Friday, May 10, 2024

Parkinson's book excerpt:: "Me drunk in public"




I'm struggling to write the book, "The Art of Living Suddenly: How to Deal with a Parkinson's Diagnosis (and other things that suck)."The problem is my insistence on writing only books that have happy endings. With PD that's a challenge. But I think this one strikes a balance between the complex emotions I need to convey a story that compels without depressing. At least that's how I feel today. This is about me and last Saturday night when I got drunk in all three of the Tin Lizzy bars. Nothing depressing about that!




There are a number of places in the small town where I reside where it’s not unusual for me to be introduced as the “world famous writer.” I refute these glorious inaccuracies by pointing out you can’t be world famous if you need any introduction in a town so small the last mayoral election was decided by the relative landslide tally of something like 12 to 6.


We’re so small town we have the stereotypical hallmark of true small town USA.


Yes,  Youngstown, Pennsylvania, pop. 247, has just one stop light intersection.


But what distinguishes it from many other no-pulse civic realms is that while we have just one stop light, we can brag we have six liquor licenses. Six distinct whistle wetters!


And I’m famous in two of ‘em.


Latrobe Country Club is not one of them. They’re already filled to the brim there with leftover fame from being the parcel of land inseparably linked to Arnold Palmer —a truly world famous man who’d needs no introduction.


Nor am I famous in the Rainbow Inn, a popular family restaurant where we often took the kids on $5 spaghetti dinner night. But it’s not my corner tavern so, nope, not famous there.


Not famous at the Youngstown Social Club either.


But I am small town famous in two of the three bars in a building deserving of fame. That’d be, of course, the Tin Lizzy.


The Rathskeller may, in fact, be the most interesting bar in the building, but I warrant no fame there. It gets a later arriving crowd there and skews younger so it’s really not for me. So, no, I’m not famous in there.


I’m famous in Flappers, the second floor martini bar. My friends and I gather up there, particularly on Fridays. Even when I’m alone I can usually count on the bartenders to say who I am, what I’ve done and that, hey, that’s him napping at the end of the bar.


I remember one Friday night I was in there alone. It was for me later — maybe 9 p.m. — and I was all by myself amidst a bustling crowd of convivials. I have to tell you, I remember that night feeling a bit like a loser. There were little bouquets of happy friends flowering all over the bar.


And there I was all by my lonesome. I thought I should finish my drink, tip the bartender, and head home


That’s when I felt a tap on my shoulder. The tapper introduced himself as Tim and asked if I was Chris Rodell. I told him I was.


“I want to buy 30 copies of your Arnold Palmer book.”


I slammed my palm so hard on the bar several patrons spilled their fancy drinks.


“I’m never leaving this bar again!”


The Main Bar is the Tin’s beating heart. It’s where the locals drink, where people meet to make plans, and where John “Buck” Pawlosky, bar owner since 1980 holds court. He’s so disdainful of current pop culture, he admits the last movie he’s ever seen was “Apollo 13” from 1995.


I tell people he thought it was a sequel.


He doesn’t think much of music the rest of us found agreeable.


Did he like ’70’s music? Elton John? The Bee Gees?


“Nahhhh …”


How about the ’60’s? Beatles? Stones? Creedence?


“It was all crap.”


Hmmm … What about the ’50’s? Elvis? Bobby Vinton?


“Bunch of punks.”


Fair enough. Let’s go back to the 40’s. What did you think of Sinatra? The Andrews Sister?


“Made me sick to my stomach.”


Man, we’re running out decades with any enduring recorded music. The ’30’s with, I dunno, Bing Crosby. Maybe Burl Ives?


“Look, I like real music. Music that really gets you going. I’m talking music from the ’20’s”


I remind him this IS the ’20’s. He doesn’t care. I guess I don’t either. He’s since 2015 let me keep an office in the coolest building, I say, in all western Pennsylvania. So I don’t give a crap what he thinks about pop culture as long as he keeps tolerating me.


I think he’s proud to have me as a building fixture and, yes, refers to me as “the world famous writer.”


I love it here, especially on nights like Saturday when I put time in at all three bars. It was Kentucky Derby Day. I love that day. Plus, I’d been to a golf exhibition and sold a dozen books. So I had folding money.


I started at Flappers drinking straight Wild Turkey and asking the bartender Kristen how much different the race would be if the rules stated the jockeys each had to weigh 300 pounds.


She said that would be animal abuse.


“What do you call you pouring shots of  straight Wild Turkey 101 down my throat for hours at a time and not even offering me so much as a Slim Jim for sustenance?”


She said she’d call that dumb animal abuse.


Now, I’d never want to be accused of discouraging wit, but I will confess when time came for her tip, I pushed a quarter across the bar and said, “Change, please.”


Then it was down, down, down  to the beguiling Rathskellar where Dawn was working. She poured me a double Wild Turkey on the rocks and pretended to be listening when I asked her how different the derby would be if the horses had no jockies.


(Trivial Aside: The bartenders on the basement and 2nd floors know to pour me Wild Turkey and have memorized my reasoning, which is: I drink the bourbon I most resemble; I’m not a Jack or a Daniel, a Jim nor a Beam. I’m a Turkey that sometimes gets Wild”).


I sipped on that for about an hour before saying goodnight. It was 8 o’clock and the younger crowd was beginning to arrive. Plus, Jimmy had started at 7 and Jimmy has the nimble brain of a free range chicken so I enjoy our banter.


He poured me a Yeungling draft while I asked him if he thought horse breeders would try and genetically engineer horses with really, really long noses to up the odds that winning by a nose became a sure thing for horses they’d inevitably name things like “Sir Schnoz Alot” and “Picks A Winner.”


We had a splendid time, but — speaking of sure bets — I’d reached my limit. Likely passed it in the basement.


But who, er, knows? I’m a seasoned drinker.


A seasoned drinker with Parkinson’s.


It’s becoming increasingly common for me to need physical assistance in getting off my bar stool. I don’t know whether it’s the height, the angle of bend at the knees  or the growing clumsiness but it happens about once a month. I’ll be sitting there and after maybe two beers and my lower body becomes immobilized. My friends are aware of my predicament and begin silently cheering me to achieve lift-off. I asked John what he’s thinking as he observes me struggle.


“First thing is ‘I hope he knows there’s nothing we wouldn’t do to help you.’ We love you and seeing you struggle kills us. Then we start to silently cheer with each sign of progress. Then, finally, relief, when you arise from your stool and take that first tentative step off and head toward the door.”


That’s me. Reliably entertaining bar company since 1981!


When it drags on too long, I surrender to my embarrassing fate and say, “Boys, I’m ready to be launched.” And “… 3… 2 … 1 … Blast off!” these burly, big-hearted men put their arms around me and heave me out of my stool. It’s joyous. Wonderfully invigorating.


Of course, I didn’t have my A-team cheering section with me in the Main Bar on Saturday night.


It was just me, my surgically healing left foot, my Parkinson’s and my still-escalating blood-alcohol content. I finally escape the stool, but now must navigate the path between me and the distant front door.


I sense every eye turn to me and every mouth close. I’m twice the age of everyone in the bar. I’ve become one of those pay-per-view live spectacles where half the audience is rooting for you to miraculously survive and half are hoping for gruesome splatter landing.


What I’m about to type is pure conjecture and based on what would have gone through my own head back 30 years ago had I witnessed an old coot like me, head down and immobile. Please don’t judge me.


“Wouldja look at that guy. He’s 60 if he’s a day. And look at him. He’s shitfaced. A guy that old should be home with his grandkids. He can’t even walk. I’ll bet he’s gonna stumble head first straight into the juke box.”


The son of a bitch is right on all counts. It’s all true. I should be home, sober and watching “Frozen” for the 248th time, but it was Derby Day and it’d been a while since I’d howled.


I’d been a spectacle. I’d embarrassed myself.


Jesse;d seen it all. She’d worked the day shift and had stuck around to socialize. I apologized for my sloppiness.


“Plus, I’m sure at least some of those people recognize me and now will always say they saw me stumbling drunk at the Tin Lizzy,” I say. After all, I’m a world famous author.”


She came back with the two syllable words of advice I always long to hear in any fretful situation.


“Fuck ‘em. You were fine.”


I thought about it and realized my mistake was selling my neighbors short. I should have announced:


“What you’re about to witness is not going to be pretty. I’ve had a lot to drink. And on top of that I’m awaiting my third foot surgery in 3 years. Oh, and I have Parkinson’s. But the good news is I’m not driving. Hell, I’m so broke, I don’t even own a car. My wife’s coming to get me.”


Then Jesse came up with a great idea. She said, “Tell them all that but at the end say instead, ‘I’m hoping someone can give me a ride up the hill.’ You’ll see a dozen hands shoot up. You can do it every night. They’ll argue about whose turn it is to drive you home.”


She’s absolutely correct. 


See, there are perks to being a world famous author.


It’s just none of them surpass the perks of living in a small town where the people all have big hearts


Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Tweets of the last few months ....


 Hear ye! Hear ye!

I somehow missed compiling these the last three months. Very lax on my part 'cause there are some good ones. Thanks for taking the time to check 'em out.

• I was regretful the instant I opened my mouth. I'd lit into the  poor bastard. "You're a terrible bore! You tell the same damned stories over and over and over." The bartender just shook her head and said, dude, you're part of the problem. I looked around the bar and it dawned on me, yeah, she's right. The bar was empty. I 'd been talking to myself again.


• There ought to be an awards show for all those darling old ladies who at times frustrate us with their insistence that the room is too cold, the TV is too loud, and that the Coke has lost its fizz. Categories can include best hot cocoa maker, longest scarf knitter and best lap to climb into during the scary parts of “Cinderella.” “Ladies & Gentlemen, welcome to the only major awards show where every contestant gets a trophy. Welcome to … The Grannies!


• Okay, you’re in the store today and “Here Comes Santa Claus!” comes on the store PA system. Do you think someone’s goofed or do you think, “Yeah, it’s Feb. 6, just 323 shopping days ’til Christmas. I guess it’s about that time.” Merry Christmas!


• New Reuter's poll that says extremism is voters greatest fear is wrong. We don't fear extremism. We fear extremists whose views differ from ours will be put in charge.


• I’m trying to come up with a compelling story about a legless man who grows 2 feet, but I can’t decide if I want to make it a supernatural tale about the sudden addition of missing limbs or just a story about growth spurts.


• It's my understanding that large breasted women are fed up with  shameless men who blatantly ogle their assets. It's like a "Man vs. Bosom" staring contest, one no man has ever won.  I urge large breasted women to take matters into their own hands. There ought to be a book. Suggested title, "The Nipple Never Blinks.”


• The Scarecrow was misled. Having a brain does not guarantee happiness. I’ve had a standard-issue brain for 61 years and for just a few of those years has life been a Ding-A-Derry.


• I’m so reluctant to rock the boat that if I detect the boat is rocking and am told the captain is shitfaced and has run the boat aground, I won’t pile on with belated criticism. No, I’ll grab a fifth of Wild Turkey, two shot glasses and head to the bridge to assure the skipper everything’s gonna be all right. Then I’m gonna crank up the Ray Wylie Hubbard … On second thought, I guess I do rock the boat. 


• I’d say my defining characteristic is my steadfast belief that I’m never wrong in the face of gargantuan evidence that I’ve never not even once been right.


• Studies show 82% of otherwise rational adults will believe any made up statistic if the fraud is preceded by the words “studies show.”


• I’ve in my day bitten some powerful hands that were feeding me and there have been consequences. I’m asked if I have regrets. I do. Just one. I regret that before I bit the hand that was feeding me I didn’t slow roast barbecue it and slather it in some Sweet Baby Ray’s before sinking my teeth in. Ciao!


• The Ferris Wheel debuted at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair and was an immediate sensation.  It’s not surprising. Amusement park patrons had grown tired of the inherent delays and frustrations of the Square-us Wheel.


• A bartender I hadn't seen in a while said she hardly recognized me with my shaved head. Said it looked good. I asked if she wanted to rub it for luck. She playfully did. But before I could self-censor, I heard myself say, "I wasn't referring to my head.”

I felt relief when she laughed. Now I know in these hyper-sensitive times, a line like that can get a man killed. It’s a price I’ll pay ‘cause there should be no PC tethers on runaway wit. Yes, I’ll go down along with Joan of Arc, Lincoln, MLK, etc. and all the martyrs who died to advance justice and humanity. Me? I’ll die for a dick joke.


Many people say their greatest fear is that of dying alone. My greatest fear is dying in a room so crowded with friends and loved ones I won’t be able to see the TV. Fear of dying alone? I just hope I die before the batteries in the remote do.


• Pippi Longstocking was beloved for being an impish free spirit. What few know is that she shed her innocence after entering a rebellious phase and became known by the boys as Pippi Nounderpants. 


• I'm at my most impatient when it's my duty to take the dog out to do his. "C'mon. Poop, wouldja? I don't have all day." It's the height of hypocrisy because I spend lavish amounts of time in the porcelain palace . It's warm, well-lit, the best room in the house to read. No one's rushing me once that door closes. Maybe I'd be more understanding if the dog starts bringing along a book. And this I know: He can take all the time in the world if the book he brings is one of mine!


• Exponential portion growth size has led to the birth an entirely new industry that caters to takeout food preservation. In fact, leftover food containers have become so big, so secure and so well-constructed, I fully expect each doggy bag to contain an actual doggy.


• If in the throes of passion a boy moron and a girl moron surrender to lust and agree to ef each others’ brains out, how much less time would it take than if two reasonably intelligent folk vowed to do the same.


• I think I've maybe outlived all my ambitions. I used to dream of a day when wealth, acclaim and an office on the third floor of the Tin Lizzy would all be mine. Now, there are many days when my greatest ambition is climbing the steps all the way TO the 3rd floor of the Tin Lizzy. There are  days when I need to stop to rest. In fact, there are still days when my "rest" surpasses the bartender's entire shift. A lot can happen to an ambitious guy between the 1st and 3rd floors of the Tin Lizzy…


• Babbling creeks, whale sounds, grand symphonies — most of us awaken to alarms that are anything but alarming. Maybe the sober realization of having to go through another day in 2024 wide awake is alarming enough.  Me I’m seeking an option that matches my state if mind. A distress signal that broadcasts again and again “… SOS! … SOS! … SOS!”


• There ought to be a Tax Day equivalent in angst to April 15 where left-brain people, the ones who thrill to balance check books, save receipts and submit spending pie charts, etc., must do something creative people do with the same aplomb as they do their cold calculations. Maybe have them paint a self-portrait, compose a poem about a dog or sing their hearts out to a roomful of belligerent drunks. Broadcast the hilarity with proceeds going to a fund that’ll ensure right-brain creatives never need fret over tax prep again.


• It would be false modesty to deny my triumphs. I’ve tasted success. My ships have come in.  The problem is that whenever my ships have come in I’m always dismayed at the size of the vessels. It’s like a fleet of little dinghies. And I already had a little dinghy!


• Your virginity is the one thing you lose that doesn’t lead you to tear apart your house to find once you realize it’s gone. “Where’d you last see it? Did you check all your coat pockets? You didn’t give it to that Ralston kid to take care of while you went swimming, did you?” 


• Daughter going to NYC with classmates for school trip. I told her I used to go to Big Apple so frequently and gave off such a comfortable appearance out-of-towners used to ask me for directions — like I was a real New Yorker! “And you told them how to get where they needed to go,” she scoffed. I didn’t say that. They sought directions and that’s what I gave ‘em. Where the hell they wound up I had no idea and couldn’t care less — just like a real New Yorker!


• For reasons both financial and practical, I’ve been without a car fir three months. I’ve learned we’re all confusing conveniences with necessities. The realization bolsters my intention to next try to live without the ubiquitous device that even 5-year-olds consider entitled to possess. Yes, I’m imagining a life without a phone. And if I can free myself from that destroyer of independent thought, then I’ll have left just one last social convention  forced upon those of us who yearn to be truly free. Yep, for me it’ll be … “So long, pants!”


• The Bible says it took The Lord six days & six nights to create Heaven & Earth.  Had I been involved in the task, I’d have said, “Lord, babe, you can cut that time in half. But the first thing you gotta create is a conveniently located Lowe’s and a ‘No Limits’ credit card.”