Our 2.9 mile vacation

(743 words)

The car was packed. We’d done security recon around the house. The light timers were all set.

Just one thing missing from the standard we’re-off-to-vacation checklist: gas up the car.

Heck with it, I thought. I had about a quarter tank left. And if I ran empty on some desolate stretch, I could just stroll home.

We were only going 2.9 miles.

Most of you know I’m a bona fide travel writer. I have a self-interest in encouraging readers to travel to as many far-flung destinations as they can manage. So I’m kind of breaking the industry rules when I share we had one of our best vacations by staying at a hotel so near Val and I took turns returning home to let the dog out to pee.

Arnold Palmer and Marriott partnered to build a new SpringHill Suites hotel that opened in June. 

Palmer wanted a lodging amenity that would allow area guests to enjoy historic Latrobe Country Club. The club is a destination for Palmer pilgrims who want to immerse themselves in the history of man many of them revere. 

Guys like my old man.

He’d have loved the new hotel.

We watched them build it, me from the inside out, as well.

I did a story about the hotel’s construction for Palmer’s Kingdom Magazine. Three months before it was due to open I was on the roof of the place with the construction foreman sharing Palmer stories.

“Man, wait ‘til you see this place when we’re finished,” he said. “You’re going to love it.”

He later showed me one of Palmer’s most unusual autographs. It’s back in the boiler room where Palmer, then 82, clambered down into a muddy ditch to scratch his name with a nail in a three-foot spread of wet cement.

The hotel surpassed my expectations. I do think of my late father when I walk into the lobby. The decor is too tasteful to say it looks like a Palmer museum, but there are enough flourishes to get a real sense of the man and what he means to golf and Latrobe.

Rates vary, but the one that sticks out in my mind is $175 per night. That’s reasonable for a Marriott, outlandish when you realize that includes a free round of golf at L.C.C. 

Of course, my daughters don’t give a crap about any of that. They just thought it would be cool to stay in a new hotel.

But spending an overnighter at a hotel within view of our home seemed an extravagance. 

Not to the 12-year-old. “You’re friends with him, aren’t you?” she asked. “Can’t you just say you’d like to spend the night there? It’s not like you’re asking to stay in his spare bedroom.”

Her audacity convinces me she’ll someday be a really fine travel writer or perhaps a shakedown congresswoman.

No, I can’t ask Arnold Palmer that. Happily, I know people who work for him, one of whom oversaw the hotel’s construction.

I can’t ask him for that either. But he was gracious enough to offer a deal too sweet to refuse.

So Friday afternoon we got the kids off the bus and told them we were taking them to Nana’s where we’d planned to abandon them for the weekend. I believe things are more fun if at first you’re tricked into thinking they’re going to really suck (my wife keeps waiting for the matrimonial payoff in this).

We had about four minutes of surly complaints when I pulled into the hotel and told them it was April Fool’s in October. We filmed it as they pulled open the door to room 404 to find we’d checked in early and decorated the beds with all their favorite stuffed animals.

We could see home from our room.

We ordered a pizza, watched a movie and spent hours in the pool where I had a friendly chat with a guy from out of town. He and his family were from Greensburg, about eight miles away.

“I know a guy involved in a time share,” he told me. “He’s right now running to Wildwood, New Jersey, and they’re driving five hours to do about what we’re doing here.”

We talked about how we’d both overstressed trying to conceive whopper vacations when there are appealing options right under our noses.

Kids just want novelty. Parents just want peace.

Sometimes novelty’s right down the street.

Peace.

Related . . .

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Re-run Sunday! Sober pondering of exclamation points!!!

I wrote this piece about the mad proliferation of our most overused piece of punctuation, the exclamation point, in 2009. It was bad then. But it's only gotten worse. Way worse. Sure, those lines screamed for excessive punctuation, but I do enough of that in the following story.

The exclamation point, punctuation’s whoopee cushion, is putting on a tuxedo! It’s appearing in all the classiest places!

And I don’t think I like it one bit!!!

The exclamation point and I have never been really what you’d call chums. I try and inject humor into everything I write. Hell, I try and inject humor into everything I do.

That’s why even life’s most mundane routines, things like attending church and having sex, are more fun with me!

See, there you go. I offered a lame little joke that might be mildly amusing without the -- “Wink! Wink! Nudge! Nudge!” -- of the exclamation point. Instead, an otherwise harmless line becomes as tedious as being stuck in the middle seat next to the obnoxious joker who caps every punchline with a giggly, “Get it! Get it!”

But in another cultural battle I sense I’m bound to lose, I see more and more exclamation points scattered like indelicate little erections throughout the future of my carefully crafted sentences.

Blame Serena Williams.

See, while serious writers like me were shackled to our desks listening to tyrannical English teachers rhapsodize about things like semi-colons, she was off learning the tennis stroke that would earn fame and multiple millions of dollars.

The poor thing.

She never learned that the exclamation point was the -- pick one: Henny Youngman, Pauly Shore, Russell Brand -- of punctuation. It had no place in serious writing. It was promiscuous. It was gaudy. It lacked requisite subtlety.

And, ironically, it wasn’t funny! It wasn’t funny with one exclamation point! And it certainly wasn’t funny with three!!!

That’s why after her profanity (and exclamation point) laced tirade at the U.S. Open, she felt compelled to Tweet her remorse.

Here’s how she began her apology: “Hey guys!!!”

That’s how to punctuate a party invitation, not an apology. Like other celebrity tweeters, she relies on the exclamation point to convey emotions which she is incapable of otherwise expressing.

Of course, serious journalists like those anal retentive sorts at the New York Times are by rigid custom forbidden from doctoring those sorts of sentiments. Same goes for other high profile news organizations. They repeat the tweets word for word, exclamation point for exclamation point.

I’ve been reading The Times for 25 years and I don’t remember ever seeing a single exclamation point in a news column, but -- Shazam!!! -- there were three of giddy goodies romping across the sports section like a Radio City Rockette chorus line.

My first thought was there had to be an morning long meeting about how to deal with the wanton exclamation points, and that at least three copy editors felt honor bound to commit ritualistic hari-kari when the points sashayed into print.

It’s funny, too, that I’m so opposed to exclamation points in print when I’m practically a walking exclamation point.

It’s true.

I never say, “Hey, let’s all skip church today.”

I always say, “Hey, let’s all skip church today!”

It’s never with a sober sense of mournful obligation that I say to the boys, “There’s a big game on tonight. Let’s use that as an excuse to meet at the bar and get drunk.”

Not at all. I say it like this: “There’s a big game on tonight! Let’s use that as an excuse to meet at the bar and get drunk!”

If you’ve ever seen me say that, and I’ll say it three times this week, there’s a storm of confetti flying around my head and the John Philip Sousa march “76 Trombones!” is soundtracking the pronouncement.

But as tweets become more and more common, we’re bound to see more and more exclamation points in print as people point out the level of euphoria they’re feeling that a: they are done with the laundry! b: That the minestrone was delicious!! Or that -- hallelujah -- c: “Dancing w/ Stars” is on in 30 minutes!!!

And the progression just noted is accurate. One exclamation point denotes joy! Two means elation!! Three means pure spiritual rapture!!!

It’s the grammatical equivalent of the discredited Cold War nuclear strategy of Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD). We’re on track to deploy so many multiple exclamation points that it will soon be impossible to register even poignant emotion in print without putting punctuation’s party hat on every sentence.

And that makes me sad.

Really, really sad!!!

A binding story of Zumba sex

(770 words)

As my fair wife has enjoyed Zumba classes, I’ve been actively following the Kennebunk, Maine, sex scandal where comely instructor Alexis Wright is accused of doubling as a prostitute.

Me, I’m more offended by litterbugs than prostitutes or the men who employ them, but I’m naturally interested.

Wright, it seems, was a talented multi-tasker. She ran Zumba classes, kept the books on the business, had sex with dozens of her panting students, filmed and documented many of the encounters which police say earned her $150,000 over 18 months.

Man, where does she get the energy?

Her crime is a great advertisement for the wonders of Zumba and, I guess, sex with strangers.

I’m not sure I have the pep to tackle either activity. I get fatigued and my dominant daily activities are restricted to watching TV, bar time, and trying to keep this deadbeat blog fresh.

Maybe I need to take Wright’s class.

But that could lead to complications, it seems.

Kennebunk is in an uproar over the release of the names. Some say lives will be ruined. None of the stories say how much she charged and that’s disappointing.

How much it costs to have sex with your Zumba instructor is one of those things I for some reason think I’d like to know.

Valerie’s always been active in the local gym scene. She really enjoys it for things she can’t get from me at home which, I hope, means nothing more than exuberant dance music and cushioned floor space.

It’s kind of too bad I don’t go because it sounds like what happens at the gym is more interesting than what happens at my bar.

The gyms are full of attractive people who tend to be egotistical about their health and appearance.

At the bar, nobody gives a crap how they look and many of the most dedicated inebriates don’t care if they kick before halftime. They’re a very fatalistic bunch.

It’s not like that at the gym. Not only do they celebrate life, they often create it.

I’ve lost count of the times Val’s told me some married instructor ditched her husband for a shapelier model who -- whoopsie daisy! -- got her pregnant.

There was a time she thought aerobic exercise would be a fun couple thing to do. Once she even dragged me along.

And I’m being literal. We were handcuffed together.

It was about 1996. I was in the midst of a 1,000-story, decade-long run with National Enquirer. Editors there liked my momentary genius for lively first person story ideas. Check out my greatest hits here at www.chrisrodell.com.

It was 1996 when I was inspired by the story of a Georgia girl who was such a recalcitrant truant a judge ordered her handcuffed to her mother. Of course, within 48 hours the woman was back in court saying if she wasn’t liberated she’d either kill her daughter or herself.

The story made national headlines.

I at the time was engaged to Val, a situation the romantics believe is the very height of dewey-eyed affection. How would we react to being handcuffed for 72 hours?

That’s how I ended up in gym class with her.

It was a great story. Being handcuffed to your financee had many elements of old escaped convict shows. With the exception of bathroom breaks we were together every single minute of the day.

I remember sitting there by the old phone station listening her yap for what seemed like hours with her mother, and how I got creamed at dart night down at the bar as we were unable to coordinate my throwing hand chained to her left wrist.

Eating was tough, too. At one dinner I nearly lost an eye when she jerked to stifle a sneeze.

But what I’ll remember most is our time at the gym. She looked as sexy as the babe from “Flashdance.”

I looked like I was dressed to gut a deer.

She was a tornado of motion while I mostly just stood there with my right arm flapping around like a one-winged duck.

We survived the story with our love intact and have never once since considered our marriage a ball ‘n’ chain relationship.

And that was the last time I went to a gym for an aerobic experience. I remember later that night having the first and last bona fide bondage sex I’ve ever had in my life.

The kinky recollection has me thinking it’s time for me to head back to the gym.

There are times when even us good boys could use someone who’ll whip us into shape.

Related . . .

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Liked the debate? You'll love the radio show

(732 words)

I think it would be beneficial if there were a constitutional amendment requiring the presidential candidates to spend the remaining weeks before the election co-hosting a morning zoo radio program.

Everyone’s still bubbling about the Tuesday debate so feisty it looked like the pair might come to blows.

And wouldn’t that have made for great TV!

It’s been two days and partisans are still deciphering every phrase and gesture. We can’t get enough of it.

This debate was fascinating because it was a close as we’re going to the type of political conversation for which Americans thirst. That would be banter.

That’s why I think “Barack & Romney in the Morning!” would be such an enlightening hit. Or maybe “Ro’ & O’ in the Morning!” would look better on the billboards.

We’re all familiar with the format. Take two interesting individuals with divergent opinions, coop them up every morning from 6 to 10 a.m. to talk about current events, play music and jabber with comics and newsmakers.

Imagine what having our two presidential candidates in that setting would reveal.

“And that was Looking Glass with ‘Brandy,’ such a fine girl. That catchy ditty was from 1972, back when I still thought the Vietnam War was a really swell idea.”

“Yes, Mitt, that’s a great tune, but why from all your binders full of songs about women would you choose, ‘Brandy,’ a song that’s bound to remind listeners that single women have so struggled under the Republican-led Congress that many of them have had to take low wage jobs in divey seaside bars just to make ends meet.”

“My 5-point plan would prevent Brandy from being shipped overseas like so many jobs under your lousy leadership. Up next is “Sister Golden Hair” by one of my favorite bands, America.”

“America? That’ll be fourth time this morning.”

“Indeed, I love America. Have something against America, do you, Barack?”

“I’m not falling for that again!”

Joe Biden could do the weather, Paul Ryan traffic.

The great thing about my idea is every characteristic we want in a president would be revealed. They could take calls, comment on news, sports and interview comics appearing at the local Chuckle Hut.

The best part would be I imagine both men would come off as a lot more likable to more of America. We need that.

The people who hate Barack would see a sense of humor and self-deprecation that isn’t evident in formal settings, the only ones conservatives watch when they need something to ridicule. For instance, at the debate he was asked about the biggest misconception about him and he gave some policy answer too boring to recall.

Had he been in an odd couple radio format I’m suggesting he might have felt loose enough to say, “The biggest misconception about me? That’s easy. That people think I’m a Kenyan-born Muslim!”

And I think we’d all like the Romney revealed on radio. He’s chosen to pursue an impossible task. I believe he’s a moderate who needs to pretend he’s severely conservative in a party dominated by its lunatic fringe.

He’s still paying for the extreme positions he needed to ape to earn the Republican nomination over nut jobs like Rick Perry, Donald Trump, Michelle Bachman -- and I still shake my head that these buffoons were each once considered leading contenders.

I think someday Romney will say as much when he writes his book about the 2012 election -- and I’ll read Peter Criss’s new bio about what it’s like to play drums for the band Kiss before I read that and I won’t read that.

Romney’s a man who only looks comfortable in the moments before he knows he’s about to utter the words “Let us pray ...”

Alas, my idea is likely doomed. The one thing we can all agree on is our political parties are too vested in division to take a chance on consensus.

Here’s what I think is going to happen: the next debate will be judged a draw and Obama is going to win by a margin more comfortable than the experts are predicting.

But what the hell do I know?

I’m still trying to figure how that dashing sailor could really love the sea more than Brandy. I suspect he was homosexual and didn’t want to hurt her tender feelings.

Either way, it’s a real pity.

Such a fine girl.

Related . . .

• Hank Jr., Rick Perry & redneck risings

• Candidate families play “staring” role in creepy admiration

Stones 50 best? ForGRRRt it!

(2,159 words)

Really, it’s pointless in this age of digital downloading to contend anyone in their right mind would opt for an entire 50-song greatest hits set over pinpoint song selection.

But what’s the point of blogging if you can’t everyone once in a while give into fits of pointlessness?

So here we have the new Rolling Stones 50th anniversary release, “GRRR!” featuring a song for every year they’ve been together and maybe the worst name and worst cover art they’ve ever conceived.

But who cares about that? As always it’s the songs that matter.

These include some of the most indelible songs ever recorded. Most of them we all know by heart.

So you’re fine, but you’re not about whom I’m worried.

Somewhere out there there is some innocent kid who may be unfamiliar with the Stones repertoire. He or she will look to “GRRR!” as the roadmap for how to get into history’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band.

That person is for whom this post is written.

I will first mention the songs on the actual flawed collection and then the songs that should be there and why.

My list includes 26 different songs than the ones The Stones pick. Read on and you decide who knows The Stones better: me or The Stones.

Warning: As this is excessively long, it’s bound to be typo-laden for now. Sorry!

Disc 1

• “Come On” -- For historical purposes, this Chuck Berry song should stay.

• “Not Fade Away” -- It’s still an ass-kicking standard. It stays, too.

• “It’s All Over Now” -- To hell with history. This is one of my very favorites and it’s still relevant. But 50 is a demanding number, so instead we substitute “Little by Little,” a bluesy romp that features nifty guitar, harmonica and vocal interplay between Mick and Keith.

• “Little Red Rooster” -- A great Willie Dixon blues song pivotal in Stones history for being a milestone indicating their dedication to roots rock. But better is “The Spider & The Fly,” which is also superior for being an original composition. There’s a great scene from the underrated John Travolta film “Michael” from 1996 in which the angel performs a slinky show-stopping dance to this number.

• “The Last Time” -- Goodbye. Jagger and Arcade Fire did a great stomp with this on SNL in May, but discerning Stones fans prefer “Tell Me,” one of the first songs that will point to what a gift this great rock band has for ballads.

• “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” -- I’m temped to leave this off for reasons of familiarity, but it’s too gargantuan to omit.

• “Time Is On My Side” -- I’m bumping this one for the same reasons many of the others from Disc 1 are stricken: It’s a cover version, albeit a dazzling one. Why not instead, “What a Shame?” It’s a Jagger/Richards original with all the sass and swagger that would soon bloom on songs like “Ruby Tuesday.”

• “Get Off My Cloud” -- This stays. Saw them play it live in ’05. Still an anti-authoritarian anthem, an upraised middle finger to anyone who’s ever yelled, “Turn it down!” when someone cool was playing the Stones

• “Heart of Stone” -- This is just too plodding and lacking of any historical significance to keep. The petulant “Sad Day” would be more interesting to fresh ears.

• “19th Nervous Breakdown” -- Oh, this stays, for sure. These lyrics took them to a new level, as do some of the great guitar work. Love it. Love it. Love it

• “As Tears Go By” -- A bit too Victorian for my tastes. How about swapping this version with a great live version from 2008’s “Shine a Light” concert video? It’s a fresh take on an old tune that used to be more more Marianne Faithful than Mick.

• “Paint it, Black” -- This is to the Stones what “All Along the Watchtower” is to Dylan, an average by their standards song that’s somehow become a staple. It plays well in concert, but better is the psychedelic “2000 Light Years from Home.”

• “Under My Thumb” -- A first ballot hall of famer. Even more than “Satisfaction,” this song is where they really begin to assert their own style. Saw them open with this in Buffalo in 1981. It’s a great live song that sounds ferocious with guitar intro.

• “Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the Shadow?” -- Trumpets, reverb and all those incomprehensible lyrics make this an over-produced mess. I’ve always loved “Dandelion.” Beautiful, great Keith harmonies, too.

• “Ruby Tuesday” -- Don’t trifle with perfection. I just heard Little Steven from the E Street Band say no one does ballads better than the Stones. Absolutely. Their ballads are sublime.

• “Let’s Spend the Night Together” -- By all means. Lots of great history with this one with everyone from Ed Sullivan to the Red Chinese in 2006 banning it. Plus, it’s just so damn catchy.

• “We Love You” -- Bravo! The Stones themselves should have put more obscurities like this on here. This is exactly the kind of music to which new listeners should be exposed. Plus, it was written about their mid-60s drug trials, hence the sarcastic title. In truth, they hate them.

Disc 2

Now’s when it starts to get tricky. So many of these songs are consensus picks -- exactly why they should go. Most every Stones fan on the planet has everyone of these in multiple formats. I have seven live or greatest hits versions of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Most of the songs you’ll see on the last two discs are the same ones you’ll see on the 40th anniversary “Forty Licks” disc. So why the redundancy? So some of these are bound to be controversial.

•  “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” -- I’m aiming for controversy, but that doesn’t mean I want people to think I’m an idiot. One of their 50 best? It’s one of their 5 best.

• “Honky Tonk Women” -- See above.

• “Sympathy for the Devil” -- How about a little sympathy for anyone who’d dare leave this off the list. Not me.

• “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”-- For reasons stated above, buh-bye. Let’s instead insert “Monkey Man,” a song where the five bandmates each seem to be playing five different songs on the bridge and all comes magically together.

• “Gimme Shelter” -- When I heard this was included as the lead song on the new Denzel Washington movie, I thought, “Man, I have got to see this movie.” This song is just so primal and that’s what a great Stones song is all about.

• “Street Fighting Man” -- I’m sending this one to a neutral corner in favor of “Jigsaw Puzzle,” also from “Beggar’s Banquet.” Great sly lyrics about rock stardom from the band’s perspective. Very underrated.

• “Wild Horses” -- I love their ballads, but this isn’t one of their best. Most Stones fans will agree one of their best songs is the jazzy jam “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin,” a much more vital song from “Sticky Fingers.”

• “She’s a Rainbow” -- A lovely song celebrating the splendors of women. Let’s just for the sake of argument flip that and include “Bitch.”

• “Brown Sugar” -- Maybe their best? I have often argued that. But that works against it here where our mission is to expose novices to the deeper cuts. So it goes. As the Stones only thought to include two songs from “Exile on Main Street,” their best album, let’s dig into that one for “Sweet Virginia.” Everyone loves that, especially the sing-along chorus that features a barnyard epithet.

• “Happy” -- Keith must have been rehabbing when this set list was put together. It’s inexcusable only one of his songs makes the cut. Well, I got your back Keith. And I’m not even happy about “Happy.” Let’s reach back to “Let it Bleed” for his “You Got the Silver.”

• “Tumbling Dice” -- Like “Can’t Always Get What you Want,” they usually play this at every concert. Unlike that one, this one always strikes me as under-exposed. I can’t hear it enough. It stays.

• “Angie” -- Leaving aside the sneering arguments that this one’s about some odd love triangle involving Jagger and Mr. and Mrs. Bowie, the song’s just kind of listless. Let’s detonate that whole aesthetic by bouncing it in favor of their most filthy song, also from “Goat’s Head Soup.” That would be “Star Star.” This is the one Stones song I’d advise everyone to download if you want to understand the Stones. It’s simply the best and is absolutely filthy. 

• “Rocks Off” -- I was glad to see this one made the cut. It’s the first song from “Exile” and is worthy of inclusion.

• “Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)” -- Like “We Love You,” this is an unexpected delight. Love this song.

• “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll (But I Like It) -- Never gets old.

• “Fool To Cry,” -- This from 1976’s “Black ‘n’ Blue” is one of the Stones most lovely ballads and it’s only the second best ballad from the album. The first is “Memory Motel” and it’s, indeed, one of their 50 best songs.

Disc 3

• “Miss You” -- From 1978’s “Some Girls,” such a great album. I really like and recommend “No Spare Parts” and “Do You Think I Really Care?” two of the new bonus tracks recently re-released. I’m tempted to sub “Shattered,” “Before They Make Me Run,” but “Miss You” is just so representative of the album and the era it has to stay.

• “Respectable” -- No disrespect meant, but c’mon. This one’s kind of average. Keith’s “Before They Make Me Run,” take a bow.

• “Beast of Burden” -- Keith’s said this is one of his favorite songs he’s ever written. It’s not mine. But in deference to Keith I’m subbing in what I think is his best in an era-jumping maneuver, “This Place is Empty” from 2005’s “A Bigger Bang.”

• “Emotional Rescue” -- I don’t share the visceral hatred many Stones fans have for this album, but there’s no way I’m including this on any of their greatest hits packages. It’s not even top 100. Instead try “Worried About You,” from 1981. Starts like slow MoTown with languid snaps and guitar licks and then builds to a monster. An outstanding song.

• “Start Me Up” -- I just can’t do it. For all it’s catchiness, it’s really a bit of a bore. It’s the same thing over and over. It can start me up, but it just doesn’t know when to quit. Let’s sub “Sparks Will Fly” from 1994’s “Voodoo Lounge,” a truly great album. 

• “Waiting on a Friend” -- Lovely, often overlooked ballad.

• “Undercover of the Night” -- “Undercover” from 1983 is a very average Stones album save for two spectacular songs and this is one of them.

• “She was Hot” -- And this is the other. Outstanding rocker. Fun. Rollicking. Download! Download! Download! Now! Now! Now! It also featured maybe their best rock video.

• “Streets of Love” -- An interesting choice from among the many great songs on “A Bigger Bang.” I’m keeping it. 

• “Harlem Shuffle” -- Keeping this is in the spirit of my mission of highlighting under-appreciated songs, but this isn’t the one. It’s from 1986’s “Dirty Work,” which I argue is even worse than “Emotional Rescue.” But I do love “One Hit (To The Body)” and believe it warrants inclusion.

• “Mixed Emotions” -- This is the welcome-back song from what many consider the comeback album of “Steel Wheels” in 1989. I like it, but I’m going with the sublime ballad, “Almost Hear You Sigh.” Remember, nobody does ballads like The Stones. Attention must be paid.

• “Highwire” -- Yes! A true rarity blasting the folly of war. It’s a good tune, too, a studio song from 1998’s otherwise live album “Flashpoint.” But in the spirit of highlighting rarities, I’m going to with a great blues stomp “The Storm” a B-side from “Voodoo Lounge.”

• “Love is Strong” -- Again with Voodoo Lounge? Yes. It’s a great album that’s seems all but forgotten. A keeper

• “Anybody Seen My Baby” -- This song from 1997’s “Bridges To Babylon,” is tainted. Jagger apparently subconsciously lifted the melody from k.d. lang’s “Constant Craving” so alt-country gender bender lang now shares a song-writing credit with Jagger/Richards. I wasn’t even aware of this until I’d read Keith’s autobiography. Who knew? Let’s dump it for a kick-ass rocker, “Gunface.” k.d. lang ain’t touching that one.

• “Don’t Stop” -- A toss off to add interest to the “Forty Licks” 40th anniversary album. It’s okay, but doesn’t belong among the greats. I’m going back to “A Bigger Bang” for “Rough Justice,” although I could have easily chosen, “Back of My Hand,” or “Biggest Mistake,” or any number of others. “A Bigger Bang deserves to be heard.

• “Doom and Gloom” -- Like “Don’t Stop,” this is a new song written to add spice to the an old collection. But, wow, does this work. Great song, great lyrics. It’s a top 50 right out of the gate.

• “One More Shot” -- Unavailable until the album release. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt and say this will be great.

Just like the Rolling Stones.

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Weddings, friendship & a pooka named Paul

(862 words)

We spent a good deal of the Saturday wedding reception lamenting there’s only one Peirce sister left to wed. Three down, Kelly to go.

The sisters are uniformly vivacious, beautiful and fun, just like their mom, Patti. 

The weddings have been such joyful extravaganzas we were all sorry Patti didn’t have a dozen daughters.

Patti is married to Paul and Paul is my pooka.

More on that in just a bit.

I’ve lost track but Paul and Patti are on the verge of celebrating something like their 68th wedding anniversary.

Because theirs was a mid-70’s shotgun wedding, they celebrated both an actual anniversary and one they told their parents to avoid scandalous questions involving birthdays and basic math.

I remember one time Paul and I were sitting in a bar -- our natural habitat -- and hearing a guy instruct a college-age friend on the importance of proper birth control.

“Getting a girl pregnant in college,” he thundered, “can ruin your life!”

I’ll never forget Paul setting down his beer, turning to the pair and offering this emphatic counterpoint: “I got a girl pregnant in college  . . . and it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me!”

I met Paul in 1989 after bosses at the Greensburg Tribune-Review transferred me to work with him in the two-person Latrobe bureau office. Prior to that Paul’d worked with a string of co-workers whose extracurricular interests did not merge with his.

Or as Patti put it: “Before you got there, he used to always come home unhappy. Now he’s always happy, but he’s never home.”

It was the start of a nationwide carouse that’s lasted nearly 25 years.

What’s been most fun for me is to watch how peoples’ opinions of Paul have changed over the years even as Paul hasn’t changed one bit.

By remaining the way he’s always been, he’s become absolutely beloved.

I began noticing this a few years ago whenever friends started coming up to me whenever I was momentarily Paul-less.

“Hey, have you seen Paul?” they’d ask.

Of course, I had.

They’d want to know how he was doing. I’d tell them without exaggeration he was doing great. He’s one of the happiest men I’ve ever known.

“Would you please tell him I asked about him and that I said hello? Tell him I hope to see him soon.”

It was like Paul was Santa and I was the elf in charge of the naughty and nice lists.

Those conversations confirmed what I already knew: Paul’d become my pooka.

I didn’t even know I had a pooka until a couple of years ago after we took the kids to the Jimmy Stewart Museum in Indiana, Pa. From the DVD bins, I snagged the 1950 movie “Harvey.” Hadn’t seen it in years.

In it Stewart plays Elwood P. Dowd, an affable dimwit who believes he’s accompanied everywhere by a 6-foot-3 invisible white rabbit who shares his fondness for drink and laughter.

For the purposes of this story, I’m the affable dimwit, the most obvious casting since 1939 when producers of “The Wizards of Oz” cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.

Here’s what Dowd says about having Harvey:

“Harvey and I sit in the bars... have a drink or two... play the juke box. And soon the faces of all the other people they turn toward mine and they smile. And they're saying, ‘We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fella.’ Harvey and I warm ourselves in all these golden moments. We've entered as strangers, soon we have friends. And they come over ... and they sit with us ... and they drink with us ... and they talk to us. They tell about the big terrible things they've done and the big wonderful things they’ll do. Their hopes, and their regrets, and their loves, and their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then I introduce them to Harvey ... and he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And when they leave, they leave impressed.”

That exact situation’s happened thousands of times with Paul and I, and Paul is bigger and grander than any 6-foot-3 invisible rabbit. It helps we’re both attentive listeners.

I admit to growing misty at Meghan and Ryan’s wedding watching Paul walk his youngest daughter down the aisle and later hearing all the warm tributes to this most happy bride’s parents.

It’s been a real privilege for Val and I to be part of their lives and to watch Paul and Patti raise Tiffany, Lindsey, Kelly, and Meghan from precocious and engaging children into joyful and successful adults, two of them now parents themselves.

Spoiler alert:

“Harvey” concludes with Dowd selflessly giving the warden of the mental hospital from which he’s just been liberated permission to take Harvey with him.

But Harvey has other ideas.

He chooses to stay with Dowd.

I guess that’s the way it is with all the great pookas. They’re too important to too many to keep all to yourself.

You just have to thankful any time the big pooka chooses you.

Related . . .

• “I love you men!”

• My gay friend John