Will I become the last unemployed American?

(753 words)

News that the unemployment rate has descended to 3.6 percent has me wondering if I’ll be the last unemployed man left in America.

I tell people the coolest thing about me is I haven’t had a job since 1992. Then I tell them the most disturbing thing about me is I haven’t had a job since 1992.

The opposing statements are both equally true. 

People say they drive past the Tin Lizzy and see me up here on the 3rd floor staring at the computer. They say they saw me working. A stickler for accuracy even when it’s detrimental to my reputation, I feel obliged to correct them.

“In fact,” I say, “what you likely saw was me sitting. The chances of me doing anything that would earn an actual, albeit meager, wage are next to nothing.”

I don’t look at computer porn but from street level a man sitting at a computer looking at porn is indistinguishable from a man trying to compose a compelling line. 

It’s unfathomable how much time I devote to thinking up a line that might be thoughtful to readers like you for about, oh, three seconds. A line like, say:

“Most people agree room temperature is 70 degrees. Elmer Fudd says womb temperature is 98.6 degrees.”

Took me about 20 minutes to compose and craft that one. Then I spent another 10 minutes trying to find just the right Fudd photo to best illustrate the word play (it’s the one up top).

Then I sat staring at the computer and admired the resulting tweet for like 15 minutes and concluded, "Well, that’s the best I got this afternoon. Might as well call it a day. Time to hit the bar.”

It was 1:45 p.m.!

I used to dream my life would unwind like one of the great, noble figures in literature I so admired, men like Tom Joad or Atticus Finch, respect-commanding figures of substance and drive.

I was sitting up here in the window “working” when it dawned on me that life turned out just like I’d hoped. Sorta. I have, indeed, become a character from American literature. Just one problem.

The character is Ferris Bueller!

I must make it look easier than it is.

People ask me what it’s like to be a “successful” writer. I tell them I aspire to success. Hell, I aspire to mere solvency. I respond to break even the way many of you do to getting lucky on some band kid’s strip ticket.

I’m a 56-year-old man whose idea of a really good day is one that involves me finding a quarter. 

And while I do not consider myself a successful writer, I am becoming a locally  acclaimed one. People know my name. I like that. But mine isn’t the kind of name that’s ever going attract sneaker contract dough. I’d like that better.

Other writers tell me they want to be like me. They ask how I do what I do. I quote to them Bob Dylan from the song, “High Water.”

“Don’t reach out for me, she said, can’t ya see I’m drowning, too?”

My poor wife. I suspect about once every other month or so she wishes she’d married a plumber.

Heck, it’s about once every other month or so I wish I’d married a plumber.

I think the worst part for her is when we’re out and somebody starts to gush about something I’ve written. And, God bless ‘em, some people hold nothing back in their manic praise. Goes straight to my head. 

What I lack in deficient funds, I make up for in baseless ego.

I wake up every single day convinced something wonderful is going to happen to my career and I’ve been saying that every single day since June 31, 1992, the last day the U.S. Department of Labor considered me a gainfully employed individual.

There is a Fool-on-the-Hill sort of beauty in such simple-minded optimism.

The problem is that it keeps smashing up against the complex realities that go hand-in-hand with being the fool in the window on the 3rd floor of the Tin Lizzy, the one who spends so much time wondering WTF.

What The Fudd?

See, I with my whole heart and (most of my head) believe the people who tell me I’m great and that one day I’ll be truly successful in ways more tangible than flattering name recognition. 

And if and when that happens, then the story of my life will become one of the  very best stories of my life.

It wasn’t  my intention, but I guess now is as good a time as any to pass the hat. Donations accepted at PayPal (Chris Rodell) or get in touch about book purchases at storyteller@chrisrodell.com.

Related …

Happy Birthday to this Blog (& Pledge Week)!

A blog on bloggin’

Searching for Mr. Stupid

My history of drinking at or near work

Let’s change Labor Day into Leisure Day

Can synagogue shooter sue over defective gun?

(887 words)

If I today were a publicity-mad attorney — is there any other kind? — I know exactly what I’d be doing: I’d file a defective product lawsuit against the manufacturer of the AR-type assault weapon used in the California synagogue shooting that left one dead and three wounded.

The grounds? It failed to wipe out more innocents.

One mealy coffin?

Authorities say the shooter had intended a higher body count, but the stupid gun jammed. That’s not supposed to happen.

Someone should have to pay.

Imagine the scalding ridicule from the scores of other spree killers who’ve used the very same weapon to kill hundreds in elementary schools, churches, movie theaters and other places Americans have come to know to be common killing grounds.

I’d depose who sold him the gun. They say a good attorney never asks a question to which he doesn’t know the answer. That must make me a brilliant attorney because I can prophesy word-for-word exactly what he’s going to say.

ME: “Did you ask the shooter to reveal his sexuality before you sold him the weapon?”

HIM: “His sexuality? Why would I do that?”

ME: “Please, I’ll ask the questions. You’d do that because we live in a land where Mike Pence thinks Indiana bakers should have the right to ask about customer sexuality before they decide if they feel like baking a wedding cake for couples they suspect might be homos. I’m trying to determine your priorities.”

HIM: “I did not ask about his sexuality. We gun sellers would never dream of getting into those sorts of morality issues.”

ME: “You’re telling me. Do your weapons come with guarantees?”

HIM: “Our standard warranty covers lifetime single ownership excluding accidents, misuse or abuse.”

ME: “Is it considered misuse or abuse to walk into a place of worship and shoot to death unarmed men and women?”

HIM: “That’s a legal matter.”

ME: “Does the warranty say, ‘Guaranteed to kill at least five unarmed worshippers — or your money back!’”

HIM: “It does not.”

ME: “Are you familiar with the Firearm Safety 10 Commandments?”

HIM: “Certainly. It’s full of common sense wisdoms intended to keep people from getting killed.”

ME: “You mean keep from getting killed accidentally. Do you think it would be beneficial to add an 11th commandment, say, “Thou shalt not kill.” You’ve heard of it? It’s No. 5 on the original 10 Commandments. No. 5 with a bullet.”

HIM: “I have no opinion on that.”

ME: “If the gun had functioned properly how many would have been killed?”

HIM: “Depends. ‘til he either ran out of bullets, targets or until a good man with a — ”

ME: “How many innocent deaths are acceptable before the good men with guns show up? Don’t answer that. Do you think in the interest of saving lives it would be beneficial to sell more defective weapons, like maybe one-out-of-every 5?”

HIM: “That would be bad for business.”

ME: “But maybe good for worshippers. No further questions.”

I’d depose the man who made the defective gun.

ME: “Why do you make guns?”

HIM: “So responsible sportsmen can enjoy a great American tradition.”

ME: “I’m going to assume you don’t mean shooting up places of worship. How many deer could you kill with one of your weapons?”

HIM: “Gee, you could kill a bunch, but they’d spook.”

ME: “What if they’re all penned up in coral or, say, inside the hallowed walls of a place of worship?”

HIM: “All of ‘em, if the weapon doesn’t malfunction. But there are laws against that sort of thing. No one in their right mind would want to see that kind of slaughter.”

ME: “No further questions. I’d now like to call Dr. Nikki Stamp.”

Dr. Nikki Stamp: “I’m right over here.”

ME: “Oh, hello. You’re a heart and lung surgeon from Perth, Austalia?”

DNS: “I am.”

ME: “Are you the same Dr. Nikki Stern who wrote the story in today’s Washington Post under the headline: ‘I’ve Been a Surgeon in Australia for 16 Years. I’ve Seen Only Two Gunshot Wounds.’”

DNS: “I am.”

ME: Is that story accurate?”

DNS: “It is.”

ME: “Will you please read aloud the last paragraph?”

DNS: “I will. ‘I cannot offer a solution for the gun epidemic in the United States, but guns are clearly a public health issue. Australia’s gun laws will never be a model for Americans, that much is clear. But what may be a model is our resolve to make meaningful changes. It took one event (Port Arthur, 1996, 35 killed) to change the laws to make guns safer in this country, and I hope that Americans fully commit to make guns safer in a way that is effective and suitable for their legal system. I hope that future American surgeons will someday find gunshot wounds as unusual as I do.”

ME: “No further questions. I seek no damages. Too much damage is already daily being done.”

Thank you for indulging me in some absurdity. I thought it was appropriate because in a land where we continue to do nothing in the face of so much insane gun violence, absurdity reigns.

Because it’s looking increasingly like our options have narrowed down to dying of either multiple gunshot wounds or drowning in the bloodshed of all the innocents.

Related …

The deadly echo of, “Now is not the time …”

A “well-regulated militia” will reduce gun violence

Why’d they cancel the baseball games?

I cry, I fart; more on Newtown

Bob Costas & truly innovative solutions to gun violence

Don’t

Safety lessons from spree killers

What do tiny coffins cost?

Profound, timely solutions to spree killers

Solutions to gun violence: one bullet per gun

Hooray! It's Tweets of the Month time!

I have 1,605 Twitter followers @8days2Amish, but follow just 137. Many on Twitter have tens of thousands of followers simply by promising to follow back anyone who follows them. That’s not how I roll. I only follow all the very nicest people — for just as long as they continue to follow me.

And I’ll bet that smug, snarky remark is gonna cost me another dozen followers by the end of the day …

(Artsy vaguely Hitchcockian Brian Henry picture was taken in the Tin Lizzy dining room in 2015 just prior to when Rick and Lisa took over the kitchen. Great food! Check it out.)

• It's good to know your limits in life. It's better to high-five them as you sail right on past. 

• Yes, I'm aware that Sing Sing is a maximum security prison that incarcerates many of New York's most vicious cut throats, but every time I hear Sing Sing I convince myself that Sing Sing is populated entirely by wrongly convicted Muppets.

• The word "astute" means shrewd or mentally sharp. Had the people who coined a word that's pronounced ass-TOOT been shrewd or mentally sharp then astute would mean something entirely different.

• How did cavemen and women get around that whole no-doors thingie when they wanted to tell a good prehistoric knock-knock joke?

• My jokes must not be very funny. I told one to some linked steel and didn't get any chain reaction.

• My great fear is that within 10 days I'll see the headline that says: "Trump nukes Puerto Rico; base support holds firm; Cali guv. mulling evacuation.”

• Problem: plastics clogging the ocean; fish eat the plastics and we eat the fish. This may sound naive, but is anyone looking into the possibilities of making plastic out of fish food?

• The concept may sound difficult to grasp, but there once was a time before anyone, anywhere had ever pointed out there's a first time for everything.

• Spring is when Mother Nature puts on her make-up!

• Closing in on another Friday Happy Hour where I'll revel in another week where I -- one -- did not let national politics make me crazy and -- two -- skillfully avoided dropping my phone in the toilet. Alas, those are now my key benchmarks for success.

• The problem for many of us is that every time our careers seem to turn a real corner the first thing we see down the road is another real corner.

• Bad news: plastic waste clogging the oceans. Good news: Airfare to Europe will plummet as money-minded tourists increasingly opt to drive.

• It doesn’t happen often, but I’m not ungrateful when a man or woman hands me a breath mint. My fear is how I’ll react when one day some stranger trying to be helpful says, "Psst, try this.” And hands me a stick of Old Spice.

• What do they call earthquakes on other planets?

• I yearn to live in a time when the word "collusion" appears in headlines less frequently than the word “compromise."

• Little known fact: Prior to construction of the 859-year-old Notre Dame Cathedral, the Parisian location was the site of the first French McDonald’s.

• The phrase “You only live once!” is pure fraud. In fact, you only die once. You’re graced with the option to live every single day.

• I consider it yet another degradation of once-proud men, but I'm upset how what I once called "the family jewels" somehow became "my junk." From jewels to junk in three short decades. SAD!

• It’s a triumph of Biblical marketing that the day known for the cruel beating and bloody crucifixion of the holy man many of us consider to be our Savior is called "Good" Friday. I wonder what Jesus calls it.

• I don't teach my kids how to live. I live and let them watch (so far, so good). 

• My favorite part of the #NFLDraft is watching Roger Goodell excessively celebrate with players who he'll in just five months begin to fine for excessive celebrations.

• The assumption may be based on a flawed premise, but I have to believe if Moses had had to deal with fan selfie demands today we'd only be concerned with The Five Commandments.

• Agoraphobia is the fear of crowded places. I suffer from a-bore-aphobia, a fear of places crowded with dull people.

• Call me crazy, but the first chef to put a credible "Italian Hoagie Soup" on the menu is going to make a fortune.

• A Christian in New Zealand kills 50 because he hates Muslims; Muslims in Sri Lanka kill 250 because they hate Christians; zealots in Pittsburgh and San Diego storm synagogues 'cause they hate Jews. Oh, how I wish there was just one God we could ALL worship all together.

Related …

Tweets of the Month, April ’16

TotM, April ’15

TotM, April ’14

TotM, April ’13

I'm in a forgiving mood

(756 words)

I don’t know whether it’s spring, fresh memories of holy Easter or my optimistic disposition, but I’m in a forgiving mood.

I forgive Michael Richards. Me and my sweetheart were watching him play “Cosmo Kramer” on his coffee table/coffee book tour for maybe the kajillionth time and it was as hilarious as it was the first time. He’s done so much to make me so happy so I forgive him for in 2006 calling a heckler the n-word. He’s withdrawn completely from performing and is said to still be haunted by the slip. It makes me sad that one rash moment has cast such a long, sorry shadow. Do you know he’ll be 70 in July? 70!

I forgive Kate Smith (1907-1986) for singing two tuneful ditties about “darkies” when she was a kid just trying to catch a break, as her defenders contend. And while I forgive her, I support the removal of her statue in Philly and the cessation of her taped recording at Yankee Stadium. Just because she’s a mere circumstantial racist doesn’t mean those sensitive to those meaningful issues should be taunted by the recollections.

I forgive you for pointing out how my first two acts of forgiveness involve me, a white man, exonerating two fellow white folks for offending millions of black ones.

I don’t forgive Tiger Woods. I thank him. Watching him win The Masters is something I’ll never forget. I love a great comeback. I don’t believe he needed my forgiveness for his cheating scandals. It’s none of my business and honestly there are many men who live vicariously through sex scandals like Tiger’s.

And I hope my wife is in a forgiving mood if she mistakenly believes I’m one of those sorts of scoundrels.

I forgive my darling daughter — and forgive me if the designation leads you to believe one daughter is more darling than the other — for saying I’m closed-minded. She wants me to, like the rest of this Marvel-mad nation,  go ga-ga for the “Avengers” movie. I just don’t like superhero movies. I tried sitting through my share and found them all tedious. I like stories about human beings being human. You know a movie I’m eager to watch again? “Nebraska” with Bruce Dern. I’d take that over any superhero film. So don’t bring it up again. My mind is made up. Hmmm … I guess my daughter is right. My mind is closed. Whoops!

Speaking of ga-ga, I forgive Lady Ga-Ga for wearing that stupid meat dress in 2010, and while we’re at it, I forgive Kanye West. I pay zero attention to him or his music, but I’m aware enough of him to be convinced he’s already today done something stupid that needs forgiving. So be it.

This one won’t be easy, but I forgive you, my friends, for insisting on putting your stupid political opinions on Facebook. It is utterly obnoxious. You’re losing friends every time you do it. So you’re forgiven, but cut it out! And please forgive me next time I fail to practice what I preach.

I don’t forgive O.J. Simpson nor any literary agents or publishers who so blithely promised they’d take steps to elevate my career then vanished. Now, I’m not equating a killer with professional promise breakers, but … but … Okay, I am. Killing someone’s dreams is pretty serious stuff.

I forgive David Chase for the finale of “The Sopranos,” Jim Leyland for October 14, 1992, Mick Jagger for “Primitive Cool,” “The Simpsons” for Poochie, and I forgive Pringles for getting so out-of-control with exotic flavors (Screamin’ Dill Pickle Pringles!) that it’s becoming near impossible to find Pringle-flavored Pringles.

You know who else I forgive? John Walker Lindh. Remember him? He was the “American Taliban” who in November 2001 was part of an Afghanistan prison uprising that led to the death of CIA officer Johnny “Mike” Spann, and more than 300 of the rioting enemy combatant prisoners. Lindh today is 38 and has spent nearly half his life in the Federal Corrections Institute in Terre Haute, Indiana. I’ve for the last few years believed he’d done enough time. Lo and behold, he’s being freed May 23. I feel neither elation nor fury, but hope he can use his experiences to positively influence other lost youth.

And what started light ends somber. I hope the abrupt shift hasn’t unsettled the serenity bestowed by true forgiveness, a graciousness we should all encourage.

If it has, I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Related …

I’ve forgiven Ben Roethlisberger

America needs snitch prayers

The radioactive n-word

Still waiting for an Iraq War apology

RIP James Gandolfini