honor.

I saw Ed twice in the months before his heart exploded on Saturday.

And, boy, am I glad I did.

Not because I told him how much he meant to me, Val and our friends. Not because we shared a soulful hug like you do with someone you fear you might never see again, which would have been too socially awkward.

But just because it let us do the things that make life worth living.

It’s not complicated.

It’s just fun.

So while you’re wearing your hat in heaven, my friend, I’m tipping mine to you and your memory down here on Earth.

You will be missed.

Related . . .

The story of my webbed tows & other human oddities

A day for real mourning: RIP Angelo Cammarata

How old will you be in heaven?

Will eternity seem like an eternity?

Will getting a harp help me get into heaven?

Seeking bedroom deviance from reluctant wife

(568 words)

It was just a suggestion, a thought extended into a casual question. But my wife’s reaction made me feel dirty, like it was the sort of proposal I should save for the prostitutes.

I can’t deny it. What I was suggesting was deviant.

We’ve been sleeping together for 23 years and it’s something we’d never discussed, much less done.

“C’mon, hon,” I coaxed. “Let’s just try it. If you don’t like it, we can stop and go back to doing it the way we’ve been doing it every single night since 1992.”

But she was firm.

“No!”

So it’s not going to happen.

And now I’m fearful I’ll go to my grave never knowing what it’s like to sleep on the left side of the bed.

I’d asked Val if she was a willing to take a sleepwalk on the wild side. She was refusing.

Are you like us? Do you each have your own side of the bed? Or do you swap — Left! Right! Left! — with wild, inconsequential abandon, you swingers, you.

Sleeping on the “wrong” side of the bed is the only kind of side-switching left to devout heterosexuals.

I don’t recall how I started exclusively sleeping on the right side of the bed and her on the left.

We didn’t do a pre-nup. She didn’t claim ancestral prerogative. And if there was a pivotal coin toss in there somewhere it’s something I’ve forgotten.

A February study by Saatva, a fancy mattress company, found that 40 percent of Americans always sleep on the same side of the bed, with men preferring the right.

It’s very odd, like eating nothing but Hamburger Helper for supper or going to Ocean City for vacation every single summer.

I could see her territorial insistence if we slept on a common mattress. She’d wisely want to avoid sleeping in my ruts or else seek regular chiropractic adjustments.

But we’ve always shared a full-flow waterbed, something only 5 percent of the sleeping population enjoys.

The only reason I can figure the number is so low is because the waterbed is freighted with hippie connotations and people still have their disco era hang-ups.

They don’t know what they’re missing. We both love the waterbed. It’s warm, soothing and is as near as you can get to that feeling of returning to the womb without inconveniencing mom.

And that's groovy!

Val sleeps like a log, much better than I do.

It’s not uncommon for me to be jarred awake in the middle of the night to spend the next hour tossing and turning all the while mentally fencing with my failures.

I used to get up and watch some TV, but now I realize the sleep deficit will be the same whether I’m tubing or not. So why bother?

And there in the bed cuddling with my wife is so splendidly comfy I’m reluctant to escape the sanctuary. On most days getting out of bed makes me feel like WWI soldier being ordered to vault from the trench into No Man’s Land certain to face heroic annihilation.

Who needs that?

But now with her refusal to switch sides, I’m left to wonder what it is about the left side she’s so reluctant to relinquish.

Just what kind of party is going on over there?

And how come I’m not invited?

This I’ll have to sleep on.

Or sleep just to the right of.

Related . . .

Our queen-sized bed; our king-sized dreams

US needs National No-One-Gets-Out-of-Bed Day

Pillow shopping for ol' Crusty

Read this then go straight to sleep

I hate the snooze alarm

Rooster risings: Alarm clock alternatives

Pirates should sign Ted Williams (1918-2002)

(687 words)

“People ask me what I do in winter when there’s no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”

— Rogers Hornsby, MLB HOF 1942 

That's the sentimental quote on SpringTrainingCountdown.com, the baseball-centric site that right now informs there are 42 days, 12 hours, 9 minutes and 17 seconds until pitchers and catchers report.

I love the Hornsby quote because it summarizes the seasonal longings I feel during the depths of winter. It’s particularly acute today because the temperature is minus- 180 degrees Fahrenheit.

Not here in Latrobe.

That’s the temperature deep inside all-time slugger Ted Williams’s frozen head.

I mention this now because I believe it’ll take about 42 days, 12 hours, 8 minutes and 37 seconds to thaw something that frozen and have it ready to suit up to pinch hit for the 2016 Pittsburgh Pirates.

Williams’s remains are among 139 cryonically frozen dead human beings being — and 39 pets! — warehoused in the Scottsdale headquarters of Alcor, a company that one day intends to bring them all back to life.

It’s assumed they have champagne, too, chilled for the eventuality.

My guess is the MLB players union is litigating ownership to classify the former Red Sox, who died in ’02, on some kind of really extended injured reserve.

I’m surprised I don’t hear more about the deep-frozen body of the man admirers called “The Splendid Splinter.” He’s one of my favorite Americans.

He was in 1941 the last man to bat .400. He hit left, but threw right. He had 521 home runs, but “just” 2,654 hits. How did one of the greatest hitters in baseball — many still consider him THE best — miss the milestone 3,000 hit club?

He was a patriot.

He served with heroic distinction in not one, but two overseas conflicts. He was a Navy fighter pilot for three years in World War II, and later served three years in the Korean War where he received the Air Medal and two Gold Stars for valorous conduct during 39 missions.

He was astronaut John Glenn’s wingman in Korea and Glenn said Williams was the best pilot he ever knew.

So in the prime of his career, he lost six seasons to service. It’s not inconceivable he could have snagged another 800 hits, enough to put him among the top 6 all-time hitters.

Being in one hall of fame is historic. Williams qualifies for three: Baseball, aviation and fly fishing. The IGFA Fishing Hall of Fame features Williams for the many fly fishing records he’s held.

And he just seemed like this great boisterous guy. I remember ESPN airing an interview between him and late slugger Tony Gwynn — I loved Gwynn, too — about hitting and it was just so joyful, these two old pros swapping stories, bantering and laughing like the kids we all used to be. 

I think about Williams a lot this time of year. 

Because thanks to Alcor there’s still a remote chance I’ll get to meet him, even though he’s been dead 14 years.

Who’s to say Alcor might someday succeed in revivifying Williams and the others from their deep freeze?

That would be, well, cool?

It’d certainly give Williams the opportunity to be a future cinch for comeback player of the year. His comeback promises to be the greatest since Jesus Christ.

Or maybe Austin Powers.

And he’d look great in a Pirate uniform.

The off-season’s been tough for fans like me. The Cubs make some great moves, the Cardinals are always tough and the Pirates have done squat.

Adding a hall of famer — even a dead one — would warm the fans’ spirits.

It couldn’t hurt. Hell, the entire roster of the 105-loss 2010 Pirates played as if they’d all been cryonically frozen by — speaking of your walking dead — manager John Russell.

Even at minus-180 degrees, Williams is bound to generate more warmth than Russell ever did.

The fans would love to have someone as historic as Williams on the bench.

Me and my buddies would be his No. 1 fans.

Heck, there have been countless Opening Days when we, too, were frozen.

Related . . . 

I play Centerfield

Roberto Clemente, Mr. 3,000

A great day for baseball! Let’s play 2 … or 3 …

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

The man Maz turned into a Communist

The Bucs need Barry Bonds

9th graders learn who's better: Stones or Beatles

(972 words)

My daughters know not to ask Daddy any homework questions involving subjects like algebra or biology.

I just don’t get it.

Same goes for humanity, sociology, civics, nutrition, astronomy, horticultural, automotive repair, personal finance, IT, physics, chemistry, fashion, hospitality, theology … 

And let’s not even get into why they know to run to Mommy anytime they have questions involving basic grooming and hygiene.

So I was taken aback when our 9th grader approached and said she needed my insights on a subject she’d been assigned to argue for debate class.

Who’s better: Stones or Beatles?

Now, it was my turn to be taken aback.

This is what they’re teaching in our middle schools?

I couldn’t believe it. This isn’t a subject that ought to be discussed in a classroom.

It ought to be discussed in a dimly-lit bar with a really cool jukebox.

And I should be the teacher!

In fact, my entire life has been something of an honors tutorial on the subject. I remember spending hour-after-hour in the Athens bars going point-by-point over every song in their glorious catalogs to divine the answer.

It was Ohio University where I graduated with a .23.

That wasn’t my GPA.

It was my BAC.

I started my answer with a question: Who did you choose to argue: Stones or Beatles?

“The Stones.”

Hallelujah.

If she’s learned anything from me it is musical tastefulness, a realm which to me is far more important than all that scholarly crap that winds up on the resumes.

She was correct.

The Stones are the better band.

I plugged a Stones playlist into the stereo and as the first iconic chords of “Jumpin' Jack Flash” began to play I commenced my illumination.

“First of all, the Stones are the better band merely on the basis of longevity. They’ve been thrilling the world for 54 years.”

That cannot be overlooked.

“Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” “Shattered,” “Sweet Virginia,” “Memory Motel,” “Miss You,” “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” “Waiting on a Friend” and “Honky Tonk Woman” are just a handful of the hits the Stones recorded after the Beatles hung it up. And if I had the opportunity, I’d play for each of you the outstanding 2005 “A Bigger Bang” album to prove the Stones are still in their fifth decade capable of great studio work.

Many great bands burn out or fade away within five years due to ego, addiction, artistic differences, death, suicide, envy or the other many pitfalls of fame.

The Stones have overcome all those and reign still.

Second, the Stones are more inspirational.

Ask Bruce Springsteen.

I heard an apt interview with him where he summed it up perfectly. He said it changed his world when he saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan.

“I remember looking at them and thinking, well, there’s only four guys in the world who can do what they’re doing and there they are. No one else can do that. Me, included. But when I saw the Stones they were more gritty, more real. They weren’t smiling. They weren’t pretty. I thought, man, I can do that. The Stones are what made me want to be in a band.”

Every musician in the world wanted to listen to the Beatles, but they wanted to be a Stone.

Another point: the Stones were dangerous.

When the Beatles were playing it safe singing, “All You Need is Love,” the Stones were releasing, “Sympathy for the Devil.”

I played it for Josie and emphasized the lyrics with historical context about crucifixions, Russian revolutionaries and WWII holocausts.

I watched with glee while your kings and queens fought for 10 decades for the gods they made

I shouted out “Who killed the Kennedys?” when after all it was you and me

The world in 1968 was raw from war, strife, injustice and the monumental assassinations of JFK and Martin Luther King Jr. And here comes Mick Jagger beseeching sympathy for the devil.

They didn’t shy away from confronting this. In fact, when Robert Kennedy was murdered during the recording sessions, the Stones had a historic choice to remove the Kennedy line in the name of taste.

Instead, they made it plural.

Even today, it’s incredibly incendiary.

I told her the Stones are the better band is because they are a true band.

I love that about them.

I contend if the Beatles had never met you still would have heard of John, Paul, George and Ringo. They all had the gifts to be famous.

John, Paul and George all went on to individually make tremendous and indelible solo music. They were a trio of geniuses.

And Ringo, well, Ringo would have made a dandy game show host.

Had the Stones never met, the only one anyone would have ever heard of is Charlie Watts and the only people who would have heard of him are the handful of obsessives who can name famous jazz drummers.

Mick would have become a financier, Keith a junkie, Bill Wyman a gynecologist and Brian Jones still dead.

Instead, they had each other and became something the world will never see again.

That Stones solo work is either obscure or sucks just bolsters my point.

And though their lifestyles contradict the opinion, I contend the Stones would to this day still be playing music together in shabby clubs and theaters if they’d never become famous.

I still believe — despite all the inflatable dolls, the private jets and the disposable supermodels — with the Stones it’s the music that matters.

And because this was a school project and I want my darling to succeed, I needed to share with her the one irrefutable reason that would blow away anyone arguing the Beatles — and I love the Beatles — are better.

None of the Stones ever got anywhere near Yoko.

Class dismissed.

Related …

Roll on, Stones

Stones 50 best? ForGrrrt it

“USA! USA!” and why we all whoo

Listening to classic rock with my senile Mom

Lennon vs. McCartney

The divisive Paul McCartney Christmas song

The Boss for God

A '15 blog retrospective to enjoy and share

I have friends who say they disdain any re-runs. This drives me lower case insane.

Do they expect me to every day do for free something original? Heck, even the otters at SeaWorld get rewarded with an anchovy per trick.

So I’m at peace with dropping re-runs in here and there. Plus, some are becoming traditional. They still re-run “It’s a Wonderful Life” at Christmas, don’t they?

The last three months saw a surge of new readers. This retrospective is aimed at those new friends and anyone who wants to encourage folks to give the blog a try.

It’s just a monthly sampler from ’15. And, of course, anyone who wants access to more than 100 categorized posts can just visit the www.EightDaysToAmish.com homepage. Obsessives can create and distribute their own lists!

I’ll try and come up with something fresh tomorrow, but I can’t guarantee it.

Enjoy your Sunday and . . . Go Steelers! (and Bills …)

January — “Well-rounded thoughts on purchasing new tires”  … Like my career, my vehicle has become a punch-line. This one’s includes environmental nuggets about tire recycling and my solutions to tire waste.

February — “I’m getting paid to talk to 8th graders” … One of the great things about my new opportunities as a motivational speaker is when unusual options come in unbidden. For instance, I never dreamed I’d be paid to talk to 8th graders.

March — “Do friends extend lives? Not friends like mine” … This one is in response to a study that declared friends are essential to a long life. Obviously, this is a rebuke, albeit a joyful one.

April — “Tom Sawyer ejaculates! And when word meanings change” … Words, their meanings and their origins have always fascinated me. This tips the hat to that affinity.

May — “When Jesus returns, will He wear a bow tie?” … Quirky fashions and religious devotions, this one wrote itself.

June — “I am being evicted from The Pond” … What a tumultuous year it was for my office. Being evicted was a real bummer. Hated it. But with this one I tried to put a good face on it by embracing change.

July — “The story of my webbed toes and other human deformities” … Many people ask me, “Say, did that really happen? Did you really tell someone you had webbed toes?” Of course, I did. I love enlivening the day with these kinds of shenanigans.

August — “Jaffre’s opens today at the Tin Lizzy!” … My stats page said locals really ate this one about local restaurant news up.

September — “Pope re-gifts an $8 million Bible” … The pope visit was such a rich topic for me. I have a friend who says he hates it whenever I dabble in religion. That’s a pity because I love to write about religion.

October — “Jonesin’ for Xarelto: The new Arnold Palmer ad” … This would be one of my favorites if for no other reason than it let me tell the story about what Palmer said when I proposed he wrestle his friend Clint Eastwood.

November — “Abe Vigoda is still alive! (for now)” … Great reaction to this one, so much so I hope to write the Abe-Vigoda-is-still-alive story for the next five years.

December — “The divisive Paul McCartney Christmas song” — Writing this one taught me Sir Paul’s earned $15 million from a song it took him one afternoon to write and that many, many people really hate this song.

Resolution redux: Opine less/compliment more

Did you make a resolution? No? Use mine from last New Year’s. Every time you think about arguing with someone, compliment them instead.

(629 words)

The deluge of resolutions are flooding the national psyche: Lose weight. Get a new job. Spend more quality time with the kids.

All are aimed at making individuals and the world itself a better place.

As that’s what I’m all about, let me offer humanity a collective resolution that will  do wonders to improve our each and every day:

Preempt every outloud opinion with a distracting compliment.

So, for instance, if Burt from accounting tries to goad you into an argument about politics, race or any of the hot button issues of the day, disengage and instead tell Burt his new haircut makes him look years younger.

Same goes for Suzie from marketing. Don’t allow yourself to get dragged into an argument about climate change with her. Instead ask if she’s lost weight and tell her that dress really flatters her figure.

The compliments will sweeten their whole demeanor.

See, I’m one of those believers who thinks man is the cause of global warming. There’s simply too much hot air.

And most of it is coming from me and you!

We live in a time when our ardor to express our opinions is surpassed only by our ability to shout them around the world. On the racetrack of understanding, opinion has now lapped fact.

I’m all for exercising our First Amendment rights, but there’s such a thing as too much exercise.

As proof, I offer the example of the late running guru Jim Fixx,  author of the 1977 smash, “The Complete Book of Running.” It was maybe the only book in publishing history you could describe without exaggeration as a “runaway bestseller.”

People cited Fixx as the inspiration for a healthy lifestyle that would better the whole world. It launched the fitness craze that persists to this day.

Devotees of ironic tragedy remember Fixx for a different reason.

Yes, the man who said relentless jogging would lead to longer, healthier lives died at the tender age of 52.

Of a heart attack.

While jogging!

I fear we’re exercising our Free Speech rights to death.

It’s driving me crazy.

I’ve tried reasoning. I’ve tried arguing.

Our opinions are so set there’s no way to crack all the concrete — and I’m talking about the all concrete between the ears of those who think differently than I.

And the stupid arguments just escalate.

I got into one last week with one of my racist friends. 

I wish I didn’t have racist friends. But if I confined my conversation to only enlightened thinkers it’d be a very lonely existence and I’d have to stop talking to even myself.

He’d previously made some racially inconsiderate remarks about Steeler coach Mike Tomlin. 

Now that Tomlin has the Steelers in the playoffs and looking like Super Bowl contenders, I reiterated my opinion — and it’s just my opinion — that he was a racist, blow-hard, raving idiot.

Within seconds we were in each other’s faces.

As I knew it would only get worse and that he was probably packing, I decided a new debate tactic might be wise.

“And I’ll tell you another thing!” I shouted.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, what?”

“I don’t know what you had for lunch, but your breath smells extra fresh!”

So that’s what I’m urging all America to do: Opine less and compliment more.

It’s a fine resolution that could make the world a more civil place.

Of course, that’s just my opinion.

Next year we’ll work on a resolution about the brazen hypocrisy of a guy who intends to blog his opinions more than 250 times in 2015 lecturing the world about too many opinions.

And, by the way, I’d be wrong to let this go without mentioning how great your ass looks in those jeans.

 Have you lost weight?