"Go Fund Me" resumption: Why now? Why me? Why not?

When I in March unveiled my GoFundMe page, I did so because I believed I needed the whole world for my book to succeed. Now early reviews of “How to Deal With Things That Suck,” and a maelstrom of news events has me convinced I had it backward.

I don’t need the world.

The world needs me.

Really, who's in worse shape?

Audacious, yes. But is the premise  true? Let’s on this day have that discussion, at least before anyone tosses a tariff on hubris.

My dreams have always been humble. When people asked me if I was chagrinned my self-deprecating humor had not made me famous, I’d say, “No, I’m sorry my self-deprecating humor has not made me solvent.”

Yet, there were other intangible rewards. It was a couple of Christmases ago when an Indiana stranger called and said she wanted to buy 30 copies of my colorful life guidebook, “Use All The Crayons!” I said, wow, you have 30 friends?

“No, I only have 10 friends,” she said. “I’m taking the other 20 copies to the local cancer ward where I know it’ll make people happy.”

That was one small Midwestern town.

Think there is any place in the world that’s dominated by unhappiness this Monday morning? Know anybody that could use a lift, something that combines humor and heart?

I need your help for me to reach them  I’ve already engaged a crackerjack local marketing firm that’s convinced me that together we can break through to a large audience. That costs money.

I had a local print shop produce 50 copies to distribute to book sellers, promoters, influencers and people in the Parkinson’s community. That takes money, too.

How is the early reaction? Is euphoric too strong a word? Some would say no, it’s on target. I do already sense a groundswell of untapped support.

Here’s how Meta AI described the on-line reaction to my announcement that the first 50 copies are up for grabs: 

“Commenters eagerly express interest in purchasing signed copies of ‘How To Deal With The Stuff That Sucks.’ Many request shipping and payment details while others congratulate the author on his latest work. They without exception cheer his efforts. Enthusiasm and support dominate the comments. Unusually strong reaction like this is often indicative of a successful book release.”

Want to hear it from a human? This is the note a local woman sent me when she was just halfway through with the “Things That Suck” book.

“Oh my!! Loving it!  Chris you are a funny man!!!  I mean really!!”

That’s eight exclamation points to garnish just 13 words. But, some of you may be saying, what does she know about humor? Or books?

She owns a popular local book store. I predict with her enthusiastic support she’ll sell 150 of these books through Christmas.

Imagine how many I can sell if the book gets picked up by Barnes & Noble (I’m already working on it).

I’m, so far, 70 percent toward my $7,500 goal. I’ve had 22 donors fund me as much as $1,000 to spread the word. I would think on my second push, I can easily double the 22. Could I double the amount donated? Exceed my goal?

That’s a bit trickier. The deeper we go here the more tenuous the connection, or so goes conventional wisdom. But that may not apply between you and I.

Perhaps you’ve been reading my stuff for years — free! Free! Free since 2007! — and you and your whack job uncle used to bond over my blogs. Maybe the uncle just fell down the steps. Maybe he left you a map to a treasure chest of bitcoins that’ll make you rich once you find the loot and figure out just how you’re going to buy Pop Tarts with bitcoin.

Maybe you’ll get frustrated and transfer the whole bewildering mess over to me.

To be honest, I don’t even know if you can hold a bitcoin in your hand or use them to fill up a treasure chest,much less drop one in a vending machine full of Hershey bars. 

Today, trillions of dollars are being shed in markets that once appeared bullet proof and now seem on the verge of imminent collapse.

Who has money to lavish on a struggling writer?

Everyone. Because you don’t need to donate $1,000* to make a difference.

Five dollars can make a real difference. Postal media rates to mail this book are $5.38 or about $2 more than it cost to mail my previous books.

What’s my takeaway from the disparity? I need to be writing lighter books! My next book is going to float. Either that or I’ll delete every other word, believing as I do the narrative will still make some sense.

 Hell, it might make more sense.

So donate, share and recommend to friends. I’m convinced it’ll all together make a real difference.

Thank you for your consideration, and thank you, especially to those of you who've already donated and gotten the drive off onto such a strong beginning.

Go Fund Me, Chris Rodell

*Donations matching or exceeding $1,000 are still welcomed and the donors will be treated with suitable deference

Baggin' it: my Parkinson's and the kind-hearted stranger

 

Parkinson’s update: My left arm shakes to the point of uselessness whenever I’m under duress like, for instance, in the self-checkout aisle at the Giant Eagle. It’s stressful because shoppers treat it like they're participants in an Olympic event. So there I am struggling under the glare of hyper-efficient shoppers who appear eager to bag me. Just as I’m about to cry a woman emerges from the line and says, “You look like you can use a hand,” and begins to bag my stuff. Guess what I did…

a). I glared at her and said, “Take your stinkin’ paws off my Fruit Loops, you damned dirty ape!”

b). Jumped into her arms and said, “Mama, take me home! Me love you long time!”

c). Told her it was all part of a shoplifter sting operation and advised her it was in her best interest to consent to the pending strip search.

d). Genuinely thanked her for her gracious intervention.

Answer: “d).” The only thing she could have done to make it even better was if she’d have ponied up for the groceries and thrown in for good measure one of them Cadbury Eggs I find so irresistible.

Before I made it to the car I said a prayer that someone as good-hearted as she will be there for her to make it all better next time she struggles. In those few moments, she’d changed the world.

She took a sad song and made it better.

Lesson: If you see some one struggling with their burdens, momentarily set yours aside. Truly, you will change the world.

Or just go ahead and deport their sorry asses. 

America needs to hear the Lance Cowan story

 

The Lance Cowan story isn’t just one of the best stories in country music. It’s one of the best stories in the country itself. It’s a story of devotion, patience, self-belief, humility and a recognition so long overdue it seems like a cultural crime.

It’s not a story about making petulant demands. It doesn’t whine about how it was treated unfairly. It doesn’t want to punch anyone in the mouth

It’s gentle and so well-crafted it sounds like an echo of a Nashville that used to be but is no more.

As a PR pro, Cowan was known as a great guy who did creative and diligent work earning recognition for clients like Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Butch Hancock and the peerless Joe Ely.

Few knew he had a secret. Heck, he wasn’t even sure himself.

Well, the secret’s out.

He’s releasing his second album, “Against The Grain,” March 21. The collection is both long overdue and right on time. That it took him three decades to release his first album, “So Far, So Good,” is neither a sign of procrastination or of a perfectionist.

They are the signs of a man serious about his priorities.

“Music has always been an essential part of my life,” he says. “But when you have kids you start to realize what really matters and to me that means family.”

He didn’t see any value in hitting the road in pursuit of the kind of fame that often leads to hit singles but also to broken homes. 

He calculated his time would come. And he continued to write songs and he continued to hone his craft. As he approached his 60th birthday, the milestone added urgency to his ambitions.

Those dreams began to come true with the release of  “So Far, So Good” last spring.

From www.LanceCowanMusic.com:

“When I decided to release ‘So Far, So Good’ in 2024,”  Cowan explains, “I was really just trying to put together a calling card with the hopes of finding new venues to play.  I had no idea what to expect - in fact, I was pretty nervous about what kind of response I would get.  I was sweating every time a new review showed up.”

 

“Those reviews from his peers and some very tough critics were overwhelming.  “It stinks of quality,” wrote Duncan Warwick of Country Music People. “Cowan is a remarkably talented singer/songwriter who’s every bit as capable and credible as the artists he represents,” echoed Lee Zimmerman in American Songwriter. “Cowan is a superb troubadour tunesmith,” noted critic Robert K. Oermann wrote in Music Row’s DISClaimer. 

 

Richard Young of the Kentucky HeadHunters summed up the sentiment neatly saying “I have watched Lance for years help make other acts sparkle and he never muttered a word about being a singer/songwriter. You never know what is lurking in an eggshell until it opens and surprises crawl out.”

A highlight of the new music is the plaintive “Love Anyway,” about how we must react to the divisions in our lives. Also strong are “Old King Coal,” “Ragged Edge of Nothing,” and “I Can’t Stand The Winter.”

But there’s not a jarring note in the bunch. Play the album in front of a shrill meter and the little red needle will never bounce off “E.”

In an era when so many artists yearn to go viral, a term that still connotes a sort of runny-nosed madness, Cowan’s music is a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. It has a hardy flavor, clears your head and there’s just something about it that feels therapeutic.

You can go ahead and feel dismayed we were denied access to his talents for 30 years. Or just take it as a hopeful sign that at long last this long-overlooked talent is back for seconds.

Result's of last week's 5-hour surgery: ALL positive

 I suppose it’d be safe to say after three nights in the hospital and a five hour surgery that my back problems are all behind me.

But that reaction might be either a bit rosy and open to anatomical  confusion. 

Think about it. 

Aren’t even future back problems all behind us and can the back ever be described  the front?

I’ll try and come  back to this.

Let’s cut to the chase. The doctor said the operation was a success. I’m fine, thank you. And that thank you is from the heart (bpm, 75). I can sense in my veins (bp 120/80) that your prayers and well wishes were all sincere. It warms my soul (body temp 98.7) to know you care.

The operation involved “unpinching” a clutch of nerves that developed after the beavers in my back began damming up my spinal cord. There were bone spurs, arthritis, etc.

It was so bad I needed a wheel chair to get into the hospital for the healing.

The surgery should allow the tangle of nerves to rush to their stations. 

I’m no longer feeling the disabling hip pain that’s for three years made every single step a torture.

It effected every aspect of my life. People were asking what’s wrong with me. Will we ever see the old Chris again?

I’m, grateful especially to Val, Josie, Lucy and especially Val. The repetition is deliberate. She’s deserving of additional praise and affection.

Now, I’m ready to work on my personal appearance punctuation. For too long people have looked at me, I believe, and have seen a hobbled man locked in a defensive crouch, a man too timid to cross a busy street on a drizzly day. I looked like a man determined to shorten the drop into the cushioned comfort of any nearby coffin.

I intend to resume being upright, enthused and as publicly erect as the law allows.

When people observe me, they’ll no longer see a man bent like a nagging question mark.

They’ll see an exclamation point.

And then they’ll know the old Chris’s back. 

• Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me!

Wednesday I'm scheduled for a 6 hour operation; obviously the Doc is not a golfer

 

I’m getting my back operated on Wednesday at Montefiore Hospital in Pittsburgh. I have many concerns, foremost being it could be a really elaborate hoax. If everyone is in on the joke, how will I know they even operated? 

I’m 62 years old and have never once laid eyes on the part of the body — my own goddamned body — where they said they’ll be making the incision.

There’s a reason the office hooligans always tape the “KICK ME!” signs right about where they say they’re going to start cutting me up.

I guess my fears say more about my deceitful nature than they do about medical reality. Studies show it’s very rare for a doctor and his or her entire team to pretend they operated when, in fact, they did not. Even when it's all for the sake of a joke.

It’s just one of the ways MDs differ from BSJs (me). The BS, I’m told, stands for Bachelor of Science Journalism but it doesn’t take a wild imagination to think of a clever substitute for BS, does it?

The procedure, they say, will reduce the pain that is without surgical intervention on a trajectory that will leave me wheelchair bound within a year.

Many good friends have rallied to my side. They say they support me, say they have my back. I tell them they wouldn’t want my back. It’s a mess. My front is no prize either.

I’d say pick a side. Sides are cool. I dream of the day when you could walk into any deli or diner in America and hear someone say, “And I’d like a side of Rodell with that."

Order up!

It saddens me that I’ve succumbed to baseless conspiracy /theories, hinting that I’ve become one of those quacks I once disdained. A friend even offered to provide photographic evidence. I told him I wasn’t falling for his little charade.

“Either you’ll show me a picture of real MDs doing real work on a back I’ve never even seen with my own eyes or else it’ll be a picture of something phony, prepared or manipulated

“You know, something … doctored!”

I sent a text to close family members explaining the situation, telling each how much I loved them. I asked them, if worst came to worse, to honor what will be my last wish: Please do not bicker over my Earthly estate.

“We promise we won’t,” said my brother

Both family and friends have endeavored to put the challenge in the best possible light. They cite progress in the procedure, advances in technology and the growing experience of our top professionals.

They tell me I’ll be in good hands.

Wrong.

Good hands will be in me!

The operation is expected to last six hours.

I’ll be sure to let you know if the halftime show was as confusing to old white folk like me as Lamar’s was.