Gina Cerilli: Our model candidate

(652 words)

Lots of salient questions will be asked of Westmoreland County Commissioner candidate Gina Cerilli between now and the May 19 Democratic primary. Reporters and concerned citizens will ask about her stand on taxes, infrastructure, pensions, etc.

None of them have anything to do with what I want to know.

My question: “Gina, if the race gets really tight, will you begin wearing a bikini to your public appearances and how do you think that will help and/or hurt your chances?”

It’s a legitimate question.

Cerilli, 28, is the most beautiful candidate I’ve ever seen run for any public office.

She’s also the most beautiful person who’s ever tried to sell me a new or used car.

That’s how I first became aware of her existence.

As I wrote last February, we’re in a golden age of hometown commercial babe spokeswomen (see first link below).

Advertisers eager to sell products to sports fans who watch cable baseball and hockey have shown exquisite taste in finding appealing young- to middle-aged women to hawk their wares.

My favorite, by far, was the beguiling young beauty who was eager for me to stop by at Latrobe Chevrolet and Ford to buy a new vehicle.

“No money down!”

As eager as I was to obediently please this lovely stranger, I simply could not. Then as now, my precarious financial situation was best described by just the first of the two promotional words.

“No money!”

So there I was, lamenting how it saddened me to disappoint one so beautiful when my buddy, a veteran reporter at the local newspaper, piped up.

“That’s Gina Cerilli. She was Miss Pennsylvania in 2010. She’s the spokeswoman at the local water authority. They’re paying her $61,000 a year to tell people to drink water. She’s a law student at Duquesne University. I hear she’s going to run for county commissioner.”

The news thrilled me.

Not that she was running for office.

I was thrilled I could support on the cheap something she was promoting.

I told the bartender to put a splash of water in my bourbon.

But I am fascinated by her candidacy because I’m always interested in the actual prejudice some people hold against people who can’t help having been born beautiful.

Sometimes, gazing lovingly in the mirror for hours on end, I wonder if that’s what keeps holding me back.

And I’m curious as to how Cerilli deals with it.

Her candidate posters feature shots of her looking very demure. They’re tasteful. They neutralize her beauty.

I think they’re shot this way because she and her advisers know that there are many females who resent the hell out of another woman they consider too beautiful, too hot, too threatening.

And then, man, there are the dudes.

I guarantee you male support for her would spike if she posed in one of the tight dresses she wore when she was hawking Chevys.

And just imagine the national media furor if she did appear in a bikini in a naked appeal— well, nearly-naked — to shallow male voters. 

Of course, all this ignores the truly important question: Is she at all qualified?

It certainly seems so. She’s excelled in some high-profile roles and never embarrassed herself.

Many will argue, not unreasonably, that at 28 she’s simply too inexperienced to run a county sprawling with nearly 370,000 people. But politicians from both parties reliably show us just how overrated being experienced can be in running anything.

So local political observers are in for an interesting few weeks.

Me, I’d like to see something happen to bring the issue to a head, to make voters confront their ugly prejudice over how they feel about people who through no fault of their own are not ugly at all.

Because the ugly truth is the only acceptable prejudice left is the one against someone who’s been born beautiful.

Take it from me!

Related . . .

Why everyone hates Patrice King Brown

Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m beautiful

A bejesus of a wasp sting

(667 words)

In order to better represent the painful threat they pose, your average wasp should be the size of winged Volkswagens.

And they should have sirens. 

That way they wouldn’t be able to surprise me by flying down the back of my shirt to sting the bejesus out of me. Three days later, it still hurts like hell.

I had no idea my back contained so much bejesus.

Just typing that line has me wondering if there is a Bee Jesus. I know there are queen bees and that they help pollinate the earth. But are there bee deities? 

What the hell wasps do besides sting me on a near-yearly basis, I do not know. 

This one flew down the back of my shirt after I’d picked the girls up from school. I was carrying a gallon of milk, strolling through the basement and singing “Rainbow Connection” by The Muppets.

Could I have been more wholesomely innocent?

Then it was like a military grade sniper bullet exploded into my left shoulder down near the armpit.

In an instant, I went from singing, “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?” to shouting military grade profanities and ripping off my shirt like David Banner does when Hulk starts taking over.

The girls were alarmed. They’d never heard me explode with profanity like that before and didn’t know whether my furious disrobing was going to stop with my shirt or proceed to the pants.

I threw the shirt on the floor. There it was. I couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or girl wasp — it must be confusing even at wasp singles bars — but I swear this one was giving me the finger.

I squashed the nasty little bastard.

First Aid was applied. Josie scraped the wound with a credit card, which is how they advise you remove the venomous stinger. No word yet on whether Discover fees will result. I took a couple of Benadryl to ease the pain and applied ice to reduce the swelling. 

Then, remembering sitcom home remedies, I climbed in the tub and spent the next two hours bathing in tomato juice.

My ordeal was so bad it even drew sweet sympathy from my wife. She honestly felt bad for me.

I know this because she couldn’t figure out a way to blame me for getting myself stung.

How the hell wasps ever made it off Noah’s arc without getting swatted with a rolled up newspaper is a mystery.

Wikipedia says wasps are essential in limiting the spread of garden pests, upon which they prey.

The answer seems to lack authority. I have many flaws, sure, but I’ve never been accused of being a garden pest.

This is the earliest I’ve ever been stung, and I usually get dinged about once a year. It’s alarming because this might means I’m due for seven or eight more stings before fall frosts kill off the threat.

And I hate the thought of one of my darlings getting stung.

They’re not garden pests either.

I wonder if the early wasp activity is a result of climate change, something I’ve long feared. We don’t know what’s happening.

For instance, what if one unforeseen change is that lightning bugs, beloved for playfully illuminating soulful summer nights, begin to shoot actual lightning from their buggy little butts?

It’ll be the end of cradling one in cupped hands and peeking an exposed eyeball in through the thumb slot.

I wish we could genetically tinker with wasps so they’d know to sting only the truly evil, and “truly evil” includes people who send ALL CAPS e-mails, drive too long in the passing lane, and use social media to post anti-social political rants.

And they’d certainly target New York Ranger center Derick Brassard, who on Friday evening against the Pittsburgh Penguins will surely be a Madison Square Garden pest.

Where it all ends I do not know.

I just pray to the great Bee Jesus I won’t soon again be stung.

Related . . .

To bee or not to bee

3 nights, 2 deer, a bear, a bee & me

Pest control from a pacifist

The joy of ants on gum

Even stink bugs need love

Juvenile candor starting to pay off

(754 words)

It’s taken me about 50 years, but my bracing brand of juvenile candor is finally beginning to resonate with responsible adults.

I know this because this week I had successful outcomes at three potentially stressful meetings involving accountants, bankers and school officials.

I think a part of it is because I’m no longer even tempted to respond to difficult questions with bedrock lies like, “I didn’t do it,” “It’s not my fault,” “And, no, I’m not Chris Rodell. I’m Tris Rodell.”

Now, I just blurt out whatever the hell I think is at that very moment my version of the truth.

It’s how I got into an argument with my accountant about why my new pillow should count as a legitimate business deduction. My taxes looked to her like so much baroque art — vibrant, grand, but lacking elemental focus — she had us apply for an extension.

“You can’t as a business expense deduct a pillow!”

If I wrote about the pillow, and I did, then it is indeed a business expense. And I may one day write a book about the the history of pillows. So it’s research.

“Okay, but I’m not letting you deduct mileage for driving your kids to their swim meets. There’s no way anyone would consider that a business expense.”

Clearly, she’d been too busy tallying doctored receipts to read my blog. 

I’ve written many angry screeds about how much I despise attending my daughters’ swim meets. 

“In fact,” I said, “I might call my very next book, ‘What I Hate about Swim Meets & How a Really Good Pillow Helps Get Me Through ‘em.’”

Brace yourself, Uncle Sam. She eventually agreed.

It was the same way with the school official who I misheard when she asked if I’d ever abused boys.

“Oh, sure,” I admitted. “I used to do it all the time. Never alone. That’s no fun. It was always with a bunch of giggle buddies.”

My answer left her aghast. She asked where I’d done it.

“Usually, right there on my bar stool, but sometimes on a golf course or at a Pirate game. Really, I’d do it any place I thought I could get away with it. It goes back to Ohio University where that kind of abuse was a big part of college life.”

Her face grew pale and I sensed we were talking about different topics. Turns out I’d had misheard her.

I thought she’d asked if I’d ever abused booze.

I assured her I’d never abuse boys. Or girls. I adore and nurture children, even ones whose parents I know are either mean or moronic.

It’s that time of year when me and my worms are again summoned to the local elementary school to talk about recycling, and there was a question of whether I’d need a document proving I’d never been convicted of abuse.

After she’d resumed breathing, I told the woman she had it backwards. I shouldn’t need a document stating I wouldn’t abuse their 3rd graders.

She should present me a document stating 3rd graders wouldn’t abuse my worms.

It all got cleared up. Turns out procedural documents for wormy visits like mine are unnecessary.

It’s not that way at the bank. I’d gone there to apply for a home equity loan.

I think many blog readers believe my incessant whining about being broke — being “Eight Days To Amish” — is schtick. It is not.

My belief that better days are about to dawn is coinciding with some of the darkest realities of my entire career. 

I believe this indomitable spirit in the face of real adversity is one of my greatest attributes. I understand this while simultaneously recognizing that’s the very reason you should rejoice I’m not your spouse.

So why should the bank loan me money?

Due to youthful responsibility, diligence and some fondly remembered real income, Val and I do own our home. That’s a considerable asset. 

And the lucrative success I’ve had at speaking engagements over the past year isn’t a fluke.

It’s just a beginning.

But I think the reason approval is pending is because I blurted out a line that’s probably never been uttered in any bank office where a near-destitute applicant was seeking a loan.

Why should they loan me money?

“Because I simply can’t believe it’s all part of God’s plan for me to be broke forever.”

The loan officer smiled and she began to nod.

He may not have much money but, man, the kid’s got balls.

It’s just how I roll.

Related . . .

Pillow shopping for Ol’ Crusty

Pillow talk about new iPhones

5-hour swim meets too long, driving me crazy

Swim meets and my history of hugging

Taking my worms to elementary school

Frank Burns eats worms

Greg Brady (sorta) endorses my book!

(727 words)

Not only did I meet Greg Brady on Sunday, I cajoled him into provide a celebrity endorsement.

“‘Use All The Crayons!’is to self-improvement humor books what the ‘Johnny Bravo!’ episode is to ‘The Brady Bunch!’ It’s edgy, funny and fills every page with warmth in the same joyful abundance that let Marcia naturally begin filling out her sweaters in Season 4!”

Of course, because Greg Brady is fictional, the endorsement has the same legal binding as if it were attributed to Bugs Bunny, that is if Bugs Bunny had a thing for the adolescent Maureen McCormick.

Barry Williams, in fact, said nothing of the sort. Had I asked him to, he might have.

He was a very good sport and from my observations said yes to every attendee request and, guaranteed, today the Facebook pages of more than 1,000 paunchy Westmoreland County baby boomers are festooned with pictures of Williams, 60, smiling with strangers.

Like! Like! Like!

I’d need extensive plastic surgery to smile as much as Williams did from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Sunday at the 20th annual Westmoreland Home Show at the county fairgrounds. I was there both days to sell books

Selling books with the word “crayon” in the title to homeowners who are there to get bargain basement deals on things like thermal windows and, well, bargain basements, is not for shrinking violets.

I think I saw, by the way, rows of shrinking violet seedlings along Gardener’s Gangway in the 4H building.

My booth was right across from the friendly folks representing a Pittsburgh home remodeling outfit. They were very aggressive without being obnoxious.

If someone said, no thanks, we don’t need new windows, one would ask about doors. If they said the doors were new, they asked about kitchen cabinets. If those were shipshape, they’d ask about bathroom tiles.

If they said the whole house was fine, they’d ask about the garage.

I just once saw them stumped. They asked a woman if she needed new windows/doors/flooring/roofing/insulation/etc.

The woman said no.

The sales rep persisted with her interrogation until the woman informed her that last year the house had burned to the ground and the insurance company had come through with an entirely new domicile with all the modern furnishings. 

“So, no, thank you,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do for us.”

A look of such panicky desperation came across the rep’s face I began preparing a response if she dashed to my booth and asked if I had some gasoline and a book of matches.

That’s what I was up against.

I initially hoped to sell 20 books both days. I sold 8 on Saturday and 18 on Sunday.

But I found the time valuable and made some new friends among the authors and artists and the people who stopped to buy or just chat.

Plus, I seized the promoted opportunity to speak on the very same stage from which Barry Williams addressed maybe 120 raucous fans.

I had 2.

I’m not kidding. And I think they’d just stopped to rest and were too polite to leave when I began my yapping.

Their names are John and Kathy.

Really, I was pleased with how I did. I could have let the situation demoralize me. Instead, I sat on the edge of the stage and ran through a 20-minute jiffy version of my normal presentation. 

Afterwards, they came to my booth and bought four books!

So Barry Williams maybe earned, let’s say $2,000 in merchandise and an appearance fee of triple that amount, but my market penetration dwarfed his.

I just need to find a way to snug the attendance gap.

Having him there did cause a happy stir.

Everyone enjoys a proximity with fame. 

But I couldn’t help but wonder how the man so many people adore for their heirloom memories feels about the nostalgic redundancy that’s been baked into his entire adult life.

It’d be as if you spent your every waking moment having to re-live what happened in the 7th grade.

He never looked buoyant.

He looked obligated.

But the pleasant smile never left his face. If he resents what his life’s become, you’d never know it.

Maybe I’ve been wrong all these years.

I’ve always said Gregory Peck was our greatest actor.

Related  . . .

I’m a disgraceful DIYer — and I don’t care!

Selling crayon books to Steelers  & Bigfoot/UFO fans

My worst book signing ever

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

“Use All The Crayons!” A 10-star review

My talk to 200 8th graders a near debacle (at first)

My Saturday speech a surprising sell-out

Re-Run Sunday: "Time for Swiss Army hands"

This was from April ’12. It pops up every once in a while. That pleases me. As a writer, these little stories out of thin air are some of my favorites. They’re exactly what I think a good blog should be all about. Little surprises out of nothing.

Of course, maybe I’m just being romantic. It’s just another little blog.

We were sitting there in a packed assembly hall awaiting the beginning of the 5th and 6th grade music extravaganza. It’s where parents and loved ones revel in a sometimes off-key performance and pretend not to notice any perceived flaws.

In my lap was our 5 year old who from up close was examining parts of me like she was determined to catalogue every flaw.

She pushed facial moles like they were elevator buttons, ran her fingers along proud old hockey scars, and parted hairs in my bald spots the way ambassador Robert Thorn did in “The Omen” when he was trying to divine if Damien’s skull bore the mark of the beast.

She was curious about the big callous on the upper palm beneath my ring finger. As it often does, it had a jagged edge to it I rarely notice.

She wanted to know about the tough skin anomaly.

“It’s a can opener,” I said. “When I’m hungry I use it to open a can of oyster stew. It’s always very satisfying.”

Looking back, I should have said it was very “handy.”

I don’t know at what point in the show -- which was perfectly entertaining and without evident flaws -- but I remember thinking how I wished I had a can of oyster stew in my coat pocket.

I sat there thinking about how under-achieving our hands are. Shouldn’t they be at least as functional as our phones?

Really, our hands need to evolve to suit modern demands.

I understand the romantic pleasures of walking hand-in-hand along the beach, but why can’t one hand be a sort of Swiss Army Hand? It could have a can opener, nail file, knife, scissors, screwdriver, and a wine corkscrew.

Those are the hallmarks of the iconic Swiss Army Knife, a device nearly everyone in the world’s heard of. Funny, the equivalent number of people probably can’t name a single military victory or hero who’s served in the Swiss Army.

Maybe the Swiss would have been more feared had they put their energies into inventing a Swiss Army Bazooka.

Still, human trajectory seems to indicate our hands ought to become more functional. For instance, how come we don’t have a fork for a finger?

People talk about ours becoming a paperless, cashless and keyless society. Smartphone innovations are slowly eroding the need for that jingly sort of pocket miscellany.

My sense is the next evolutionary step is we become a pocketless society. We won’t need pockets because everything we need will be accessible through our hands.

We should draw the line there, too, as no one wants a pantsless society.

But clearly, the next step in smart phone technology needs to be the elimination of the phone itself.

I’ve seen studies that say one out of every five people admit dropping their pricey smart phone in the toilet. This happens to careless men, in particular. Urinal time is the perfect opportunity to check the scores and social media.

I’m guessing some men are so startled to learn that Suzie changed her Facebook status to single that -- kerplunk! -- they drop the phone into a place where the old Tidy Bowl Man will the one most likely to answer the “Can you hear me now?” question.

That kind of thing practically never happens with our hands.

I predict we will soon be using our hands to do many of the things for which we today use our phones -- and more.

Besides the finger fork, we might insert a telescoping back scratcher or maybe a golf ball retriever for when the approach shot gets dunked in the drink.

Some attachments could help ease road rage. An angry motorist could angrily react and instead of the finger, one of those novelty magician carnations might pop up, a mollifying gesture.

One finger could be a laser pointer if a power point meeting was planned. If the meeting was fruitful, the presenting team could set off pre-loaded bottle rockets from finger launchers.

Anyone else think this is a good idea?

Let’s see a show of hands.

And by show of hands, I’m talking a real show.

Greg Brady (and me) at W'm'd Home Show!

(747 words)

The coolest thing that could potentially happen to me this weekend will be if the 60-year-old man who played the 12-year-old Greg Brady stops by and says, “Man, I’ve heard all about your book! Great to meet you! I’d like to buy one!”

Who am I kidding?

The coolest thing that could potentially — potentially — happen to me this weekend will be if Pope Francis stops by and says he’s heard about my book and wants to buy a copy for every Catholic who owns a Bible.

Talk about cool.

But Pope Francis is in Rome.

Barry Williams will be at the Westmoreland County Home Show at the county  fairgrounds near Norvelt (named, by the historical way, for EleaNOR RooseVELT).

That’s where I’ll be!

I am flattered to be have been asked by Kelly Simon of Simon Event Management to be among the elite book sellers on the Author’s Avenue showcasing local writers.

I’ll be there right next to Bigfoot/UFO expert Stan Gordon and he is, indeed, a big deal. He runs a media empire of books, videos and lucrative speaking appearances before throngs of people many unfairly consider kooks.

Most of them are just normal people who’ve experienced something they can’t explain. They admire (and patronize) Stan because he helps them in their quest for understanding.

Of course, I’m more interested in the kooks.

I once asked him what he does when he’s approached by someone who is by every definition a conspiracy-theory gobbling, tin foil hat-wearing, howl-at-the-moon, bona fide dingbat.

“I listen to their story,” he said, “present them with alternative theories and then I try and sell them a book.”

And there are people who think Stan's nuts.

Stan’s a genius.

I’ll be there all weekend from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. both Saturday and Sunday. I’ll be telling what I hope are funny stories from the stage at 1 p.m. Saturday.

Ideally, I’ll sign and sell about 50 books and will enjoy many happy conversations with customers who keep me engaged and chipper throughout the weekend.

Or I could be sitting there for long thumb-twiddling hours kicking myself for missing the AMC airing of John Wayne’s “McLintock!,” a movie I’ve only seen about 98 times.

Or maybe a “Brady Bunch” marathon.

It’s not one of the classics I return to over and over like “Andy Griffith,” or “Dragnet,” but I remain charmed by heirloom memories of “The Brady Bunch.”

And the weekend will certainly be a failure if I don’t snag a selfie with Williams.

He’s my second favorite Brady, behind luscious Marsha, and far ahead of the Brady I most despise because I’m convinced he’s engaged in Satanic negations to gain glory and fame over the collective misery of millions like me.

That’d be Tom Brady.

Williams is one of my favorite kinds of celebrities because he never let oddball fame ruin him. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

When he’s not tromping around remote county fair grounds, he’s at home in Branson, Missouri, performing a variety show called, “’70’s Music Celebration! Starring Barry Williams.”

I’m guessing the playlist won’t include “Star Star,” the luridly filthy 1973 Rolling Stones song, to me is the finest ’70’s song of them all.

But I can guarantee it’ll all be good campy fun. Tickets for his Sunday noon performance are $25 and reservations are required. After that he’ll be signing and posing for pictures till about 4:30 p.m.

I don’t know how much they’re paying him to fly from his Branson, Missouri, home where he lives his girlfriend and their 3-year-old daughter, Samantha Rose, with whom he’d probably rather be spending time.

He, too, has an 11-year-old son from a previous marriage, so today elements of his personal life sound like he’s trying recreate parts of the sitcom that made him famous.

But he’s never had a drug or morality scandal like his sitcom contemporary Danny Bonaduce reliably did for so many years.

All Barry Williams has done is grow up to be the kind of man Mike and Carol Brady would have been proud to call their son.

“I’m looking forward to coming to Greensburg,” he told reporters, “and making many new friends.”

I hope to be one of them.

That’d be cool.

Only slightly less cool than if my second favorite Brady decides to buy a bunch of my books.

Related . . .

Selling crayon books to Steelers  & Bigfoot/UFO fans

My worst book signing ever

Bullies, my ‘stache & insane reaction to my speech

“Use All The Crayons!” A 10-star review

My talk to 200 8th graders a near debacle (at first)

My Saturday speech a surprising sell-out