She did not!
Thursday, September 19, 2019
Just one day later and I can’t remember how I found something I will now never forget.
Kinda sounds like a sentiment that ought to be on a floral anniversary card (Happy Day-Before 23rd Anniversary, VLR!).
But, no, this wasn’t about anniversaries, birthdays or other hallmarks of familial importance.
This is all about smiles!
The American Dental Association recommends you see a dentist every six months. Or you could just once read “Use All The Crayon! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.”
While the dentist is drilling your teeth.
That’s the YouTube testimony of certified wellness guru Deborah Edwards, who was on the Mind Body Spirit Network giving her entirely unsolicited review of the book I still believe will one day explode into the national consciousness. And if it does, it’ll be because of fans like Edwards and videos like the one I link to below (I hate to direct you elsewhere once I have your attention)
Allow me to summarize.
This was on the wellness network’s High Vibe Tribe Book Review.
Host/Founder Liz Gracia intros Edwards who begins to beam as she holds up an image of the book’s cover. She is in her Happy Place.
She talks about the book’s structure, cites some examples and says the book will brighten every life. That’s all good. Then she takes it into a realm I never imagined. And remember, a man once said me and this book cured his hangover.
“I was in the dentist chair,” she says. “I was listening to this book and my dentist is drilling in mouth — and I’m laughing! It kind of set him off a little bit. He kept going, ‘You okay?’ And I’d say, ‘Yeah. Ha! Ha!’ He finishes and says, ‘Deborah, I gotta tell you, I’m not accustomed to people laughing in my chair.’ It’s just such an enjoyable book.”
I’m watching this and it’s such a great story I begin to feel faint, like an unprincipled dentist had just given me too much nitrous oxide.
She concludes and it’s apparent her buoyancy is contagious. Gracia is laughing. She can’t believe my book made Edwards giggle through a dental drilling. “I’m assuming,” she said, “you had novocaine.”
She did not!
And it’s all on YouTube.
So, in the last six months …
• I’ve delivered a well-received commencement address for a local high school.
• A popular Governor agreed to provide the foreword for my new book. Republican Tom Ridge says, “Rodell writes about Latrobe the way Sinatra sings about New York, unflinching about the gritty realities, but with abiding affection and relentless positivity about the future.”
• A dear friend who ministers at a Ligonier church based her sermon on “Use All The Crayons!” It was wonderful. Why haven’t I blogged about that heirloom honor? I believe it would be impossible for me to write about without being blasphemous. For example, “It was the best time I’ve ever had in church. I think it was cause we spent more time praising me than we did what’s His name.”
And now comes this incredible endorsement in a forum rich with opportunity.
I consider these substantial achievement and wonder …
How the heck can I guy who can boast all that be so broke?
Understand, I’m not depressed. Just confused.
I remain convinced — now more than ever — that I’m on the verge of a breakthrough that’ll fulfill the latent promise of all these misspent years, nearly three decades of cheerful dissipation.
But what if never happens?
It’ll for me be a mortal disappointment I’ll need to numb.
Good thing I now know where to find some surplus novocaine.
• Here’s the video review.
Monday, September 16, 2019
I didn’t notice the stowaway until I began accelerating and when I did I became so mesmerized I nearly drove off the road and straight into a tree.
Some six-legged insect had affixed itself to my windshield and was hanging on for dear life. About the size and stoutness of a kid’s tiny Tonka toy, it looked sort of like what you’d get if you mated a cockroach with a grasshopper. I gave up scanning insect mug shots when I feared I was becoming, well, all bug-eyed.
I’d just turned left out of the Tin Lizzy on my way to Giant Eagle to pick up some lunch groceries.
Was it on my windshield on purpose or by accident? Was it trying to flee an oppressive bug spouse, a real louse? Or was it old-fashioned wanderlust.
I’d be traveling 2.3 miles on Arnold Palmer Drive past Arnold Palmer’s home, office, golf club and enough other Palmer-named landmarks to have me again wondering why we just don’t change the town name to Palmerville.
If the bug was enjoying the scenic ride it didn’t show.
Maybe it was a Nicklaus fan.
I say “it” because I was also unable to determine if it was a male or female. If it had a gender-defining penis — or penises; logically one per each pair of legs — they were so microscopic it was a don’t ask/don’t tell situation.
While we’re on the subject, cockroaches are to literalists like me almost as poorly named as the titmouse, which disappoints on every level.
I was amazed at its ability to stay stuck to the windshield of a car going nearly 40 mph. Each of its six feet were no bigger than a period on a page. How is that possible?
Maybe it had been walking on gum and gotten its feet really sticky.
I tried to divine what was in its heart. Was it sad? Carefree? Do bugs even have hearts?
Life without a heart or a penis would be a real drag, but that’s from a purely male perspective.
So I make it all the way to Giant Eagle and the bug hasn’t budged. I shopped hurriedly to see if it’s still there or has maybe while I was waiting for chipped ham learned to communicate and convey its intent, kind of like the namesake spider in “Charlotte’s Web.”
I decide if it’s still there I will make every effort return it to its approximate homestead. I envision a homecoming scene where this bug and its equally weird-looking family have this homecoming like it’s the Biblical return of the prodigal son.
And if it’s gone I’ll just try to stop obsessing because, c’mon, it’s just a stupid bug.
It’s still there! Hasn’t moved even a hair.
I begin to race back, which is good, because I all of a sudden have a furniture truck with an impatient driver right on my rear.
My plan is give the bug a jiffy jolt of wiper fluid to gently dislodge it from its impossibly smooth perch. Thus startled, it’ll look back at me and I’ll point to the safety of the sidewalk.
Here’s what happened:
He clung so steadfastly to the windshield I started to get pissed and really blasted the wiper fluid. The fire hosing finally severed its bond and caused it to cartwheel and begin to wildly flap its wings. It rolled over the roof and smashed — SPLAT!— right into the windshield of the furniture truck.
I could tell it was a direct hit by the brilliant arc it made when the annoyed driver used his wipers to try and vacate the stain.
A grand adventure that began with a remarkable feat on one windshield ended with a smear on another.
And now who gives a shit?
Besides, I mean, your basic dung beetle, but that goes without saying.
Monday, September 9, 2019
It happened almost exactly as I’m about to tell and even if it didn’t I’d have for story purposes pretended that it did so the point is moot.
The particulars are unimportant, but Val and I were butting heads over a local bulk grocery store run by a fundamentalist religious sect.
That description usually implies dour dispositions and doomsday rapture dates occurring at least once every calendar year.
But the people at Lapp’s are nothing like that. They all smile, are courteous and run the store with such cheerful efficiency I can only pity the supervisor tasked with selecting the employee of the month. They’re all deserving.
So Val contends they are Mennonites. I say with conviction they are Amish. My smug assurances leads her right into my little trap.
“And what makes you such an expert?”
She’s pitched the slugger what baseball announcers call a hanging curve.
“What makes me such an expert?” I thunder. “Let me tell you: I’m the author of the 32nd best blog for Amish people on the whole flat earth!”
And that’s an assumption. For all I know, the Amish believe earth is cubic. Despite the honor, my working knowledge of Amish practices is next to nothing.
It’s right here at this Feedspot list headlined “Top 50 Blogs and websites for Amish Readers.”
I’m no. 32.
For perspective, the Top 4 listed are in order: “Amish Wisdom Beyond the Bonnets,” “Amish America,” “Ohio’s Amish Country,” and “The Amish Catholic.”
The titles make them all seem worthy and earnest blogs devoted to spreading awareness and understanding of these curious people.
I didn’t bother to check, but it’s a safe bet none of these Amish-centric blogs have a post like this one about how the giant dildo got stuck in my head.
Has me thinking the folks who chose this blog as one of the top 50 blogs for Amish readers declined to actually bother to read the blog. And I am once again reminded what a bone-headed idea it was to call this, “Eight Days To Amish.”
It stems from my days at The Pond when I was for $30 a month cherrypicking wifi off my apartment neighbor. He moved out and took his wifi with him. Well, $60 a month was too much for me so I decided to go without. Being too broke to afford internet was a blow to my self esteem. I wondered what would come next.
“Would I trade my kids for cattle? Start churning my own butter? Why I’m practically eight days to Amish.”
Could it be any more misleadingly nichey?
I wonder if I’d be more successful had I appealed to patriotism with, say, “Eight Days to Freedom!”
Or leisure: “Eight Days to Beer!”
Or a crafty hybrid: “Eight Days to Free Beer!”
I’m instead 11 years into this pointless blogging gig and wondering if I’ll be invited to an awards banquet where the gobs and shoo-fly pie are pretty much guaranteed to outnumber the complimentary hookers.
And I feel bad for two people.
The first is that kid who’s thirsting for spiritual solace.
Scientology has too many Hollywood glitter shitters. He doesn’t have the pipes to sing with the Baptists. And the snake handlers service conflicts with dart night down at the local tavern.
He needs religion. He needs it fast.
He finds my blog is the 32nd best Amish blog in the world and, hey, it hints he can become Amish in just eight days.
He reads the blog and becomes enraged. It has nothing to do with becoming Amish.
In the end he doesn’t go Lutheran. He doesn’t go Catholic.
He goes to Hell!
The other guy for whom I feel bad?
It’s the guy who actually writes about the Amish because he believes it is the way to assured salvation. He puts his heart and soul into the blog. He’s told he’s being considered for inclusion on the prestigious Top 50 best Amish blogs list and that could mean a significant boost in his profile and income.
And then he’s told — bummer — he came in at No. 51.
Friday, September 6, 2019
I still remember the departure like it was yesterday.
It was around this time in 1981. I was leaving for my freshman year at Ohio University. My parents were about to experience their first night as empty nesters.
My buddy’s car had been packed, gassed up, ready to roll. I climbed in and took one last look at the folks, two of the best, most-loving parents any boy could ever hope to have.
They were bawling!
Did I pause to comfort or reassure?
An unfeeling little bastard even then, I told my buddy to floor it. I distinctly remember thinking, “This is the greatest day of my life!”
An unfeeling little bastard even then, I told my buddy to floor it. I distinctly remember thinking, “This is the greatest day of my life!”
And it was. The shackles were off. I was embarking on a time of discovery, self-fulfillment and unbroken pursuit of simple human happiness — what kids today call a “gap year.”
Mine’s been a gap life.
Last week the shoe was on the other foot. We took Josie to Saint Vincent where she is studying history.
If you’re unfamiliar, Saint Vincent is about 4 miles from our home. When the leaves descend we’ll be able to see her dorm room from our back porch.
If you think that’s idyllic, you’re mistaken.
For a sweet girl whose most indelible impression is sunny poise, that little dorm room might as well be on Pluto.
She’s feeling homesick while barely leaving home.
Has it ever happened to you? Ever felt that forlornness over the recollection of something that once was and may never be again?
Homesickness is maybe our most poignant emotion.
It’s indicative of heartfelt appreciation for where you’ve been and uncertainty it can be duplicated anyplace else.
I wish I could assure it can and it will.
Ah, life, so full of sweet soulful suffering.
I asked my older brother if he ever felt homesick in Athens. He began attending there in ’79 and the great times I had visiting him assured I’d go there. Never even considered any place else.
To my surprise, this popular accomplished leader — a bartender and ladies’ man — had been homesick. He felt marooned, out of place, in over his head.
How did he get through it?
He summoned the world’s greatest drinking buddy.
He summoned Dad!
There’s never been a man better suited for that kind rescue mission — cheering up a sad son in a midwestern college with a party school reputation. I close my eyes and can see it now …
“Rachel, the boy needs me in Athens. He’s homesick. I figure I’ll be back in 2 years. That’s a long time, I know, but I think anyone who stays in Athens that long is automatically handed an Inter-personal Communication degree."
I’ve had some well-meaning friends suggest it’ll be to her long-term benefit for us to tell her to tough it out, to in essence change the locks.
To them I respond with, depending on our degree of friendship, varying levels of caustic profanity.
No matter what they teach her at Saint Vincent, she’ll never be in a position of having to lead troops into battle.
She doesn’t need to be tough. She doesn’t need to be calloused.
She needs to be happy.
That’s Rule No. 1.
I advise her if she starts feeling sad, she can always come home.
Come home for dinner. Come home for lunch. If you’re in your dorm and you see some particularly entertaining lunatic on “The Price Is Right,” come home and we’ll watch the “Showcase Showdown” together.
Come on down!
The mindset mirrors the musical advice a loving father gives his daughter in the peerless Alan Jackson 2015 song called coincidentally, I guess, “You Can Always Come Home.”
It says, yes, by all means pursue your dreams, find your own path, but if you stumble or lose your way, darlin’, you can always come home.
Homesickness is an interesting word that means the opposite of what it describes.
I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but today I’m proud to say I raised a child who’s homesick rather than one who’s sick of home.
Many of us are today saying prayers for those left homeless in Alabama, the Bahamas and other places devastated by Hurricane Dorian.
It’s petty, I know, but I’m including prayers that God will provide solace to all those freshman who are struggling to fit in until their hearts catch up with their ambitions..
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
It’s probably so obvious they don’t even bother to mention it in Business 101, but no reasonable business plan involves giving the product away for free.
I’ve had successful business people ridicule me for giving away so many books for free. But if I had a bizzy-ness plan, I wouldn’t be a writer.
I’d be a bizzy-ness man.
So I give away a lot of books. Mostly “Use All The Crayons!” I do so with this title because it’s the book most likely to make people happy and if I can make anyone happy for nearly nothing, by God, I’m going to do it.
I rarely give copies of “Palmer: Homespun” books away. People really love that book so they’re happy to pay for it. “Last Baby Boomer” I often discount in the hopes it’ll lead to grassroots interest in the book of which I’m most proud.
I mention all this now because I just gave away the last copy of what I consider my first real book.
It’s funny. When I’m introduced during speaking engagements, it’s often announced I’m the author of seven books.
But, really, three of the books were like magazine articles that got out of hand, or jerk-off joke books. One was, “Manly Golf: 50 Ways to Muscle Your Way to Victory!” It came with sticker tattoos.
Not the kind of titles you’d see on any “Also by John Grisham …” page
But there was one book, my first “real” book, that for some reason I rarely mention when talking about my roster.
It’s “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore of Golf’s Luckiest Shot.”
Published in 2003, it was called in 2009 “the Bible on golf’s most amazing shot” by, ahem, The New York Times. That’s prestigious. None of my other books have been praised by The Times.
So why don’t I talk about it?
I think it’s because at some point I began to resent the hell out of the book. I don’t remember a single royalty check, group purchase or simple one-to-one cash transaction.
Worse, I bet I gave away 1,000 copies for free.
This is because I’d early on thought it would be nifty promotion if I’d give a free signed copy to anyone who approached me with a verifiable ace.
All to people who were lucky enough to get an ace (odds, 12,500-to-1) or clever enough to bamboozle me into believing they’d had (odds, 5-to-2).
More resentment. I, the author of the most comprehensive book on aces, has never seen nor had one of his own.
It’s cosmically cruel.
So I was not unhappy when I noticed all I had left were two ace books.
And I was not at all unhappy when my friend Denny C., a retired Hempfield high school guidance counselor and a true gent, aced a local course and earned the second-to-last book.
Coincidentally, Denny and I were golfing last month when he hit a ball that looked like a sure ace. As the ball was sailing straight at the cup, I wasn’t rooting it on. I wasn’t ecstatic with split-second anticipation.
No, I was thinking, gee, what’s the etiquette if this goes in? Do I give him another ace book?
My quandary was averted when the ball came to rest 4 inches to the left of the cup and last week I learned my friend Jan L. aced the 10th hole at one of my favorite courses, The Palmer Course at Stonewall Resort in Roanoke, West Virginia.
Thus, my last ace book is gone. I’m no longer golf’s self-appointed welcome wagon to one of game’s rarest club, one to which I don’t belong. I wrote the book on aces, but if there’s a secret handshake no one’s telling me.
I have no more self-imposed obligation to congratulate those who’ve proven far more fortunate than I.
I’ll just continue to simmer that while, according to The NYTimes, I’m the factual repository of more great stories of good fortune than anyone in golf, that same fortune has teased and evaded me for nearly 50 years.
Saturday, August 31, 2019
Honk if you love @8days2Amish tweets of the month!
On second thought, don’t honk. It might confuse the motorist in front of you that you’re angry. Road rage might ensue. My tweets might be responsible for highway violence.
I’d be fine with that, of course, if it led to news headlines that mentioned me, my blog, my books or that I’m available to talk to your group about the urgency of being defiantly kind.
But the real issue is what are you doing reading my blog in traffic?
So, please, do not honk if you love my tweets of the month.
Wait till it’s the middle of the night and all the neighbors are asleep then honk like crazy.
Happy Labor Day!
• Fear not death. Fear instead the death-bed realization that you never really lived. Insinuate yourself into enough hearts and you won’t just live to be 100. You’ll live forever.
• I agree with the shrill MAGA voices who say in America today minorities need to “know their place.” Well, my dark-skinned brothers and sisters, your place is right beside me. Unfortunately for both of us, we’re both way back in line behind a bunch of much richer white guys.
• You’re not going to believe this. I just heard a 6-year-old boy was gunned down while he and his family were enjoying a California garlic festival. What are we gonna do? Oh, that's right. This is America. We do NOTHING. Is it time we start arming 6-year-old garlic eaters?
• Hang in there, folks! In just 6 hours we'll be able to change the signs to read, "Welcome to America! Now 1 Day Without a Mass Shooting!”
• In response to the weekend mayhem, I ask you to join me in being sincerely, but audaciously nice and friendly even in formal situations and among stuffy people conditioned to regard such behavior as weird. Let's be defiantly kind!
• Those who rest assured digital will replace print can take heart that when we see the writing on the wall it's still writing on the wall.
• When you break it all down, life is about deciding if you'd rather walk in someone else's shoes or seize them by their throats. Most bowlers choose the former.
• Last night, it almost happened. My self-betrayal was nearly complete. I almost used the word "amazeballs" in a sentence.
• Otherwise great Chincoteague beach vacation marred only by incident initiated when kids asked if they could bury me in sand. Sure. I'm game. But when they had me completely immobilized, the little bastards stole my shoes & wallet. I should've known better. They weren't my kids.
• Family opted to sleep in on last day of beach vacation rather than get up early to see sun rise. I can't blame them. Popularity of watching sun rise will increase when it doesn't involve getting up at the crack of dawn.
• Trends in population increase coupled with saturation electronic device usage convinces me one day soon we'll all become our own area codes.
• I’m not necessarily opposed to buying settled nations, but the bargain shopper in me figures we could get at least a dozen shit hole countries for the price of one Greenland.
• I believe 50 percent of the women and 80 percent of the men we encounter in our daily lives are simply older, less cheerful versions of the juvenile spastic morons we all were in high school. Proceed accordingly.
• Thinking of re-writing my history to say the reason I'm not more successful is I made a conscious decision in 2000 to de-prioritize income to be a stay-at-home Dad. Now if I can only convince wife, 2 daughters and dozens of eyewitness bartenders to back me up …
• Whose idea was it to put the mouth, the necessary orifice for breathing and eating, directly below honking, dripping & sneezing nose? It's our worst design flaw. On the other hand, whomever came up with location, function & performance specs for the penis was really on the ball
• Love going to the county fair to visit the rabbit exhibit and sing, ”Cannnn any BUNNY find meeee some BUNNY to love? Some BUNNY! Some bunny! Some BUNNY! Find me some BUNNY to love!”
• Call me a snob, but I'll always prefer eating at restaurants that sell me food that gives me gas to places that offer food and sell me gas.
• Someone letting the cat out of the bag will become more impactful to me as soon as I start seeing more instances of bagged cats.
• I was 50 years old before it finally began to sink in that, gee, I was drunk wouldn't cut it as an excuse for showing up in church nude.
• A mischief-minded friend is launching the believable lie that Kamala Harris is the niece of Steeler great Franco Harris. Told him it's a good start but for a lie to really take off it needs to be bigger. Like, Bernie Sanders is actually Col. Sanders waiting to reveal chik promo.
• I don't have a whole lot of loot right now, but I bet I have the scratch for Donald Trump to sell me Puerto Rico for what I have in my car console.
• For future reference, it's unnecessary for you to say, "Have fun!" after asking where I'm going or what I'm doing. Look, if it ain't fun I ain't going.
• MAGAs saying Trump truly is chosen one because forces unknown diverting Dorian away from Mar-a-Lago. Me, I won't believe it until confounded forecasters say storm is circling back and taking dead aim on Puerto Rico.