Our homes are way too clean

 

I’ve been witness to the phenomenon in the cities and the country and I’ve come to conclude our greatest untapped source of natural clean energy is cleaner energy. I’m talking about all the energy that is created and spent by people obsessed with cleaning things that are already perfectly clean.

Cleaner energy is all the time, strategizing and horse power anal retentive home owners  expend on cleaning items and spaces that are already clean and will look indistinguishably different after more furious cleaning activity.

I was making small talk with some friends last week and I asked about their weekend plans. She mentioned a visit to a destination restaurant, a movie and then, her voice rising an octave intoned, “And then we’re going to give the whole house a really good cleaning. We’re going to start in the living room. We’ll dust, vacuum and wax. Then it’s down the hall …”

As she said this, she looked like I remember Gen. Patton looking as he told reporters how he was going to take Salerno back from the Nazis.

I gave her an evaluating look. Not a hair was out of place. Nice smile. Impeccable makeup. This pretty woman was not the kind of person who’d ever even enter, much less reside, in an unkempt house. 

Then I glanced over at the husband. I noted the stress-related baldness. Nervous twitch and a pleading look toward the bartender to pour something down his throt that would spare him his fate.

In short, he looked like one of the soldiers Patton ordered to take back a key Salerno bridge armed with only a feather duster and a can of Pledge furniture polish.

I’ve seen that desperate, forlorn look on men like him a thousand times.

In the mirror!

It may be sexist, but the condition does seem to be more aggressive in the female of the species. I addressed this in  a parallel observation years ago:

“Women look into mirrors and see flaws … no one else can detect.

“Men look into those same mirrors and see perfection … no one else can detect.”

We need to harness and convert all the energy these subjects spend on cleaning and turn it into fuel, fuel to heat and light  our homes.

And what happens if these alterations in adherent cleaning priorities fail to catch on? What happens if the lights begin to dim?

Even better.

It’s much harder to spot a fleck of dust in a room that’s poorly illuminated.

And today in DC, an Asian elephant named Kamala is dead

 

It pains me to on this day, this day of all days, to inform it's time to mourne the death of Kamala.

And by “we,” I mean partisans on both sides because Kamala made a big impact.

How could she do otherwise?

The old babe weighed more than 3 tons. 

Cause of death?

I’ll not fault those of you who are betting it was obesity.

But, no, this Kamala was euthanized. Osteoarthritis had put the elephant in “irreversible decline” and 3 tons is a lot of inertia

Kamala, 50, was an Asian elephant at the Smithsonian National Zoo, and it’s an actual zoo in Washington, a city that’s often described as a metaphorical one.

So today we have a woman who’s running for president under posters that feature symbolic donkeys and she shares her uncommon name (meaning: Sanskrit for Lotus flower) with a great beast that represents a party who’ll stop at nothing to elect a man many voters regard as a giant ass.

Take a moment. That’s a lot to digest.

And I’m being literal here because when I hear a 3-ton animal is being put down, I think DC ought to have one giant barbecue. The logistics are bound to be colossal. You could feed the world. 

For perspective, the other Kamala weighs about 110 pounds. So it’s the one Kamala weighs about as much as 61 of the other. 

How many people could a dead elephant feed?

I say this because the story, in what to me is an unforgivable omission, failed to mention the biggest question of this biggie-sized story.

How do you dispose of a dead 6,000-pound animal? Is there on the grounds a fabled elephant graveyard; or do you dismember the behemoth?

Imagine that task. I have to believe it would involve chain saws, forklifts and triple decker HAZMAT suits — and that’s just if the elephant comes with a penis.

That’s why I’m leaning toward the barbecue option.There aren't  many people who’ve actually eaten elephant. In fact, most people don’t even know someone who knows someone who’s eaten elephant.

Well, strike that one from your bucket list because you all know me and that makes me the guy that knows the guy.

The guy is the late John Clouse, one of the most entertaining men I’ve ever known. I first wrote about Clouse, an Evansville, Indiana, attorney, for National Enquirer in 1997. He was the Guinness World Record holder for being the world’s most traveled man. He’d been to something like all but two of the of the world’s countries, islands and territories.

A World War II vet and survivor of the Battle of the Bulge, he vowed if he ever got out of that battle alive he was going to lead an entirely original life.

And he did just that. He experienced almost everything available for a human to do. When nervous classmates threw themselves into a tizzy over the bar exam, Clouse said, “They ain’t going to be shooting bullets at us, are they?”

He’d survived plane crashes, deadly fevers and the terrors of being married and divorced 6 times. So I knew to call John when editors at Esquire called and asked me if I knew anyone who’d dined on testicles.

You know. Rocky Mountain oysters, fried bull balls.

The prescient among you may already see where this is going. I got a hold of John and asked if he’d ever eaten testicles.

“What kind,” he said right away.

Something unusual, I urged.

“Well, I had some elephant balls once. It was at this Berlin restaurant that was serving elephant testicles in what they were calling ‘Elephant Soup Burundi.’

“And, no, they didn’t come in a really, really big bowl.”

So, there you have it.

Maybe the timing of Kamala’s death signifies that if Washington wasn’t big enough for two Kamalas, that hypothetical is put to rest.

It is now. In fact, if my calculations are in the ballpark, there is now room for roughly 59. 8 Kamalas.

Keep that in mind as you watch the nailbiter results. 

A Latrobe guy considers what Trump said about Palmer

 Arnold Palmer was in the news this weekend.

Well, part of him was in the news.

For you innocents out there, I’m referring to his genitalia. One of the two major party candidates for the office of U.S. president talked about Palmer’s penis as if it were the club he carried with him where ever he went.

Care to take a wild guess as to which candidate broached the subject?

It caused a national stir, and if we get anymore stirring provocations we’re bound to go stir crazy.

Many were outraged. Some said Palmer would have been flattered.

Me, I am chagrinned and keep thinking, well, it was nice while it lasted. See, I am the author of a 2018 book about Palmer and his enduring connections to Latrobe, “Arnold Palmer: Homespun Stories of The King.”

Being from Latrobe, we’re always asked what’s Palmer really like. I had a ready answer:

“Arnold Palmer is perfectly cool, authentic and refreshing. If Arnold Palmer were a drink he’d be an Arnold Palmer,” I’d say. “What’s he like? If Arnold Palmer were the only member of The Greatest Generation it would still be The Greatest Generation solely because it included Arnold Palmer.”

And that’s the God’s-honest truth. He was just the greatest. I always make that clear.

Now I fear people are going to go right to the penis.

Do I tell the truth and say it never once came up — and I mean the subject.

Will the admission that I never once talked cock with The King forever doom me to outsider status.

“Well, yeah, he may have written a word book about Palmer and the book may be 215 pages long but he can’t tell me how long was his schlong so I don’t know if we can trust him.”

And what will this do to his namesake Arnold Palmer drink? Will they start to serve it in deeper glasses. What kind of banter will ensue when you’ve had a bad day and say, “Bartender, give me an Arnold Palmer, will you? And make sure it’s a stiff one!”

Remember, a 3-hour erection is not a side effect. A 3-hour erection is a front effect.

I thought of conducting an investigation. But exhuming him from a truly unplayable lie for the purpose of a routine pecker check would seem blasphemous. 

Far less intrusive was going to the Arnold Palmer statue at the Arnold Palmer regional airport.It may have sounded like a good idea, but only to those who expect their statue subjects to be wearing their Speedo.

Maybe Palmer, the gold-standard when it came to sponsor product commitment, just figured out a from-the-grave way to get us talking about the kind of balls with which he plays.

Let’s hope, too, Trump dumps the whole topic before he becomes confused and begins insisting the hung one wasn’t Arnold.

It was Fred.

I answer your Tin Lizzy FAQs

 

First of all, I’m not a paid spokesperson for the Tin Lizzy so you can take my word that what I’m about to tell you is genuine. Having said that, I confess to every time I get my PA driver’s license renewed I for reasons I can not explain add another fraudulent inch to my height.

My license says I’m 5’11. I’m actually 5’7.

My goal is to live long enough to possess a license that says I’m 6’2.

It’s a peculiar format for a goal-driven fib.

It’s not like I believe I’ll one day get  pulled over and the  trooper will say, “Mr. Rodell, I pulled you over because I saw you swerving and I suspect you are either impaired or were playing Wordler on your phone.

“But your license says you’r over 6 feet tall so I have to let you go. I bid you ADIEU which if you are Wordlering today reveals two green and one yellow panel.”

I’ve had an office — the only office — in The Tin since July 15, 2015, the day after I was evicted from The Pond, which to me still feels as misguided as if someone had moved to evict Elvis from Graceland.

The Pond was the perfect bar for tipsy BSers like me. Just a great group of regulars. Every day the same dozen or so Regular Joes would gather for a daily guzzle. And — get this — seven of the Regular Joes were conveniently named Joe!

I remember the day my exasperated wife asked what the hell we talked about on those endless days of perfectly pointless bullshit.

“We talk about sports, we talk about politics and we talk about how different our lives would be if we went to a bar where women went.”

But I wasn’t a free agent for long. Not 1, 2, or 3, but 4 Latrobe bar owners called and offered me working space. It was like an Amber Alert went out for drunken local writers.

My friend Micah came through with the most appealing offer.

He had room for me in The Tin Lizzy.

Who could say no? I’ve written about it, owner Buck, and all my friends here many times. So I don’t speak for any of the vested parties here. I’m just one of the guys who happens to spend a lot of time here.

These are some of the questions I hear …

TL FAQs

Q: Is The Tin Lizzy open?

A; Yes, very much so. So open that there is one point in each day, that one of the three bars is practically vibrant. The trick, for now, is sensing which one is really hopping at the right time. But it only takes one person and one bartender to make it happen. Note: Hours and days for each bar differ, but you can get a drink in the Main Bar Monday thru Saturday from 7 a.m. thru (hours vary).

Q: What’s the deal with carding even the gray beards every time you come in?

A: That’s a question for the LCB. I will say this, if some pain-in-the-butt LCB regulation is enough to keep you from supporting this landmark business, one that’s for long stretches of the past 250 years meant a lot to our mothers/fathers/aunts/uncles and assorted oddball relations, then shame on you.

Q: How’s the food?

A: In the past 6 months I’ve had some of the best meals I’ve ever had in the building. And it was The Tin Lizzy where chefs Dato and Jaffre got their start. The menu is being tinkered with, but nothing that’s come out of Chef Cornell Taubert’s kitchen has ever disappointed me.

Q: Is the owner ever cranky?

A: The only diplomatic way to answer that question is with another question: “How cranky could he be and yet still be the recipient of the prestigious‘Employee of the Month’ award for more than 40 years straight?”

Q: Is TheTin Lizzy haunted?

A: I used to say I don’t believe in ghosts, but I never stay in The Tin Lizzy after dark when I’m all alone. Now I say, “Yes, it is! By the ghost of Arnold Palmer!” Then I just start making shit up.”

Q: Do you give tours?

A: One of my favorite things is when someone who’s read and enjoyed one of my books tries to sneak up the stairs and timidly taps on the door to say, “We don’t want to disturb you …” like I’m performing brain surgery on an undecided voter. I say, “Hell, I’ve been disturbed since 1992. C’mon in!” I consider it a privilege to give tours (’92 was the year I quit my last job).

Q: Do you have a favorite bar/bartender?

A: Yes, I do. He was Zack. He was 33 when he died in 2020. I miss him very much. I can say he was my favorite because, well, he was, and because when you die as young and as pretty as Zack sadly did you attain a sort of sainthood no mortal bartender can begrudge. And I can’t pick one former bartender because she threatened to stab me. True, she was having a bad day and dealing with the sassy provocation of her finding my car parked in her parking spot (this was back when I could afford a car). But it’d be unwise for me to encourage that sort of conflict resolution.  So who’s my favorite? The one standing in front of me. Which is my favorite bar? The one I’m sitting in.

So, yes, The Tin Lizzy is open. Yes, you can get a great meal there and, yes, you’ll be welcomed by a lot of smiling faces. Just be careful you don’t park in my parking spot. 

You wouldn’t want to anger a motorist whose driver’s license says he’s almost six feet tall.