Wrapping things up on my awful summer

I’m feeling today like I’m seeing a light at the end of a really long tunnel after a summer I’ve spent constructing a really long tunnel. The 2-month project of moving my Mom and rehabbing her place is nearly complete. So please bear with me through one more day or so of rampant re-runs and notes posts before I get back on track.

• I do an awful lot of complaining for a guy who doesn’t spend his days ducking bullets in places like the Helmand Province, but this has by far been my worst summer. My happy little life has been completely upended. I’ve driven to Pittsburgh and back six days a week the whole time. I miss my family. I miss watching “Price is Right” at lunch with Val and the girls. I miss reading on the back porch. I miss giggling and guzzling with my friends at the Tin Lizzy. I can’t blog. Can’t pitch prospective meeting planners. Yes, a guy who was still putting on his track pants when others were starting to run the race feels like he’s falling further behind.

• I say it’s been my worst summer ever, but for perspective please understand my second worst summer was ’81 when I nearly snagged my goodies on some exposed wire upholstery in the back seat of my buddy’s old Impala during one of the nights of endless skinny dipping.

• Silver lining about all the time in the vehicle? Donald Trump’s steadfast insistence on making confounding news on a near hourly basis. It’s historic and I’m starting to believe he’s going to drop out. 

• I’m starting to detest driving to Pittsburgh while realizing as soon as this is over I’m going to miss driving to Pittsburgh. The city energizes me.

• Haven’t seen a movie all summer. Not even “Finding Dory.” I love seeing movies, even crappy ones. I have hopes “Hell or High Water” will be good. Val and I love Ben Foster. But more than anything I wish there was something hilariously silly out there so I could sit and laugh my ever-loving ass off the way I did the first time I saw “Zombieland,” “Hot Fuzz,” or “Meet the Parents.”

• I’ve spent huge swaths of time making excruciatingly polite conversation with sweet, elderly women. They stop me in the halls at Mom’s old place and on the porch at her new one. Most memorable moment was when the 85-year-old told me she was having a really crappy day and that at her age that’s all she had. I told her she needed a hug and I gave her a big one. We danced for maybe 10 seconds. By God, I swear she then started hitting on me. I say I would never dream of acting on her offer, while acknowledging I didn’t tell Val about our embrace.

• I’m missing all the Steeler stuff that goes on in Latrobe when the team returns to St. Vincent College for summer camp, something they’ve been doing for more than 50 years. I remember when we were kids Dad taking me and my brother up here to watch. I’m not a camp junkie like so many are, but it always gives the town a happy lift when the Steelers are here. I wrote about it in this post from ’13.

• I worry, sure, about fuel efficiency but something that seems overlooked is time efficiency when it comes to gassing up, something I do every other day. Gassing up our cars is an enormous waste of time. It takes forever. It’s incredible to me that in 2016 we have devised a more efficient way to deliver longer-lasting fuel to our cars. 

• One of my spies informed me that an erstwhile friend had posted a sappy homage to enduring friendship in these divisive political times. He said no matter what happens in the election he’ll still chums with the whole world. Then he basked in the hosannas for his shining equanimity. It would have been beautiful had he not unfriended me in October for the following tweet I wrote when the GOP house was in turmoil over the Boehner resignation: "He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind:" Proverbs 11:29. "He that troubleth his own house shall inherit Paul Ryan:" GOP2016.” I thought it was funny, observant and nothing too inflammatory. This guy I’ve known for 35 years told me to ef-off and slammed the door. It’s a good thing for him I’ve never used the blog to settle personal scores. Of course, it’s still early and I’m in a bad mood so you never know.

• Looking to buy a South Hills condo with lots or fresh paint? Get in touch with me!

Let's all America go to the movies

I usually begin each day taking grim inventory of my reflection. It’s not pretty.

Bloodshot eyes, gaping facial pores, unsightly nostril hairs dangling like Tarzan vines over my cracked lips -- ugh.

Damn the man who invented the mirror.

That’s why the first-thing question that’s popped into my head the last four days has been a tone-setting triumph.

“Am I a man or a muppet?”

That’s a key line from the new Muppet movie. After seeing the movie on Sunday, I can’t ask it of myself without recalling uproarious laughter.

I only wish I were a muppet. They’re splitting up a pot of loot that’s in the neighborhood of $30 million.

That’s a lot of dough for piles of stitched cloth and feathers. And you know what?

It’s not nearly enough. For the good of the country, it should be more.

Here’s what I’d do if I were president in this time of national crabbiness: I’d declare tomorrow afternoon a paid holiday.

“Everyone’s going to stop what they’re doing and we as a nation are going all go to the movies,” I’d say. “But you can’t see the vampire flick, the latest Sandler stinker or that one that hints our former FBI director likes to wear frilly dresses. No, we’re all going to see the Muppet movie.

“And when it’s done we’re all going out to our neighborhood bars and restaurants to talk about it. Oh, and one more thing: Free popcorn for everyone!”

Wouldn’t that be splendid?

When I’m not looking in the mirror taking stock of my flaws, I spend a lot of time deep in my own head. I wonder why I’m the way I am, my two defining characteristics being happiness and insolvency.

I’ve concluded the one has to do with the other.

I like to drink in bars. I like to golf with buddies. I like to sit in the warm sunshine and watch baseball games. And I like to spend silly cuddle time at home with my three darlings.

But what I like to do most goes unmentioned in those varied pursuits: Man, I like to laugh.

I try and do mostly legal things that lead to that reaction.

Sadly, steady laughter gets in the way of doing things like earning a living or tracking my on-line back account, an activity that often leads me to weep.

So of course I just love it when I find a really funny movie.

Here are five movies I can watch over and over because they always make me laugh: “Hot Fuzz,” “Zombieland,” “Slapshot,” “Animal House,” and “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.”

And now add to that list “The Muppets.”

It’s just a hilarious joy.

It’s one of those rare funny movies that couldn’t be improved with profanity. I think.

Inappropriate profanity always makes me laugh. Our 5-year-old’s showing this tendency, too.

She came up to me the other day and wickedly whispered, “Daddy, do you know ‘hello’ has the H-word in it!’”

It’s true. So now without fail I cheerfully greet her, “HELL-o, Lucy!” She laughs her little ass off.

I can’t wait until she’s 6 when I deem her mature enough to watch that marvelous swearfest that is “Midnight Run,” another of my favorite funnies.

I wish more people would instinctively reach for laughter over other more base ambitions. People are so reflexively serious.

I started today thinking I’d write about a brainy front page topic, but wisely veered off.

There are already too many people paying too much attention to politics, locker room scandals, the Euro, and money bags bankers contemplating their next bailouts.

What this country needs is a really good laugh.

The Muppets have shown up just in time.

So do yourself a favor and go see it. Take a kid, take your folks, take a neighbor, kidnap a grumpy stranger from the bus stop. Old, young, black, white -- it works with every demographic.

I swear you’ll enjoy it.

Feel free to swear, too. That always cracks me up.

Home opener, movie reviews & tweets

Out of petty protest, I once again will not be attending the Pittsburgh Pirate home opener today. I won’t further enrich owner Bob Nutting who reaps enormous profits and never does anything to improve the once-proud franchise team.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t exercise my inalienable right to play hookie.

Happily, The Pond, the Latrobe tavern that rents me the shabby second-floor penthouse, understands this. Dave and Jill bring in a popcorn machine, offer deals on hot dogs and get a nice friendly crowd of inebriates to enjoy watching the festivities.

If Nutting could hear us booing him it would be just like being there.

So that makes it a good day to fire off a round of observations and sprinkle in some recent tweets before I take myself out to the ol’ ballgame.

• We’ve seen a bunch of movies, old an new, lately. Just saw “Paul” with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost and Seth Rogan as an errant alien. Pegg and Frost are the Brits behind two of my favorite movies of all time, “Shaun of the Dead,” and “Hot Fuzz.” Just hilarious. It was very good, but not in the league of their best, both of which score in the upper 90 percents with reliable critic compiler, www.rottentomatoes.com. “Paul” is scoring a still-respectable 74 percent, which is about what I’d give it. Still, it was a hoot and I recommend it.

• In a confounding deal they signed when he was over-the-hill in 2000, The New York Mets are obligated to pay former Met (and Pirate) Bobby Bonilla $1.2 million every July 1 through 2035. He was a fine Pirate -- I guess in at least one way he still is -- back in the early 1990s. I remember the Pirates in ’91 offered him $25 million, a then jaw-dropping sum. Bonilla declined and said he had to “take care of his family.” The line prompted this memorable outburst from manager Jim Leyland, “Heck, for $25 million you could take care of Guam.”

• Just saw reports that a Knoxville air traffic controller is extending the snoozing pilot tracker scandal after getting busted napping in the tower for five hours. I don’t sleep five hours in my own bed. Maybe I should apply for his job.

• While “Paul” was enjoyable, “Hop” must be avoided at all costs. We have two young ‘uns and enjoy supporting the local family-owned theater so we make an exception and will see what we’re certain will be crap there. We were right. It’s awful. Yet, it was made by the people who made “Despicable Me” and included many talented people. At some point, somebody had to realize that they were filming a charmless stinker. This will surprise critics of this blog, but I pull the plug on some topics when I think it’s not worthy of my feisty band of reliable readers. Does my blog have more integrity than Hollywood? Apparently.

• Last week I played the world’s worst April Fool’s Day joke on my daughter, 10. Told her I was offered a prestigious full-time job that would require relocation. She thought it preposterous.

• Oprah’s ending her show on May 25, four days after Christian group declares scripture says the world is going to end. Coincidence or just more evidence of Oprah’s business savvy?

• If grandma truly has a heart of gold, you might want to re-think that organ donation. It’s worth about $14,860.

• Americans should be required by law to watch at least one Alfred Hitchcock movie every six months. We just enjoyed “Strangers on a Train.” Wonderful. I guess my favorite Hitchcocks are “Dial M for Murder” and “Rear Window.”

• HBO cast Ed Harris to play Cheney in the mini-series. It could be fatal to Harris: Only Cheney can play Cheney. The role will kill lesser mortals, not to mention many innocent bystanders.

• Boutique urban lodging places that were once brothels and are now trendy spots for business travelers to stay should be called ho’ tels.

• I’m embarrassed by my ignorance of Libyan geography, but will rebels need to go through Singoli and Douboli before getting to Tripoli?

• Josie, 10, is getting old enough to watch some of the great PG movies that we hope will show her there’s more to entertainment than iCarly and “High School Musical.” It’s working. We recently let her to stay up late to watch two of our very favorites, “Sneakers,” and the rarely remembered Stephen Spielberg/Leo DiCaprio film, “Catch Me if You Can.” “Sneakers” is a cerebral 1992 Robert Redford caper flick with an outstanding ensemble cast that includes Sidney Poitier, Dan Ackroyd and the late River Phoenix. “Catch Me If You Can” from 2002 is the true story about impostor con man Frank Abignale. Josie loved ‘em both. She may be lax about cleaning her room, but that kid’s going to have good taste.

• I’ll try and post a reminder, but I have a funny story due to run tomorrow on MSNBC.com. It’s about Lake Jackson, Texas, the most confusing town in America. It has streets named This Way, That Way, Any Way, Which Way, Circle Way, Center Way, etc. The city manager told me it’s not uncommon to give directions that include “Go three blocks on This Way, then make a left on That Way and bare right on Any Way.” When the confused motorist inevitably asks, “Which Way?” they have to say, no, that would be the wrong way.

• As previously, mentioned the aggregate totals on www.rottentomatoes.com are a reliable gauge about a movie’s worth. That’s why I felt immense relief when I checked to see that critics are thinking about the Russell Brand re-make of “Arthur,” another favorite of mine. It is currently tracking at 8 percent. Japan is dealing with a nuclear nightmare and news of another earthquake. Still, if they offered to take Russell Brand off our hands in exchange for their woes, I’d consider the swap.

• More random tweets can be found @8days2amish.

Go Bucs!

My TV reality

I invited 20 complete strangers into my home on Wednesday. Some are surly, some are stupid, and all of them stink.

They will inhabit our home and insinuate themselves into our consciousness for the next three months. I’ll find out which ones are divorced, gay, have bowel problems and which ones are so carefree about their grooming that they think nothing of letting their toenails grow long and sharp enough to spear rabid armadillo.

Yes, “Survivor” is on CBS again and again my life has meaning.

Our 10-year-old daughter is the same age as the popular reality show -- and please let’s not demean fatherhood or TV viewership by giving me some Sophie’s Choice -- Josie or Jeff Probst.

There’s room in my heart for both.

My wife delivered Josie during the September week when the first season was in frenzied nightly re-runs to capitalize on the blockbuster success of TV’s first and still finest reality show.

Against her will, I forced my wiped out wife to watch as she lay in the hospital bed breast-feeding a baby so new we’d yet to name her. Val protested, but was too weak to reach the remote. She said she was sure she wouldn’t like it. It would be boring. It would ruin our lives.

She’d said the same thing about motherhood.

Ten years later, she’ll concede she was wrong both times.

She loves “Survivor” and she loves being a mom.

Me, there are days when surviving the perils of fatherhood make me want to vote myself off the family island.

Mostly, it comes down to TV. I just don’t get enough of it.

We tell our children that commercial television is evil. It’s boring. It kills braincells. It turns us all into vapid morons easily manipulated by the most base influences of soulless consumerism.

Yeah, right. We also tell them supportive fables to convince them of the Tooth Fairy’s existence.

In truth, I love TV. If I could I’d watch it round the clock.

I’d watch old movies, documentaries, mindless sitcoms, political shoutfests -- you name it.

Yet the rules we impose on our children we must impose on ourselves.

Because we don’t won’t let the kids watch too much TV, we can’t be hypocritical and watch too much ourselves.

It goes against my every instinct.

That’s why I so revel in any rare home alone time. So does Val.

I remember my mother watched the kids for one slim night last year. Val and I went to a great music festival, but left early so we could, ahh, watch adult TV.

Sure, we did all the other things loving couples do when they have time alone, but I guarantee the TV time meant more to my wife than any of our randy antics.

And that’s certainly no reflection on my romantic skills, she swears.

C’mon, how could it be?

Even so, how could I compare with guys like Tony Soprano and vampires Bill and Eric from the “True Blood” town of Bon Temps?

If we watch shows like that now, we have to wait until the kids are sound asleep. In order to watch shows about vampires we have to live like them.

So the programs that dominate our viewing are children’s movies and Disney Network shows sickly sweet enough to cause cancer in lab rats.

I need to hear someone other than myself spewing profanity.

So last night I snuck down to the basement to watch the 2007 Simon Pegg movie “Hot Fuzz,” maybe the funniest movie ever made. Ever. I mean it. Top critics give it a cumulative 91 percent on www.rottentomatoes.com

I’ve watched it 50 times and it gets funnier each time. If I watched it once a week my mood would improve. But Josie came down and busted me with, “How come it’s okay for you to watch something over and over and over and you yell at me for watching Hannah Montana once or twice?”

She’s right and now I’m thinking about constructing a basement below the basement.

At least “Survivor” is back after a 3-month hiatus. It’s the show we all can watch together. And I do love it. There’s no one in America better at their job than Jeff Probst is at his. The man’s a reality show genius.

But that’s one night a week.

Take this weekend. I’d love to do nothing but sit on my can and watch about 20 hours of college and professional football. All my friends will.

Alas, I cannot. I know the female outcry would be too great.

The tribe has spoken.

And they’ve told me to just sit there and shut the hell up.

Tweet of the week at http://twitter.com/8Days2Amish: “Anytime you hear of someone dying suddenly it should reinforce the need to ensure you're always living suddenly.”

The TV has become the penis

Readers who enjoy vicarious woe are in for a splendid couple of weeks because a wave of woe is crashing upon me.

First off, car trouble. The very day I sent in the final payment on my 2007 Saturn Vue, I had to spend $783.57 to fix something that sounded vaguely pancreatic to me.

I understand as much about vehicular mechanics as I do human organs like the pancreas. I have no idea what my pancreas does, if I need it or how to fix it when it stops functioning.

So when the mechanic starts talking about degraded idler arms and mevotech drag links, I start nodding like a chicken in the rain and just get out the checkbook, once again wishing Dad had steered me into a garage instead of a golf course when I was growing up.

Then during the hottest week of the year our air conditioner broke. My HVAC guy said it would take $650 to fix it, but he had a better idea.

“You could get a new heat pump that’ll improve the efficiency of the whole system. I can get you a really nice one for $5,900.”

So now I have to hope for extreme winters and summers so we can realize rapid savings on our electric bills. A pleasant mild day when the furnace/AC unit idles will mean the expense is going to waste. I’ll only be happy when it’s Nome cold or Hell hot.

Then -- and this is the only misfortune that caused me to shed tears -- our 3-year-old 50-inch HDTV popped and went black while my wife was home alone watching. The repairman said it would cost $1,235 to repair the $1,500 behemoth, a foolish calculation when new ones could be had for less.

To me, it was like the day I heard John Lennon died.

I couldn’t believe it. I felt anger, denial, remorse. I wanted to lash out at the person I blamed.

That was my wife. She’s always hated the TV for the very reason I’ve always adored it. She thought it was too big.

Can you believe it? A TV that was too big? I try to avoid cliche profanity, but WTF?

Her hatred stems from my cunning subterfuge the day we bought it in 2007. We agreed on a nifty 42-inch set. Then the second she was out the door (conflicting schedules meant we’d taken two cars) I said to the salesman, “Okay, now I want you to give me eight more inches.”

It’s become impossible for a man to talk about TVs without it sounding sexual. That’s because televisions have usurped the penis as the way for men to prove their masculinity.

We boast about our inches. We talk about how it throbs with 2M 1080i pixel resolution and 100,000:1 lagoon contrast.

A big TV has become the true measure of a man.

It’s true. Right up until the moment he unveiled his breathtaking 56-inch HD monster, we all made fun of our one buddy behind his back for being such a nerdy poindexter (shout out to Ron Shannon, Latrobe, Pa.!)

So it’s not a metaphoric stretch to say the TV’s blindside destruction felt to me like a real kick in the nuts.

Call it Val’s revenge. When she insisted the new TV be no greater than 42-inches, my emasculation was complete.

I argued in vain that I was going to advance all the furniture three feet to compensate for the TV’s shortcomings.

So you see, it’s been a season of unrelenting dreariness for me.

Then on Thursday, finally, some really great news that makes up for all the despair.

My wife and kids left me.

Hallelujah!

Not for good, that would devastate me. I’m pretty sure.

I’m home alone while she’s taken the kids to spend four days with her sister and her five kids.

Talk about a two-fer for me!

I’m truly overjoyed by their absence and again left to wonder how the three people I love more than any others can make me so happy by leaving me all by myself.

So it’s beer for breakfast and donuts for dinner and I’m taking the new TV to Daddy Boot Camp.

I’m going to watch all the violent and profane things I can’t enjoy when the girls are around. That means “Hot Fuzz,” “Shaun of the Dead,” “Midnight Run,” “The Big Lebowski,” and the four-disc best of from the HBO classic, “The Larry Sanders Show.”

And I think I’ll give the nudist thing a try. Yeah, it’s a pleasant day. I’ll shuck the duds and watch TV in the buff.

Of course, I’m sure I’m in for some poignancy amidst my revelry.

I’ll be longing for those eight inches that aren’t ever coming back.

And, to be clear, I’m talking about the old TV, the only measure that matters.

x x x

Tweet of the Week @8days2amish: "There is no punishment too severe for the llama farmer who names any of his livestock Dolly."

Oscars bore; movies suck

I found myself getting impatient watching the Oscars like I do when I’m obligated to attend some party with too many people I don’t like.

The guests bore me. I can’t stand the conversation. I wish I could duck out and watch a hockey game in a divey bar that’s untainted by all the stifling pretension.

And this is a party I should enjoy. These are the core people in an industry that thrills us all. And we have much in common. Like me, most of them want to help earthquake victims, support President Obama and are unruffled that so many gays are eager to engage the pitfalls of holy matrimony.

I think the problem may be that no industry builds up then dashes all my hopes the way the movie industry so consistently does.

I don’t expect much from politicians. The automotive industry with its clinging commitment to 19th century internal combustion technologies seems almost quaint in its stumbles. And, yes, the banking industry steals from us all, but they’ve yet to start shooting customers in their robberies and I’m grateful for that subtle distinction.

But going to the movies is still very special to me. I love the escape and get excited when a buzz builds that some movie is going to provide an emotional jolt that’ll stir my soul.

And, inevitably, more and more I’m let down.

The 2007 best picture winner “No Country for Old Men” should have been called “No Ending for Confusing Movie.” Loved Heath Ledger in the “The Dark Knight,” but the action scenes -- about three quarters of the lengthy flick -- were a chaotic mess.

Your highly acclaimed Erin Brockovichs, your Benjamin Buttons and Harry Potters have all left me cold.

Symptomatic of the problems is “Avatar.” I like James Cameron, loved “Alien” and “Titanic.” But no one’s said, “Man, you have to rush out and see ‘Avatar.’ It’s the greatest movie of all-time.”

Well, it’s the greatest earning movie of all time, a number that’s been inflated by 3-D premium pricing, but no one’s said it’s the greatest movie of all time.

And these are the serious films by serious artists.

I’m surprised the sheer volume dreary crap Hollywood releases each week isn’t enough to slow the earth’s daily rotation to 32 hours (and that still wouldn’t be enough hours in the day to get me to see “Avatar”).

This isn’t counting anything from the Axis of Apatow/Aniston or others who earn millions making the kinds of movies they probably used to denounce back when they had youthful credibility.

So I get angry sitting there watching Ben Stiller yucking it up, Quentin Tarantino preening and Keanu Reeves applauding Sandra Bullock like she’s just announced a cure for something itchy.

It all has me so desperate I’m thinking of drastic measures. Yes, it may be time to ditch the family contraceptives.

The very best movies I’ve seen in the past 10 years are either cartoon or computer animated.

I wholeheartedly recommend “Up,” and “The Princess and the Frog” -- two best picture nominees from last night. I’ve seen “The Incredibles,” “Ratatouille,” “Finding Nemo,” “Toy Story” and “The Lion King” dozens of times and never tire of the viewing.

And I’d put “The Princess Bride,” and “Ella Enchanted” with the beguiling Anne Hathaway in that category.

I’m at my most content sitting with one of my darling daughters in my lap while watching a great children’s movie (and I’m not talking about hyper-obnoxious nonsense like “Shrek”).

And here’s a tip: it helps to be hungover. It’s like taking a nap with your eyes open.

Once the little one gets too big for that kind of cuddling, we’ll need a fresh kid or else I’ll look creepy going to see kiddie movies solo.

For the record, some of the top-of-my-head my favorite movies from the past 15 years or so are “The Big Lebowsky,” “American Gangster,” “Hot Fuzz,” “The Shawshank Redemption,” “Big Fish,” “Gran Torino,” “Sideways,” and “Up in the Air.”

Why more of our movies do not rise to those august artistic levels is just laziness. I know they can do better.

I hope you’ll join me in demanding more quality from the men and women who produce our movies.

And I’ll thank you in advance for not demanding the same of the people who write the blogs you read.