Leading leaders in search of food, my swagger

(573 words)

It was the most poorly planned quasi-military exercise since Bay of Pigs. We were on a mission to find the food at the Greensburg-area banquet hall destined to be forever known as The Place that Used to be Known as the Bishop Connare Center. 

To give you some idea how preposterous it was, I was the leader.

Some context: I was brought in to speak to about 50 esteemed members and spouses of the Military Officers Association of America.

So the room was full of nothing but decorated combat veterans. Bona fide leaders.

And me.

And through some abeyance to absurd protocol, the retired Lt. Colonel said, “It’s time to eat. Chris, as our guest speaker, will you lead us?”

I had the good sense not to make a lame joke — that’s what this blog is for! — and marched from the main table to the buffet line where five steam tray pans hinted at the feast to come. I grabbed a plate and — voila! — removed the lid off the first steam tray pan.

Nothing, 

Same with the second, and the third.

I’d been punked.

The hostess explained we’d be eating the salad course before the hot food. I signaled retreat. My first attempt at leading real men ended in lettuce and ranch dressing. That I’d been asked to find food and produced only hot air did not bode well for my talk.

Plus, I was nervous my swagger might be AWOL. A certain swagger is essential when you’re an unheralded nobody asking strangers to sit and listen to you talk about something they may or may not need to hear.

What if my swagger was gone for good?

You may recall, my epic September 25 failure — I completely froze — was still fresh in my mind, but not as much as you might think.

I’d chosen to view the whole episode as pure aberration. See, I’m a believer in the necessity of failure in growth. I realize my perceived mistakes, catalogued them and then wholly forgave myself. 

Would I have rather it’d never happened, especially then?

Certainly, but I believe I’ve grown from it. In the aftermath, I had talks in the Greensburg and Jeannette libraries, albeit before smaller audiences, and they both went great. In fact, my friends in Jeannette are planning on bringing a van load of patrons to the Tin Lizzy to hear my stories from my years of swashbuckling reporting.

I’m beginning to realize what gold I have in them.

It was apparent last night. These proud officers and their spouses all reacted the way I dream everyone in every audience always will. They roared with laughter at the jokes and teared up when I talked about the hard times in every life (they’d requested I focus my talk on my “Crayons!” book). And when it was over they lined up to buy books and shower me with praise.

It was very heady. It always is.

The embarrassing failure from last month is buried.

The lieutenant colonel, the leader of these fine leaders, came up afterwards and put his arm around me. “You were great,” he said. “I’ve already had about five men come up and say we need to find more guys like you.”

I smiled, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Sir, there is no one else like me.”

I couldn’t find the food, but I'd found something more nourishing.

I'd found my swagger.

• Note: I’ll be at Second Chapter Books for Fort Ligonier Days for all three days. Stop by!

My doctor wants to be my friend

(641 words)

I was a bit startled when during a routine exam the doctor said he considers me a friend and began confiding details of a failed marriage.

I confess I was relieved he at the time didn’t have anything jammed up my ass.

And I didn’t have anything jammed up his!

I like it when anyone says they consider me a friend. I always make a mental note to keep my new friend in mind next time I need to bum some dough.

But in this intimate professional setting, it was a bit disconcerting. 

Understand, he’s a great guy. I chose him to be my doctor after observing his gentle manner and ready laugh when he cared for my late mother. And, believe me, anyone who didn’t laugh when he or she was in the examining room with my mother and her dementia is someone I wouldn’t want for my doctor.

He’s a true country doctor. So country I’m convinced I could pay him in chickens and he’d give me eggs for change.

He’s caring, funny, intelligent, generous, a good listener — all the things you want in a good friend.

And, man, the guy can get me the drugs.

But do I want to hear, “How ‘bout them Steelers!” from the same guy who moments later will be saying, “Turn your head and cough.”

The majority of the scolds in the prissy medical community say he’s making an ethical boo boo.

This is from an health.net essay: “The short answer is that friendships and any type of relationship beyond strictly professional boundaries are not condoned. It can cloud the judgment of the treating physician and is generally frowned upon for a variety of reasons.”

It goes on to say friendship may cloud the doctor’s professional judgement. They say this like it’s a bad thing.

Nonsense. 

Having the doctor for a friend could save me money, maybe even save my life.

Let’s say I’m Patient A, a locally renown author whose books the country doctor buys and enjoys. I don’t complain or moan when the the blood tests say my Bun/Creatinine Ratio is out of whack. Hell, I don’t even ask him to explain what a Bun/Creatinine Ratio even means as long as it doesn’t have anything to do with the liveliness of my erections, still the whole reason me and all his other male patients come to see him in the first place.

Now, let’s consider hypothetical Patient B. She’s an overweight, chain-smoking hypochondriac who thinks if she doesn’t live forever it’ll be all his fault. She talks her obnoxious politics during the exam (Patient A would never dream of doing so) and to top it all off, she’s a medical malpractice attorney.

So, of course, he’d be acquitted if, given those facts, he admitted to concluding the exam by smothering Patient B with a antiseptic pillow.

It’s a broken analogy, but I welcome the friendship of my doctor with the same exuberance I would if he were one of my crack team of bartenders.

If they like me — and why the hell wouldn’t they? — they may serve me sooner than other thirsty customers, give me stronger pours and inebriate other unsuspecting patrons to the point they’ll purchase my books — just $15 at Tin Lizzy! — while they’re too gooned up to know any better.

Suckers. 

I want my bartender to be my friend. Same goes for my mechanic, my barber, my tailor, my butcher and the usher who shows me to my seat when I go to the ball games.

A little smile, some cheerful conversation, a little human recognition that the world isn’t as mean or as indifferent as it seems.

Why wouldn’t I welcome the same from my doctor?

One aims to save my life. The others make it worth living.

That’s what friends are for.

Related …

Results from my 1st physical … in 18 years!

So, okay, I have Parkinson’s

Mom’s going to Pitt; a body donation update

“Sing me a song, you’re the bartender!”

Teaching shy kids how to make friends

I'm drinking too much & it's all your fault!

(651 words)

First of all, this is NOT about Judge Kavanaugh or his drinking. The only experiences we share are that he admits he got drunk on beer and blacked out and so did I.

The difference is he meant in high school.

 I mean most every Wednesday through Friday since high school.

Many prudent drinkers downplay how much alcohol they’ve consumed.

Me, I tend to romanticize it. A friendly saloon has been my native habitat since my old man took me into Frankie Gustine’s Bar in Oakland back in the ‘70s. Dad moonlighted there as a bartender. I remember walking through those swinging doors and falling in love with the atmosphere, the boisterous characters and the promise I was in a place alive with randy opportunity.

“Dad,” I said, “I’d like change for the jukebox, an ashtray for my smokes and a double Jack Daniels on the rocks — no straw. Buy that pretty little redhead by the window a Sloe Gin Fizz and tell her it’s on me. And don’t wait up for me, old man. I plan on going home with her.”

I was in the 4th grade.

I think that kind of behavior is what people expect out of writers, especially writers whose offices just happen to be located in historic buildings with three distinct and winning bars on three different floors. 

People seem to be disappointed if writers don’t tipple — and I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. 

Blame Papa.

Ernest Hemingway was a larger-than-life and now stereotypical writer/drunk. When people learn my office is above the Tin Lizzy, they often say, “Oh, so, you’re just like Hemingway!”

“That’s right,” I say, “we’re practically indistinguishable. The main difference is he’s the one with all the money, all the prestige, all the success, all the acclaim and all the six-toed cats.”

The 40- to 50-so-called polydactyl cats are the in-bred descendants of white cat named Snow White who was a gift from a wandering sea captain. They’re a highlight of any visit to the Hemingway House in Key West.

Given all those signs of tangible success, I wonder if Hemingway ever wondered if he drank too much.

Lately, I do. I sometimes ask myself if I drink too much. I usually say no. I do this out loud and using two different voices like I'm on stage.

Is such playacting a sign I drink too much?

Either way, I think lately the answer is yes. I am drinking too much.

And you’re to blame.

It’s true. For the first time ever, friendly strangers are eager to come to meet me and hear my stories. And none of them ever say, hey, let’s meet at the barber shop. 

No, they say let’s meet at the Tin Lizzy!

And they’re convivial folk. They want to have a drink and — God bless ‘em — they want to buy me one, too.

On top of all that there’s been an influx of well-wishers who are concerned about my health. Their altruistic intentions don’t make them any less thirsty.

I tell them I feel uncommonly melancholy from a dawning awareness that the number of quality days I have may be fewer than I once anticipated (I hate to break it to you, but the same may be true for you. You just never know).

And today, I’m loathe to walk away from any room where people are either laughing or saying nice things about me.

So, yes, I’m drinking more than I should for reasons I believe most people will appreciate.

In fact, despite my diagnosis, it’s a happy time, one of the best in my what I for a lack of a better word will call my “career.”

I have a little money, a little acclaim, a little prestige and — best of all — a whole lot of friends.

Now if I can only get my hands on a herd of six-toed cats I’ll be all set.

Related …

My history of drinking at or near work

Drunk on the job

No. 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

Willie Nelson for “High” court

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

(678 words)

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

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

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

A man said I had beautiful signature.

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

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

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

It’s a big deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one expects me to golf like he did.

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

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

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

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

That’s what I began to do.

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

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

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

Thank you for reading and have a great weekend.

This is me, signing off and signing on.

Chris

     Rodell

10 great life quotes for graduating seniors

(676 words)

Our oldest daughter is on a quest to find the most insightful quote to illustrate her character in her HS year book. She asked me for advice because she understands the old man is full of quotes.

At least that’s what I think she thinks the old man is full of.

But I surprised her when I told her to buzz off. I knew she’d instinctively ridicule any of my suggestions and then I’d be back to hiding in the closet until my weeping ceased.

I did offer this jiffy advice: I said, “Choose silly over substance because no matter what you pick in 10 years you’ll be embarrassed by the selection and it’s better to appear playful rather than pompous.”

I wrote that one down because I figure in 10 years it’ll be a handy answer if she asks, “Dad, what do you think? Should I marry Jeff or Burt?”

Picking out a character-defining quote is tricky business. You need something obscure, but something that’s withstood the test of time. Sure, there’s tuneful nobility in “Give Peace a Chance,” but it’s like quoting Twilight Sparkle from “My Little Pony.”

I say all this while admitting I whiffed on mine. Vain without reason even in high school, I opted for the self-quote. I don’t remember the exact wording but it was something like, hey, gang, let’s always be friends — and remember to keep guzzling beer!

Sadly, what was intended to be jocular became prophesy. I never stopped guzzling beer.

Of course, my life path was set months earlier in ways more definitive than some sudsy salute to juvenile delinquency.

I’d been accepted at Ohio University!

What quote would I use today?

I’m sure lots of students will use this dandy from Martin Luther King Jr, and I applaud them: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

There are so many great ones by Winston Churchill, to me the most interesting man since Jesus Christ. I like, “When going through hell, keep going,” but would amend it to read, “When going through hell, go faster.”

Many of my favorite quotes relate to the life importance of perseverance. It was Franklin Delano Roosevelt who said, “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.”

Those quotes fail to float your boat? How about these?

• ”Be so at peace with the world the only thing left to get off your chest are your nipples.”

• “The pessimist bemoans all the traitors who’ve thrown him under the bus. The optimist thinks one day he’ll make a really swell bus mechanic.”

• “Try to do at least one thing each week that will blow your hair back and allow you to scream, “Wheeeeeeee!!!”

• “Living forever will never top living for right now.”

• “Make taking the high road such a habit confused strangers along the way ask you for directions.”

• “Milk makes you sexy!”

Any of those sound familiar? That’s right, the first six are mine and are included in “Use All The Crayons!” That they’re not already in widespread use is an indictment of our educational system.

The milk quote is from that sexy titan of clean living, Elvis Presley. I don’t know if he really meant it — I’ve seen no milk/sexy studies — or if Col. Parker had secured The King a stake in some dairy farm, butI love Elvis and I love that quote. 

But it’s not my favorite. The winner is …

“There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.”

It’s a quote of Robert Louis Stevenson, author of “Treasure Island,” and “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” I’d urge every senior to consider submitting it for their year book profile.

It’s perfect. How different the world would be if each of us spent even part of each day making happiness a priority. Ponder that as you go about your daily “duties.”

Me, I have things to do.

I all of a sudden have a hankerin’ to go guzzle some milk.

Related …

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

The new “Crayons! DELUXE” edition

Greatest American speeches & why mine’s better