My new "Crayons DELUXE!" is dedicated to ...

(893 words)

Spoiler alert!

It’s dedicated to Dave Carfang (first on right above).

The dedication, and forgive its indulgence, reads in full, “This book is dedicated to the joyful souls whose laughter is so explosive, so infectious and so euphoric it makes storytellers run red lights when we think of anything so provocatively funny it just might do the trick.

“Thus, this book is dedicated to our friend Dave Carfang.”

Who’s Dave Carfang?

A son of the great Dick Carfang and nephew of Ed Carfang (also great), Dave and I became friends in about 2005. He came into my life a year before our daughter Lucy (she’s great, too, just in ways that have nothing to do with running a swell neighborhood tavern).

The June 2006 introduction of Lucy necessitated a .075 mile move from our cozy little starter house to a 3-bedroom split level up in the woods above Youngstown.

The house is wonderful. Two fireplaces, vaulted living room ceilings and an elevated back porch that looks deep into the lush sylvan part of Pennsylvania.

One problem: no obvious space for a home office.

That meant I’d either have to find a cheap — really cheap apartment — or secure gainful employment at an actual office.

Kidding! The cut-rate apartment was the only option.

I talked to a bunch of friends and the cheapest offer was $250 a month for way more than I’d need.

I was lamenting the situation to Dave one day and he said, “I have a place upstairs I’ll let you have for free!”

I shrewdly negotiated up to $150 a month. But for the next eight years it was perfect. It was shabby, but it had a full kitchen and a shower. 

Best of all, 37 steps from my desk was The Pond in all its glory.

I like to tell people that if I wasn’t on my bar stool by 4:30, guys would start banging on the ceiling. That’s an artful lie.

I was always on my barstool 30 minutes before the rest of regulars got there.

I’ve been lucky in my friendships since, gee, about 3rd grade. I think it’s because I stroll through life with what’s been described as a shit-eatin’ grin, a phrase I’ve never understood.

I wear a violent frown if I bite into a stale Cheeto.

I guess I appear sufficiently goofy enough that serious people never look at me and say, “Hon, let’s go sit next to that guy. He looks real serious, too.”

But The Pond was unique. There were every day about a dozen lively personalities seated elbow-to-elbow engaged in the kind of banter that enriched not just my writing, but my every day.

Regulars included cops, lawyers, coaches, electricians, postal workers, teachers, reporters, mill workers, accountants, mayors, farmers, car salesman and me.

And we all came and we all stayed and stayed and stayed because we all loved Dave.

I remember Val asking after one marathon session what we men talked about for all that time. I said, “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.”

Some times our wives — and by “our” wives, I mean “my” wife — got justifiably angry when “we” stayed too long.

But on some days the camaraderie was too perfect, too rip-roaring, to depart. And then Paul would come in and it would get even better. And who can leave a bar when Paul’s in there?

And I mean what I say about trying to be funny just to make Dave laugh. Sure, I had a vested interest.

See, Dave used to put classic sports trivia — real brain twisters — on the electronic bar chalkboard. We’d maniacally puzzle over the answers for hours.

That was the glorious days prior to infernal smart phones. I’ll never forget the day Dave berated two young guys who spoiled the fun by looking up the answer to the question, “Who is the only MLB player to hit an inside-the-park, grand slam, walk-off home run?” (It’s Roberto Clemente).

“That’s it,” he said. “No more bar trivia!”

Of course, great bar trivia’s loss became my gain.

Dave began putting my tweets of the week on the board. As he’s never owned a smart phone, much less a computer, I’d dutifully print them out for him. Having my very own public twitter board did wonders for my following, at least among staggering local inebriates.

The very first one he used is now No. 644 (out of 1,001) in “Crayons DELUXE!” It is: “A gym beam requires steady footwork. A Jim Beam isn’t nearly as fussy.”

So life moves on. What was once perfect is now past.

I’m now happily lodged in the Tin Lizzy — and there are a bunch of stories about my 2-year tenure there among the 57 essays in the new edition. And I still enjoy going to The Pond to watch sports while acknowledging things change.

More about the new book tomorrow.

But today I am moved to salute our good friend Dave and his pivotal role in doing something that made so many so happy for so long.

Men like him do something every day that make men like me want to be sharp, to be funny.

To, by God, be alive.

So do readers like you.

Related …

Farewell, Pond office! I am outta here …

I’m being evicted from The Pond

The Pond is for sale! Anyone wanna buy a bar?

It’s a bobblehead world

Bar book signing Thursday!

The Pond’s new bartender debut … Me!

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

“I love you, men!”

I pranked the trash man today

Someone keyed my car! Suspects abound

Thirsting for bar conversation

Zombies at The Pond

Drawing warmth & cheer from the pain & suffering of idiots

(727 words)

 I was having a bad day. No one was returning my calls. The previous day’s sales were less than anticipated. Uncharacteristic hopelessness seemed to surround me.

I’m not ashamed of that. It happens.

But I am ashamed of what spurred me to depart my Friday funk.

It wasn’t the encouragement of loved ones. It wasn’t a happy song. It wasn’t prayer.

No, I saw three idiots nearly get their heads blown off working on a disabled car in the parking lot out behind my office. I saw the whole thing from my second story window.

It warmed my heart even as it was super-heating their faces.

It was John, my troubled apartment neighbor up here above The Pond. His 1994 Bronco has been an idle eyesore for a couple of years now. It has one flat tire and last week it leaked oil all over the parking lot. Dave, the bar and building owner, has told him he has to get it the hell out of there.

So on that drizzly day John and what amounts to his braintrust were huddled under the hood looking like they were giving the engine a pep talk.

And each was smoking a cigarette.

Now, I know acting U.S. Surgeon General Boris D. Lushniak frowns on the practice even when the smoker is far from potentially lethal combustibles.

I’ve never seen competent mechanics smoke around open fuel injectors, but who am I to judge? Maybe dribbled piston ash is some kind of home remedy they read on the web, that reliable site for shady solutions for people too cheap to pay for expertise.

What I do know is only a moron would begin splashing gasoline from a five-gallon jug onto an exposed and firing engine with lit cigarettes dangling from their lips. But that’s what happened next. Without the precision of a funnel, they began pouring gas into what was for them an elusive target. The fuel was going all over the running engine.

I decided to text Dave downstairs at the bar: “Fear not the loud explosion you’re about to hear out back. It’s just John trying to repair his vehicle and instead blowing it and himself to smithereens.”

Dave’s reply: “There is a God.”

The detonation occurred the instant after I looked up from my phone and it was a beauty.

It looked like one of those old news reel films of some uninhabited Pacific atoll being incinerated in a nuclear test blast.

The explosion caused an impromptu Three Stooges skit to break out right there next to the bar dumpster. They each put their hands to their faces and began bouncing into one another. The Bronco engine was fully engulfed.

And it was all hilarious. I roared with laughter. It felt wonderful.

It really brightened my day — and not just from the explosive flash of gasoline being ignited.

On later reflection, I realized the many ways in which I’d failed my fellow man.

First, I should have gone out there and asked if there was anything I could do to help. It would have at least been encouraging and would have let them know we’re all in this together.

Second, I should have said something about the longterm hazards of smoking. I could have told them The Centers for Disease Control reports that 480,000 deaths occur each year from smoking tobacco products — and that includes second hand smoke inflicted on otherwise innocents..

I certainly should have stepped in and said something about how potentially dangerous it is to have a lit cigarette around gasoline fumes, although I’ve since heard that those hazards are exaggerated, a fact sure to incinerate legions more reckless idiots.

Failing all that, I should have at the very least immediately called 911 and then run outside with a fire extinguisher to be the hero for these now eyebrow-less men in their time of need. I could have set a good example for how any civic-minded citizen should react in an emergency.

Of course, I forgive myself for those human failings. As I said, I was having a bad day.

But if there’s one vital lesson from all this to take forward, one nugget to carry along on my inexorable march through life, then it is this.

Always keep a video camera handy.

Related . . .

Someone keyed my car! Suspects abound . . .

I pranked the trash man today

Monkeying around with bananas

Parking lot pervert? Nope, just me

Pond “office” party recap (’09)

Regular bar patrons need personal seat licenses

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I’m hoping today’s Happy Hour will go better than last Friday’s and it will if Dave implements an idea I’ve been hounding him over for months.

Yes, it’s time for The Pond to issue personal seat licenses so regulars can be assured of our favorite stools.

I don’t bar hop. Never have.

I find a place I like with lively people whose company I enjoy and settle in for laughter, conversation and all sorts of sudsy poignancy until they throw me out.

And they never throw me out.

They may turn the music up so they don’t have to hear me talk so much, but they never throw me out.

My life has been enlivened with great drinking buddies, guys who, like me, enjoy a convivial stretch in a warm tavern with a friendly bartender.

It’s been that way ever since I was 12.

I remember many times in college in Athens, Ohio, when me and one of my drinking buddies were in a bar from 1 o’clock to 2 o’clock -- and I’m not talking one hour.

One particular time it was a Sunday and we were deathly hungover from the typical Saturday raucousness. 

I remember the next day some friends couldn’t believe we’d persevered under our conditions when fellow sufferers wasted an entire day in bed with blankets pulled up over their heads.

One asked later if it was a challenge to our constitutions.

“Well, the first eight hours were a little difficult,” George said.

Fast forward to about 1992. I was working at a small two-person newspaper office that was strategically located right next door to a really great bar. My co-worker was also my drinking buddy, bookie and fellow Pirate season ticket holder.

He was like the Swiss Army Knife of drinking buddies.

We’d become friendly with some other guys who’d visit the bar to watch the games with us.

During one of the commercials, one of them asked if Paul and I ever went anywhere else.

Paul pointed about four stools away and said, “Sometimes we sit over there.”

So you understand my history. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to my drinking establishments.

That’s why Fridays at The Pond have become such a challenge. I fear the place is becoming too popular. 

Dave, the third generation owner, feels this, too. In that way, he’s becoming like his old man, Dick, one of the sweetest and most kind men I’ve ever known.

Dave tells the story from about 15 years ago when he wanted to introduce his Dad -- his co-worker -- to some fresh faced young patrons who’d found the bar and felt right at home.

His Dad cringed in dismay and said, “Oh, please, I can’t take another generation!”

Now Dave and I are alarmed about the encroach of yet another generation. It’s ruining the Friday Happy Hour. I’ll let Dave tell it.

“Around 5 p.m., I look around and everything’s great. All my guys are right here where they all belong and I think it’s going to be all right. Then at 6 o’clock it starts. All these strangers start coming in and I begin to realize what Dad meant.”

I wish I could do something to help my friend. Maybe me and the rest of the regulars could consume so much alcohol he wouldn’t need any other customers, but that would likely lead to encounters with DUI checkpoints and angry spouses and pretty soon we’d be doing all our drinking home alone with electronic monitoring devices strapped to our ankles.

It helps if you consider The Pond like it’s a more rectangular version of the Monopoly board and instead of tokens like silver shoes, jalopies, thimbles and choo-choos, the board is populated by paunchy middle aged white dudes with beer farts and receding hairlines.

Boardwalk and Park Place are right there as soon as you get in the door. Those seven or eight stools are where the regulars sit. No one sits directly opposite near Baltic because you’re usually all alone and it’s like staring down a really ugly firing squad. 

So last Friday I walked in around 4:30 expecting one of the prime seats to be available only to be startled to see a nice young couple inhabiting Park Place.

It threw everything off. Gary and Chud were at St. James Place, Chuck was parked at Atlantic, and Teacher Dave was at Marvin Gardens. Worst of all the Joes were scattered to all four corners.

One of things I love about The Pond is there are eight Regulars Joes and all them are conveniently named Joe. Sit next to any Joe and you’re in good company.

Me? I felt like I was in jail with a Do Not Pass Go card for a beer coaster.

So this nice young couple out for a good meal and some chat at a friendly tavern had ruined the night for everyone else.

The nerve.

I ended up going home sober and crashing my family’s girly movie night, so the couple’s inconsideration had a ripple effect far beyond The Pond, and that just never happens with the hootch-free ponds found in nature.

“Don’t blame me,” I said, explaining what happened. My wife shook her head in routine exasperation, but my elementary-age kids understood instinctively.

You don’t take another kid’s seat.

Personal seat licenses would prevent this from happening again.

If lieu of that, I’m going to recommend Dave put up a “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign so he could steer people to where they belong.

I’ve seen him excel in this role. I remember one time when two young rowdies were misbehaving over around Ventnor Avenue. They weren’t bad guys. They just needed a little seasoning.

They did know enough to realize their behavior was out of place. One of them asked Dave if he’d recommend a place where the two loud friends could sit and not bother his regular customers.

Dave’s answer was brilliant.

“Racers.”

Racers isn’t some obscure Monopoly property.

Racers is the bar about a quarter mile down the street.

Related . . .

Weddings, friendship & a pooka named Paul

When Facebook becomes Fakebook

“I love you, men!”

Book signing recap & The Great Chris Rodell

994 words

This is bound to sound facetious, but The Pond book signing was one of the 50 best nights of my life, maybe a top 25er if you toss obvious nights that involved me getting lucky with the missus.

Sold 43 books and got drunk for free.

Both of those are exceptional, but there was so much more.

First, I remain tickled by the thrill of getting my name on the bar marquee. The bar’s located on Lincoln Avenue, which is Latrobe’s equivalent of Broadway if Broadway had things like laundromats, tanning salons and an old bait shop.

I don’t recall another living person who’s been so feted since the bar opened in 1954. That means I’m one up on local legends Arnold Palmer and Fred Rogers, not to mention folks like Mandela and Mother Teresa. To be fair none of the humanitarians has like me rented an upstairs apartment for an office so that may have been influential.

And my girls were all there. Val brought cookies! The girls sat right at the bar beside me and colored their darling little hearts out on cocktail napkins.

But best of all was the genuine warmth of my bar buddies and so many friendly strangers who came thank me for this blog and to buy books. I never knew it mattered so much to so many.

Many said my blog is something they look forward to each day and they were sure the book would be even better (it is, by the way).

Somehow and without any intention, I’ve become a man many people think of as good, which is unsettling to my family who are accustomed to thinking of me as either weird or cranky.

It’s is as humbling as it is disconcerting. I’m becoming the kind of guy who routinely gets gunned down waiting in line for things like popcorn.

The very best involved an angelic woman who made her way around the row of bar stools with a magnificent smile on her face.

I swear I could see her halo hovering. It was either that or neon beer signs reflecting off the glass.

She said her son lives out west and is devoted to my blog and when she saw the story in the local paper about me, she had to come and buy a book.

Everyone in the bar stopped talking and listened to this sweet, wonderful woman gush on and on about me.

The people who know me best -- and they were all at the bar -- were dumbfounded, none more so than my wife who I’m sure suspected I’d put the woman up this, that I’d paid her to say nice things about me in front of my friends.

I’m ashamed to say this would not be without precedent.

It was July 2007. I’d arranged a golf trip to Gettysburg with three of my golfing buddies.

On the last day we were scheduled to play Penn National. It was about 103 degrees out, and as I learned too late, Penn National is located in a dry borough. We were to golf in the heat without the benefit of beer.

As I heard Jimmy Stewart describe it in an old western, we were “as dry as a grasshopper on a hot griddle.”

This was on my mind as I entered the air conditioned office of the marketing woman who’d arranged our tee times. She said it was a good thing I’d caught her. She was on her way out to buy beer across the township border.

Boy, would you mind picking me up a case of Yuengling?

“I’d be glad to. I’ll track you down on the course.”

A devious muscle in my mind began to twitch. I handed her some cash and said and could you say something so my friends will think I’m some kind of big shot? Feel free to lay it on thick.

That simple exchange was the foundation for one of my greatest pranks ever. For I’d unwittingly stumbled onto a frustrated actress who’d been handed her greatest role.

She was waiting for us by the tee of the second hole and, yeah, she was a real babe. Blond. A knockout. So she had all our full attention.

“Which of you is the great Chris Rodell?”

That’d be me, I said.

What followed was about six minutes of the most gushy flattery anyone’s ever said about me. Heck, about anyone. It was like she was auditioning to marry Hefner.

I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. Part of that was runaway ego, sure, but mostly it was in stark appreciation of a virtuoso bullshit performance.

I think my favorite part was when she said, “Now, do you boys happen to like beer?”

We nodded.

“What would you say to two icy coolers of free Yuengling?”

“That’s our favorite!” Ron said.

“Well, nothing’s too good for friends of the great Chris Rodell!”

The praise was heady enough for me to at least consider making this gorgeous woman my away-from-home wife, but it was not to be. She got into her golf cart and drove off into the sunset, never to be seen again.

I suspect she got back to her office and found an on-line scouting report posted by my at-home wife.

But I spent the rest of the day basking in my friends’ sublime resentment. They hated seeing me the object of so much giddy praise because they knew it would go straight to my head.

The funny thing was, I became the great Chris Rodell. I golfed like a man possessed the rest of the trip.

I went six months before revealing the prank. Those were among the best six months of my life.

I wonder if when people expect us to be great we somehow can become great.

I’m going to try and make that happen for all the people who said so many nice things about me at The Pond.

Related  . . .

• Non-worker takes daughter to work

• Don’t believe anything you read, ‘cept this

Just call me "Lasagna"

Just a quick reminder to my area friends I'll be signing "Use All the Crayons!" at The Pond tonight from 5-8.

The sign is already causing a stir in Latrobe. My buddy Paul said a sign saying I'll be at The Pond from 5 to 8 is like Dave advertising the bar sells potato chips.

Others say it makes me look like a side dish, like cole slaw.

I worry that some might read the sign in a hurry and conclude I'm 58. Man, where does the time go?

Bar book signing Thursday!

(729 words)

The Pond is abuzz with excitement today! It’s just about 24 hours until my bar book signing!

It’s different, you see, because The Pond is usually abuzz with things like Crown Royal, Wild Turkey and locally brewed Duquesne Beer.

Thus, we’re left to consider the many joyful ways a literary book signing in a corner tavern differ in places actually dedicated to selling books, not booze.

I’ve participated in both. Care to guess which I prefer?

As Dave, the sage bar owner, said: “I’m sure your book signing will be a huge success -- or it’ll be like every other night in here, but with a stack of books.”

Works for me!

Aspiring writers dream of holding fancy book signings like John Grisham.

They don’t think of sitting way back by the fire exit in some godforsaken chain store where they keep the dusty books devoted to the study of Mayan architecture.

That happened to me in 2003 when I was determined to do everything I could to promote my new book, “Hole in One! The Complete Book of Fact, Legend and Lore on Golf’s Luckiest Shot,” a book the New York Times cited as the Bible on the topic in this article.

So it was a decent book and a big seller among people who’d had the rarest shot in sport.

The problem was the shot is so rare that people eager to buy a book about it are outnumbered by things like albino bison.

Book sellers understood this and banished me and my sales table to store sections so removed from regular traffic anyone wanting to find me would have to navigate a book shelf corn maze in order to do so. It was truly humiliating. I’d sit there for hours all by myself.

On the plus side, I became a self-taught expert on Mayan architecture.

It was vastly different for The Pond’s book signing for the same book.

I sold 40 books! The bartender was a very aggressive sales lady and threatened to withhold drinks if stingy patrons refused to buy.

Plus, every time I’d sell another 10 books or so I bought the bar a round.

Soon everyone in the bar was all gassed up and guys who don’t even read things like comic books were saying, “I never knew a book signing could be so much fun!”

That many of them eventually used the book to prop up short table legs didn’t bother me one bit. We all had a great time.

In fact, the fun got out of hand.

This is true: For the first and last time I can remember, Dave had to physically remove one drunk for unruly behavior.

“I had no idea literary events would attract so many hooligans,” he said.

One big question floating around is how much I’m going to charge for the books.

I expect the price will fluctuate along with my sobriety.

I plan on selling the $15.95 books for a base price of $14, but I told the friendly kitchen staff they can have them for $12.

But I suspect some patrons will try to get me drunk because they know I’m more generous when I’m tipsy.

Under those circumstances, the price could descend to as low as $10.

I’m thinking of using a sliding scale for multiple purchases: the first is $14; buy another and that’s $12; etc. But that might lead to mathematical chaos.

For instance, some shrewd buyer might say he wants a dozen copies and by extrapolating my scale contend I actually owe him $6.

The vibe, so far, is positive. Dave putting my tweets up on the electronic chalk board has lead to legions of new fans who told me the old sports trivia questions used to make their heads hurt.

And The Latrobe Bulletin put me, Dave and a bunch of bobbleheads on the front page Saturday announcing the event. That was very cool.

So if you’re in town on Thursday, please stop by The Pond from 4 to 8 p.m. You can buy a book or just say hello. The food’s good and you’ll see why me and my buddies spend so much time there.

I’m anticipating a huge success.

Or else it’ll be just like every other night, but with a stack of books. 

And that’ll be just fine with me.

Related . . .

• NYTimes cites me, my golf book

• Giving away my book a blue chip idea