A random post on Pitt-Penn State with nods to Dave, Bruce, Dylan, Quinn and the guy who robbed the bank to end his marriage

I try to avoid taking topic requests because the result always comes across as forced, stilted.

I’m making an exception today because fanatical reader Dave Angus is the one doing the requesting.

Give me 1,000 readers like Dave and I could rule the blogosphere. You may recall from earlier posts that Dave quits reading the blog cold turkey for six weeks every fall so he can then binge read nothing but “Eight Days To Amish” while he’s in his Illinois tree stand waiting for an opportunity to slay an innocent buck.

Knowing this I try and make my posts extra-compelling in the hopes they’ll distract the hunter from his antlered prey.

Still, such devotion must be rewarded so, for Dave, here goes:

“Yeah Pitt! Go Panthers! You kicked Penn State’s butt. Pitt rules!”

Could you tell my heart wasn’t really into that? Sure, I wanted Pitt to win, but not because I enjoy taunting Penn Staters. I love a good rivalry game and Joe Paterno apparently stole that from my fall revelries 16 years ago.

It was a great game Saturday and sports fans can only hope the rivalry resumes and prospers.

Dave wanted me to write a scathing, mean-spirited post jabbing proud Penn Staters for past controversies.

I’d no sooner do that than throw them all into the big basket full of all those deplorables.

Pitt? Penn State? I have no dog in that fight. I just enjoy a good fight.

Really, I look down on anyone who had the opportunity to attend even one year at Ohio University in Athens and went anywhere else.

• I was outside Consol last evening when Bruce Springsteen and the E Street band began tearing into “New York Serenade.” Among those inside were my buddy Quinn and his brother Paul. They’d bought $175 tickets, far too rich for me. I figured I could find a scalper, flush with indecent profit, who’d be willing to drop down to around $50. Wrong. They were holding out for $100. I passed and today I’m chagrined at having missed what was my dream set list.

• Still, think I made the right decision and got to spend the afternoon guzzling with Quinn and Paul. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’d rather see Quinn than Bruce. 

• Of course, I met Quinn at OU. Fun guys like him would never have dreamed of going to either Pitt or Penn State. 

• I wanted to get inside to see if there were more black people on the stage or in the crowd of 18,000. I bet it was the stage (seven). How come more black people don’t like Bruce?

• I hope my readership is diverse. I welcome Muslims, blacks, Hispanics, LBGT and both Mormons and morons. I have no idea if any of those demographics show up here. But I do know this much: You’re all gorgeous! Smart, too (except for the morons)!

• Know what else happened on 15 years ago Sunday? Bob Dylan released the outstanding “Love And Theft” CD. That’s not all. Delbert McClinton released “Nothing Personal,” and Alison Krauss & Union Station, “New Favorite.” I was waiting in the parking lot of the local Barnes & Noble to purchase all three when I heard the news, oh, boy. So it was a terrible day for America, but a great day for American music.

• I just did a cursory google check of “famous Ohio University alums.” The list includes (voice of Bart Simpson) Nancy Cartwright, Arsenio Hall, Paul Newman (did not graduate), and original “MacGyver” Richard Dean Anderson and a bunch of other non-celebs I’m sure my Pitt/PSU friends would belittle. I saw one name on the list that pisses me off. He’s sportscaster Thom Brennaman. I used to tend bar with him. He belonged to a rival fraternity of despised pretty boys. He wasn’t a bad guy, but I’ll never get over his Beta taint. I still can’t stand him.

• Just because I went to OU doesn’t mean I can’t still be petty.

• I’m toying with the idea of writing about John Ripple. He’s the 70-year-old Kansas man who robbed a bank because he said he’d rather go to prison than stay married. It’s fascinating. Would the jury convict him? How must his poor wife feel? Sure, it seems like a no-brainer for blog fodder, but my wife caught me cackling at the news and scowled. Doesn’t she know I’m already a prisoner? A prisoner of love!

• Tweet of the Week: I’m so convinced I'll one day die of random gunfire I'm thinking of getting a bullseye tattooed on my chest just to give the folks in the morgue a good story to tell.

• Here’s a 1:37 YouTube of Quinn telling about the lines of mine he’s turned into songs. Includes blatant Natty Light product placement.

• Hey, Dave, a herd of albino trophy buck just sauntered past while you were reading this post!

Related …

Binge reading my blog in an Illinois tree stand

My wild and wussy weekend with Quinn

RIP Bobby Keys: Is this his last song?

Why the closed casket for JoePa?

No. 1 Party Boy from the No. 1 Party School

The good, the bad and the Bruce Springsteen show

Undercover Boss -- me!

I remember seeing the first “Undercover Boss” promos and thinking, gee, what a novel idea. I’d love to watch a show where the CEO is revealed to be a moron and emerges with a new respect for working stiffs.

And, of course, I haven’t watched even a minute of it. I watch enough mind-deadening TV that I don’t need to pump more reality sewage into the swamp -- and that sounds like the premise for “Undercover Mob Boss.”

Yet, I remain charmed by the concept and think how much fun it would be to have a role in the show.

Since I work alone, can’t afford to hire anyone and even coke-headed producers wouldn’t dream of putting a show like that on the air, I spent yesterday pretending I was the Undercover Boss of myself.

I auditioned the 23 or so distinct voices in my head and allowed one of them to step forward into the boss role to survey what I do, how difficult it is, and gain a new appreciation for the peon employee.

That’d be me.

Undercover Boss: “Morning! I’m here to work with you.”

Me: Welcome aboard. I’m prepared to share with you all my secrets. Ask me anything.

U.B.: “Let me start by saying how handsome you are.”


Me: "And let me start by saying what a fantastic start you're off to, my brown-nosing little friend!

Camera pans to a sign on the door that says, “All Guys Welcome! My Door is Always Open, My Toilet Seat is Always Up,” as I let him in to the shabby little office right above my favorite bar.

U.B.: “Quite an office you have here.”

Me: It’s like a little clubhouse. I told my wife a few years ago I wanted a ‘Bob Dylan Theme Time Radio’ poster for my birthday. She said, ‘What, are you still in the eighth grade?’ I told her no, but my office is.

Camera flash summarizes the first three hours of the morning with clips of me tossing wadded up pieces of scrap paper into a 5-foot high waste paper basket nailed to the wall 12-feet from my desk. The ones that miss, about 50-percent, I then thud chip into a lower waste basket with my pitching wedge (camera shows startled diners in the bar below spilling hot soup in their laps as the jarring noise sparks alarm).

U.B.: “Do you ever do any work here?”

Me: Not really. I try to avoid things that make me sweat or cause my brain to hurt.

The show segues to a shots of me expertly juggling three bean bags and swapping punch lines from movies like “SlapShot!” “Hot Fuzz,” and “Zombieland” with old friends on the speaker phone. The iPod blasts a lively playlist of Delbert McClinton, Todd Snider, Joe Ely and Kris Kristofferson.

U.B. “I packed a lunch. Do we eat here in the office?”

Me: Rarely. I spend so much time deep inside my own head, I really need to get out and see people. The isolation is the worst part of the job. So about once a day I pretend someone’s phoned in a bomb threat and I dash downstairs to the bar for safety and suds. Let’s pretend that right now so we can get good seats in time for the Showcase.

Cameras cut to me and the U.B. sitting on bar stools getting ready to ridicule goofy contestant bids on “The Price is Right.” After Drew Carey announces the winner to the Showcase Showdown and the comely supermodels wave the show to commercial, we watch the local news and return upstairs.

U.B.: “What’s the biggest misconception about how you work?”

Me: “That I’m drunk all the time. I joke about it a lot, but it’s surprising and a little disappointing how often I’m sober. But I perpetuate the myth so others can have vicarious fun.

The afternoon work session is a virtual rerun of the morning fun enlivened by a segment where I show the U.B. how I prank bar patrons in the parking lot by pushing my car’s remote panic horn button the instant they slam their car doors. Hiding behind the curtains, we both crack up at their muddle-headed confusion.

U.B.: “Well, after watching you work, I think you’ve earned a little bar time.”

Me: What a splendid idea! I think you’re going to work out fine here, kid!

The U.B.’s voice over concludes the show: “He doesn’t earn enough money to warrant a raise, but I can’t fire his lazy ass ‘cause he’s good for morale. He’s worked for me for nearly 20 years and still have no idea how the hell he does it.”

The picture fades to black after the camera pans across the stoic faces of the bar regulars looking on in disturbed silence as me and my imaginary U.B. yuk it up in the corner.

The phrase “Another day, another dollar,” would fit perfectly if you just subtract the part about the dollar.