Do NOT vote (& magically delicious thots on Lucky Charms)

• I have a contradictory message today. It is simple: DO NOT VOTE! None of you. Stay home. Make love. Binge watch “Ozark.” Clean the basement. But do not vote! Do not vote because I already did and if you don’t then the chances of all my candidates winning increases by one.

• Would you drive an elderly neighbor to the polling place if you knew she was pro-Trump? Or if she voted for Hilary? Be honest. Me? I’d first drive the old babe to the bar and get her all tuned up in the hopes she’d vote the way I told her she ought to … or else.

• I know we’re being told this is the most consequential election of our lives and I don’t doubt it. But if it is then how come half my brain is thinking about the election while the other half can’t stop thinking about what it’s like to work in the Lucky Charms cereal factory? Like do the bosses threaten to transfer the unruly workers who make the marshmallow charms to the oat line if they don’t shape up? Is working the oat line a punishment? I’d hate to work the oat line.

• Once for her 7th birthday, I took three boxes of Lucky Charms and separated the marshmallows from all the godforsaken oats so when Josie poured her morning cereal it was nothing but marshmallows. I’ll never forget the look of pure joy on her face as that rainbow of tooth-rottening candy cascaded into her bowl. I think some day she’ll reckon with my flaws as a provider and moral role model but will  remember those Lucky Charms and think, yeah, the old man was alright..

• And, yes, I learned too late you can buy bags of the good stuff already separated. But what kind of father would take a cheater shortcut like that?

• The Jeannette Public Library is hosting an Open House Wednesday from noon to 7 p.m. I’ll be there around 2 p.m. I’m not going to be selling books or trying to draw an audience. I’m attending because they were so good to me during last month’s visit and because they asked nicely. Oh, and because they said there’d be cookies. Free! Come join us (before I eat all the cookies).

• We watched “Captain Fantastic” starring Viggo Mortensen again. I recommend it to my liberal friends because it shows what becomes of a liberal life when it’s taken to its logical extreme. I recommend it to my conservative friends because it shows how useful a sensible conservative check can be on runaway liberalism. And in the end they both get along. So, yeah, it’s Hollywood fiction.

• It’s not too late to become a member of the Westmoreland Professional Builders Association. That way you can come hear me give my Arnold Palmer talk to their membership Thursday at Rizzo’s. I love Rizzo’s! The pasta is peerless and I love the rack of lamb. Alas, I’ll have to curtail my consumption, lest I have a gastric reaction during my talk. That means no Banana Hot Peppers with Asiago Cheese, a zesty appetizer that burns going in as much as it does going out. I call them Ass Candles. 

• Just got off the phone with a group that booked me to talk to 16 people Nov. 24 here at the Tin Lizzy. I’ll come to your home, too. A group of at least a dozen booked me to come to a South Hills home Nov. 16. “Bring lots of books!” they advised. Will do! 

• Tin Lizzy talks don’t have to involve lunch or dinner, either. I’m sure an afternoon cocktail party will be lots of fun, too. Call if you’d like to learn more, 724 961-2558.

• I’ll be on WCNS-AM 1480 with Hank Baughman Monday at 9:30 a.m. 

• I wonder if they have intra-building softball games between the Lucky Charms employees who work the marshmallow line and the ones who work the oats. It wouldn’t surprise me if Team Oats cheats.

• Please get your signed book orders in early. I have plenty of Palmers and “Use All The Crayons!” but I’m almost out of “Last Baby Boomers,” which is probably the one I’m most proud of. Sold more than expected last month. Still available on amazon. I’m preparing a second typo-free (sorta) edition to be released early 2019. 

• The Greater Latrobe Senior High Drama Club will on Friday and Saturday present the David Ives comedy, “All In The Timing.” It’s supposed to be great. Who sez? My daughter, Josie! She’s one of the leads! Tickets for the 7:30 shows are $10; $8 for students and seniors.

• I was seriously thinking about composing a high-concept post today where I tailored the lyrics of John Lennon’s “Imagine” to today’s political climate. I thought better of it when I asked myself the salient question: “And how much do you get paid to write these blog posts?”

• Prediction: Those of you who tomorrow will be overjoyed at the results of today’s election will be bereft at the results of the one in 2020 and vice versa.

Related …

America’s Last Undecided Voter … Me!

Trump vs. Fiorina: Who’s our ugliest prez

Obama hater spoils my breakfast, then windshield

Biblical sorts of praise for my book, me

I’m now hosting Tin Lizzy book luncheons

Front page of The Bulletin! I'm seeking your best local Arnold Palmer stories

A big thank you to Steve Kittey and The Latrobe Bulletin for allowing me to use their front page to announce my new book and to solicit their readers for the best local stories about Arnold Palmer. I encourage you to purchase copies at your local Latrobe newsstand. For out-of-towners, here’s what I wrote …

(500 words)

For professional reasons, I was pleased when an editor for Triumph Books called to ask if I had any good Arnold Palmer stories.

I told him I did. I was privileged to interview him nearly 100 times since 1998, the bulk of them being hour-long, in-depth Q&As done as a correspondent for Palmer’s posh Kingdom Magazine. We were chummy enough that in 2013 he graciously agreed to provide the foreword to my book, “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.”

Our last interview was five weeks before his Sept. 25 passing. My last question?

“Do you believe there’s golf in heaven?”

Spoiler alert! He did.

The editor was very enthused. He thought a book based on my experiences with Palmer would be a success. I told him I was friends with a few locals who knew one or two Palmer stories that might be worth sharing.

“How many friends?” he asked.

I told him about 5,000 or so.

That’s where you, my friends, come in. 

I want to hear your best hometown Arnold Palmer stories. You can call me at 724 961-2558 or email at storyteller@ChrisRodell.com. I’m grateful to Steve Kittey and The Bulletin for offering me this space to reach out.

I have a Sept. 15 deadline for a book tentatively titled: “Homespun Stories of Latrobe & The Real Arnold Palmer.” I’m interested in hearing your stories because I’m convinced Palmer fans around the world want to know our secret.

They want to know why a legendary man who could reside in palaces around the planet chose to live and die in the same small western Pennsylvania town where he was born.

I contend it’s people like you.

It’s a story of how one small town and a big time celebrity forever bonded to forge a mutually beneficial relationship admired around the world. Palmer gushed about Latrobe, it seems, specifically because the folks here never really gushed about him. Neither Latrobe nor Palmer took the other for granted, but neither took one another too seriously, either. The mutual love was engrained, but never enforced. A man known for hitching his pants never, in the watchful eyes of observant locals, ever got too big for his britches.

I’ll try and include as many stories from as many people as I can, but spacial constraints mean I can only include the very best, which will be determined by me and my editors.

So did Arnold Palmer ever see you hit a great shot? Give you a golf tip? Did he dine in your restaurant? Did he send your daughter a thoughtful get-well card when he heard she was ill? Did anyone ever roll out the red carpet for you on vacation when you casually mentioned you were from Latrobe?

What’s your best Arnold Palmer story?

I want to hear it.

“Homespun Stories of Latrobe & The Real Arnold Palmer,” is scheduled for a spring ’18 release.

Related …

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Happy 80th Birthday, Arnold Palmer!

Interviewing Arnold Palmer

Playing Oakmont & Arnold Palmer says I’m the best

Kate Upton in Latrobe to visit Arnold Palmer

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

So what’s Arnold Palmer really like?

Latrobe abuzz: Who’ll appear in Palmer special?

Today I tried to break Usain Bolt's record

(718 words)

The Olympics will be more satisfying when each event includes a participating representative from the core viewing demographic.

I came to this conclusion after basking in the greatness of Trayvon Bromell.

Who?

He’s the 21-year-old Waco, Texas, sprinter who finished dead last in the Olympics 100 meter dash. Shameful, right?

Wrong. He was just 0.25 seconds behind the glorious Usain Bolt.

And Bromell was last.

It would add useful perspective if every race in every event included someone from the target audience, some beer-bellied, under-motivated middle-aged cigar-smoking lout.

Someone like me!

I vowed to see how long it would take me to run 100 meters. First, here’s a tale of the tape between me and the world’s fastest man:

  

Usain Bolt  Me

  

Age               29 53   

Height           6-5 5-8 

Weight           207 lbs. 190 lbs.

Overcame  born w/scoliosis         1981-2004

Net worth       $50 million     owns some nice golf clubs

Bolt ran the Rio 100 in 9.81, microscopically slower than his 2009 world record of 9.58. 

I’m not even sure my 2007 Saturn Vue could go 100 meters in 9.81 seconds.

This, of course, is a moot point because the car sometimes stubbornly doesn’t move even an inch. It’s just beat to hell.

So am I!

Really, I was worried the only way I could run a complete 100 meters was if someone sicced a big mean dog on me. Plus, I was fearful I might pull a muscle, trip, get distracted by a butterfly or I might start feeling like I was some kind of idiot.

The latter fear stemming from an insinuation by my 10-year-old daughter who hinted I was acting like I was some kind of idiot.

I’d asked her if she wanted to be my official timekeeper.

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked.

Because, I said, it might be historic. You might get to see your old man set a new world record.

She rolled her eyes in wild exasperation, a move she learned from her mama.

“You’re not going to set any records!”

How did she know? I’ve never tried to run 100 meters before. What if sprinting was the prodigal talent that’s been evading me my entire life?

“53-year-old blogger beats Bolt!” would be a great story, one that would give the whole grumpy world a giddy lift. 

There’d be skeptics, sure. But I’d have had a witness. Lucy’s honest as all get out.

Alas, it was not to be.

So I was out there at the Greater Latrobe High School track all by myself at dawn (above).

Bolt’s been training since he was 10.

I took one stroll around the track.

I also differed from your typical Olympic sprinter in our respective starting positions.

Olympic sprinters bend their taut frames down into coiled 4-point stances.

I stood there upright like I was waiting for a bus. I realized I may have sacrificed some time, but I was fearful if I bent over I might not get back up.

I took three deep breaths then … Ready … Set …

Go!

I have to say I was pretty good. Running fast is very fun for human beings of any age.

I’ll link below about the last time I did it. The incentive then was a round of free drinks from my Point Park University students.

The incentive today was much greater: international and eternal sporting glory!

I didn’t pull any muscles, trip or give up. In fact, I kicked through the finish line.

Time: 25.81 seconds (Bolt ran the 200 meter in 19.78).

On my way up the hill, sweaty and out of breath, I coincidentally saw Lucy’s elementary school librarian.

And she saw me!

It added useful credence to my story when I went home and told a disbelieving Lucy I’d run the 100 meter dash in 9.57 seconds.

A new world record!

I told Lucy to ask Mrs. G. if she saw me. Mrs. G. — she’s honest, too — will confirm, yes, she did.

I may have finished the 100 meter dash, but I gave up being honest about 50 years ago.

Despite disparities in our fame and net worth, I stubbornly believe it’s still better to be quick on your feet than swift in your shoes.

Related …

A short distance runner

Weekly World News & Baby Born with Wooden Leg

Fatherly fibber stirs skepticism

Lies about length and the manliest of men

The lies we all long to hear

Roll Tide: The Last Winter Day

One day after reading climate change means that Pennsylvania will in 50 years resemble Alabama it snowed like Alaska and left me in a state of confusion.

As recent snows go, this one had catastrophic aspects. We got about a foot of the heavy stuff. Trees and power lines were downed, schools were closed, all our lives disrupted.

And I felt euphoric.

Talk murky climate change statistics all you want, but when a guy like me is cheering for winter, chaos really reigns. Me rooting for winter is like Mitt Romney rooting for $2.15 a gallon for unleaded.

In advance of our Alabamian atmospherics, let’s call it cotton-pickin’ crazy.

I summed up my all-consuming hatred for winter in the midst of record snowfall from February 2010 when I wrote this post, “All Snowmen are Abominable.”

What’s odd is we didn’t get winter until spring. And it’s gone in 24 hours.

I’ve had hangovers that have lasted longer than this winter did.

I’m reluctant to opine on global warming for fear of instigating the mercurial hot heads who contend against all reason that nothing weird’s happening with the weather. They are Global Warming SCOPEtics, people who believe we can still use fossil fuels with reckless abandon and everything will still wind up all green and minty fresh.

I’m not so sure and I’m starting to feel nostalgic for something I used to hate.

I fear Monday was the last day of winter. And by last day of winter, I don’t mean this winter season, which was non-existent. We had maybe three snows since October, none of them at all consequential.

I mean the last day of winter. The last day of snows. The last day of closed schools. The last day of snowball fights, snowmen and snow angels. The last day of sled riding.

As an optimist, I try and think of the bright side of climate change -- and by bright side I mean SPF 451.

You’d think year-round summer should improve my golf scores, but I’ll likely spend more time tending to the non-native kudzua overtaking our dogwoods so it might be a wash.

Worst of all, I’ll spend a lot of time regaling youngsters with my recollections of what the world used to be like.

And I’ll think of yesterday.

Thanks to the most efficient school closing announcement system in history, I knew something was up at 5:15 a.m. That’s when all three phones in the house started going off like the government was warning of a hostile alien invasion.

It’s like the Greater Latrobe School District wants all the parents of the children they teach to die from pre-dawn heart attacks so we won’t be around to meddle with their mission.

I see a lot of sense in that.

It wasn’t like that when I was a kid. We’d huddle around the radio and listen to long listings of school closings the way I guess Vietnam-era 18 year olds would listen to the war draft lottery.

It would be a mistake to conclude I equate surprise childhood radio announcements that school would be closed with the same emotions as when I learned I was going to become a father.

News of pending fatherhood leads to mixed feelings. Learning school is closed leads to pure jubilation.

We try to preserve that sensation for our daughters. We awoke them yesterday like it was every other school day. They marveled at the snow outside and watched the morning news rapt to see if their school was listed for delay or closure.

“There’s no way they’re closing schools today,” I lied.

Our kindergartner’s never had a snow day. When she saw her school listed “CLOSED,” her face bore the same expression it did December 25 when she came out and saw all the presents under the tree.

If it was our last winter day, we made the very best of it. We had snowball fights, built snowman, made popcorn and snuggled in front of the fire while we watched The Muppet Movie, the vintage 1979 one.

The high today will again be in the 50s and the once stout snowman is stooped and assuming the consistency of tears.

Our one-day winter is over.

Now, if experts are correct, it’ll won’t be until the year 2050 when my lawn is once again shaded white.

Only the white won’t be from snow.

On that day I’ll look back at the days of my youth and wish I wasn’t in the land of cotton.

Look away. Look away. 

America needs a snow day

Usually by this point in the winter I’ll already have posted three or four I-hate-winter screeds.

The theme is shoveling snow sucks, all snowmen are abominable and that people who enjoy being outside in sub-freezing weather don’t have the good sense God gives a cow.

That’s why I was struck by an alien emotion this morning. I woke up sad it hadn’t snowed.

It started around dinner last night. The day had been pleasant and moderate, much as this whole winter. I’ve had to shovel just twice. As recounted in this winter-blasting howl, I shoveled at least twice a day for three weeks straight in the record snow-hell of February 2010.

Then one of the kids looked out the window and exalted, “It’s snowing!”

Was it ever. We’d gotten an inch in the hour since the sun had gone down. And it was snowing like we’d be buried by dawn.

That seemed to promise one thing: Snow day!

If there’s one thing I love about winter, it’s the school-sanctioned laziness of the snow day.

It’s probably not like that for most employed folks who consider it an inconvenient disruption of their busy, productive lives.

But they’re mostly Type A bullies who won’t let acts of nature deter them from endless money-making missions.

I’m not at all like that. It’s been my custom since I started working for myself -- er, more like NOT working for myself -- to stay home and watch cartoons whenever the school declares a snow day.

I must be something like a Type P person.

I’ve never forgotten the juvenile euphoria of huddling around the radio to hear Jack Bogut on KDKA announce -- yippee! -- no tests or teachers that day. It was like a surprise parole for the wrongly convicted.

I’m of the mind that when the wise men and women who run the schools decide it’s too dangerous to run the buses, it should mean every thing in the whole district closes until at least noon.

It should be like martial law. The only people permitted to drive are operating snow ploughs or are responsible for making pizza or ensuring the state liquor stores are open and stocked.

Then the roads could be declared safe around noon for desperate pilgrims in need of the aforementioned essentials.

My daughters were crushed this morning there was no snow day, especially the sad little kindergartner.

The poor kid’s never had a snow day.

This is the first year Greater Latrobe has had full-day kindergarten. We can argue about whether this will put our kindergartners on equal footing with kindergartners in totalitarian countries that impose things like year-round school.

I’m dubious of the benefits, but who am I to say?

Maybe one day I’ll rejoice that my daughter had twice as much kindergarten as her Daddy. That means twice as many cookies, twice as much nap time and twice as much time gazing around the room to see which kids eat their boogers and which ones just wipe them on the desk.

Yet, with all that elementary education, I understand it’ll fall to me to home-school her in one realm at which I’ve always excelled -- the art of the well-deployed hookie day.

So one day if the weather doesn’t cooperate, we’re going to be like the indoor ski resorts I hear about in places like Dubai. We’re going to have an artificial snow day.

We’ll pretend there’s two-feet of snow outside and get the fireplace cooking right along with the Poptarts. We’ll watch “The Three Stooges,” “Finding Nemo,” and seasons 1 through 4 of “3rd Rock From the Sun.”

We’ll simmer some soup, pop some Orville Redenbacher and stay snug in our jammies clear through the hot dog dinner.

We could all benefit from some Mother Nature imposed down time, a little stretch where the roads are impassable, the lines are down and there’s no one there to tell us to sit up straight or risk missing recess.

Please stay tuned to this blog for frequent weather updates and reminders that you’re working too hard.

Finally, I golf

Most of the questions made it sound as if I were overdue to drop a baby that was expected in March.

“Still not yet! How long’s it been?”

“Think it’ll happen this week?”

“Man, you should see a doctor. Something’s wrong with you.”

Everywhere I went, the whole town reacted with concern. Me, the second most famous golfer in Latrobe, hadn’t played once in 2011.

This was unsettling to a town still smarting from the owners of Rolling Rock moving the fabled beer-making operations from Latrobe, land of the mountain spring waters, to New Jersey, land of the chemical factory spill ponds.

What happened?

I’ve been in a recreational funk. I just sort of stopped caring. I wasn’t playing good last year and this year started with my mother requiring lots of my on-going attention.

I figured if I couldn’t play well and didn’t have the time to devote to improvement, why bother?

I thought about seeking counsel from the town’s most famous golfer, the legendary Arnold Palmer.

I thought about approaching him and saying, “Arnie, I’m all out of sorts. I don’t feel like golfing. I’m going through a tough time and I need the advice only a truly legendary golfer and man like yourself can provide. In this, my hour of golfing need, what should I do to shake this awful funk?”

But I knew exactly what he’d say: “Who are you? Do I know you from someplace?”

That’s a joke. We are friends. And that applies its own sort of pressure.

People everywhere not only expect me to golf, but to golf well.

They know through the course of about 50 interviews Palmer and I have become chummy (that remains one of the coolest things there is to know about me).

I have accumulated some renown for my Palmer associations, my golf books and related contributions.

It was just last summer I was invited to a golf gala at Latrobe Country Club featuring legendary Pittsburgh broadcaster Bill Hillgrove.

Hillgrove and I golfed together and were seated at the main table during the awards dinner.

Prior to the food being served, the esteemed emcee stood up and announced to the 150 or so golfers, “We have two very special guests here tonight. First is Bill Hillgrove, announcer for the Pittsburgh Steelers!”

Well, the place went nuts. Hillgrove enjoys one of the best levels of celebrity recognition. He plays a pivotal role in the town’s love affair with the Steelers and everyone knows he’s just a swell guy.

Hillgrove smiled and gave a friendly wave without getting up.

Then once the Hillgrove tumult finally died down, I was floored when the announcer said, “And you know our other special guest for his golf articles in Arnold Palmer’s Kingdom Magazine. He writes for many popular national publications and he lives right here in Latrobe. Say hello to Chris Rodell!”

Quickly overcoming my surprise, I rose majestically from my seat and gave a big sweeping bow like the kind I’ve seen Mick Jagger do after entertaining stadiums full of 70,000 delirious Stones fans.

Then I bowed again. Then, despite the sudden conclusion of the applause I’ll generously describe as polite, I bowed again. And again.

I didn’t stop bowing and sit down for 10 awkward minutes until the waitress set a shrimp plate in front of me.

I’ve been invited back, but they don’t introduce me anymore, and as soon as I walk through the door someone hands me a shrimp plate.

Still, the pressure and the itch to golf became too great. The game’s brought me so much soulful joy and laughter. I missed it too much.

So I snuck out to a little local course late last Sunday night.

Want to know what I learned?

I’m a natural! I played great!

This overdue baby’s back.

I feel like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders and, hence, the entire town of Latrobe’s.

I close my eyes to bask in the imaginary applause and do the only thing that comes more naturally to me than swinging a golf club.

I bow. Again and again.

Sure, some of that’s massive ego, but I’m mostly hoping someone will show up with some shrimp.