"Dallas" returns: A same-sex love story

By chance, I had the family in Pittsburgh this weekend to enjoy the Three Rivers Arts Festival when we happened upon the city’s Gay Pride Parade.

Of the two, the gay pride gang displayed far more vivid colors than anything we later found in a frame.

It was a truly eye-popping event for our daughters, ages 11 and 6, and I’m certain the GLBTs have forever ruined for them Latrobe’s annual Fourth of July parade, renown as it is for featuring roughly 25,000 firetrucks poking along at 2 mph for what seems like 18 hours.

I found the joyful expressions of once-forbidden love inspiring, so much so that I think today’s the perfect day to declare to the world the secret, profound love I feel for another man.

I haven’t seen him for about 10 years and during that time I dreamed of a day when I could declare aloud my feelings for him and we could once again spend so many soulful hours together.

Today’s the day.

His name?

J.R. Ewing.

As you may have heard, he’s back on TNT tonight, a station whose name recollects explosive situations, and that’s just what I’m hoping to see on the new “Dallas.”

You could say I was sort of in the closet over this personal turmoil for about the last 10 years.

Before that only one friend, my good buddy Paul, knew of my love for the Satan from Southfork. Although he shared my feelings, we never fought over J.R. Our love for him transcends possessive tiffs.

On the contrary, we’d spend hours regaling one another over his latest escapades from the re-runs we never missed on the Soap Opera Channel.

We’d roar over the episode where he and his daddy Jock Ewing decided to make up for lost time by having an all-out afternoon drinking contest at a local dive.

“Loser drives home!” Jock declared.

We howled when J.R. justified a rigged deal by saying, “Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

I’ve since used that line in my role as a professor during the four minutes it takes me to lecture future journalists on the importance of ethics in storytelling.

Understand, I was only dimly aware of “Dallas” during its original run from 1978-1991.

I spent most of the Friday nights the show was on -- hell, most of the entire 1980s -- out drinking, chasing women and placing ridiculous wagers. It wasn’t until later that I learned the only difference between my hero and me was only one of us enjoyed access to a vast fortune in ill-gotten oil loot.

In two weeks it’ll be 20 years since I last had a steady job (paycheck, either). Working from home meant I’d often have the TV on in the background for things like the O.J. Simpson trial, classic SNL reruns and M*A*S*H episodes I’d through viewing repetition already committed to memory.

Then one day I happened to tune into “Dallas.”

I remember that day with the same clarity you hear religious devotees express about the day their souls were saved.

Sex, betrayal, lust, booze, revenge, greed -- the show had it all.

I was hooked. So was Paul, my newspaper buddy who often switched shifts with co-workers so he could work nights and not miss the 11 a.m. episodes.

Sure, my wife knew. She’s a woman whose tolerance for same-sex couples is only exceeded by that for malingering husbands who watch things like “Dallas” re-runs while other husbands are out earning a living.

But it was something men were reluctant to share with other men. I’ve never seen “Brokeback Mountain,” but I sense the plot lines are similar.

That’s why it was so liberating when I was visiting another buddy of mine in New York back around 1997. I’ve written about him before. He’s my evil friend John.

We were roommates at Ohio University. During the entirety of our friendship, I’d never known him to rise before noon for anything that didn’t involve a court order. So I was shocked when he strolled into the living room at precisely 10:59 a.m.

I’d, of course, been watching SportsCenter. I was at the time still concealing my TV viewing orientation. I figured he’d ridicule me if he knew of my hidden love.

His look was grave. “I have something to say that may surprise you. This isn’t easy for me because I’m not sure how you’ll react. So I’m just going to come out and say it: I watch ‘Dallas’ every day at 11 a.m. I never miss it.”

Well, I’ll never forget what happened next. I jumped off that couch and shouted, “Me, too!” We met in the center of his tiny apartment and kissed each other on the cheeks. I can’t say if his did, but I know my leg did that little bend back at the knee   thing you used to see happen when couples kissed in the old Cary Grant movies.

In an instant I was on the phone with Paul. “Guess what? John’s just like me and you! He loves ‘Dallas!’’

From then on, our giddy little trio was on the phone conference calling in between each and every commercial.

Care to take a wild guess what we’ll be doing at 9 p.m. tonight?

I’ve already declined invitations to come out and watch baseball, play golf and engage in other stereotypical “manly” activities.

We’re all three staying in to revel in the return of J.R. Ewing and “Dallas.”

It may be the first time in history that three men are coming out simply by staying in.

Can't hate the Packers, but . . .

It’s been a disconcerting week for Steeler fans like me who need hearts heavy with hate for Super Bowl motivation.

Hate the Packers? It’s one of the most storied franchises in football. They shoved Brett Favre out the door when he became a recidivist jerk, a role I’m confident he’ll be fulfilling for at least the next five years.

Plus, I can’t recall meeting a single soul from Green Bay and, as a liberal, I can’t hate, disparage or kill what I do not know.

I do know dozens of darling people from Packer-mad Wisconsin. I spent a fall week there in 2008 on a glorious golf assignment. They wined and dined me with such relentless joy the Badger State vaulted to near the top of my favorite destinations.

They showed me Milwaukee. I had my picture taken with the Bronz Fonz. I reveled in burger heaven at Sobelman’s Pub & Grille. I golfed at prestigious Erin Hills and Whistling Straits. I ate the finest meals and drank free top shelf booze till the bourbon washed all the hatreds from my heart.

They did everything but offer me a free hooker.

(Prospective PR hosts take note: In order, I’d prefer redhead, blonde, bald chick, silver-haired granny.)

Ethical aside: I just spoke to Mrs. Renee Stallings Greater Latrobe High School journalism class about what I for lack of a better word call my “career.” We talked about stories, research, etc., but the class broke down when a sincere student asked me to discuss the importance of ethics.

Four days later and I still can’t quit laughing.

I was laughing so hard I was unable to mention the one relevant line I remember about the importance of ethics, one I try and share with aspiring journalists, but it applies to all professional disciplines.

“Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

That’s a line from J.R. Ewing of the show “Dallas.”

Yes, Dallas. Now there’s something that gets my hateful heart revving.

And I’m talking about the town in general and the Dallas football team in particular. The only thing I like about Dallas is “Dallas.”

The Super Bowl is being contested in the massive Dallas ego dome that is Cowboy owner Jerry Jones’s gaudy $1.2 billion tribute to himself.

My fondest wish this entire football season was the Steelers would play the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. This would have pleased Jones.

Then the Steelers and their fans could have humiliated him buy buying up three-quarters of the seats and turning Cowboy stadium into a home game for the team from Pittsburgh, which is just what Steeler fans do. You’ll see on Sunday.

Then to complete the humiliation, the Steelers would win 52-3.

Still, having the Steelers there will be plenty humiliating to Jones, and that pleases me.

I travel enough that I have a good sense of how the country regards people from Pittsburgh.

My sense is this:

They love us!

It’s true. I refer to an illustrative anecdote from The River Bar at Blackwolf Run, part of the amazing Kohler complex in Wisconsin.

I was sitting there sipping a jumbo triple Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. A group of three couples came in and we instinctively decided to be friendly.

Madison residents up for a weekend frolic, they immediately embraced me when I told them I was from Pittsburgh. A big garrulous fellow threw his beefy arm around me and said, “Man, I’ve never known anyone from Pittsburgh who wasn’t a really great guy!”

I told him he’d yet to know me after three giant glasses of bourbon.

We laughed. They could tell my friendliness would only go up as the bourbon went down.

It may be difficult for those rare individuals who’ve spied me sober to comprehend (sitings of albino rhino are more widespread), but I’m way, way more fun after three big bourbons.

In fact, the world be a happier place if guys like me were encouraged to have bourbon for breakfast.

So what am I to do?

Here’s what:

Kill ‘em, Steelers! Take no prisoners. Beat ‘em like J.R. always beat Cliff Barnes, dirty tricks and all.

Sure, it’ll make my heart heavy to know a state full of people I like and admire for their cheerful generosity will have their feelings hurt, but they’ll get over it.

I didn't drink up all their bourbon.

Eat at Sonoma Grille! I ethically ask

One of the most confounding aspects of what I for lack of a better word call my “career” is the arc of my ethics.

It’s gone completely in reverse.

Fresh from the ethical scolds lording over our nation’s journalism schools, most young reporters embark on careers so free of taint you’d think they were trying to achieve sainthood, not cover the hapless schleps mismanaging local school boards.

They won’t accept gifts, curry favor or drink with potential sources.

I went through that phase myself. Lasted about 10 days.

Then I got a good long look at my first paycheck. I realized I’d never get rich chasing news stories. So I decided being an unethical journalist would at least be more fun than being an upright one free of ethical stain.

I accepted freebies, played favorites and, hell, ever since I was in the fifth grade I’d go drinking with anybody.

Then something dramatic happened to turn me into one of the most unethical creatures on the entire planet, one that true journalists vilified for my scurrilous ways.

I started working for National Enquirer.

I’d found my true calling. From 1992 through 2001, I did more than 1,000 stories for America’s most notorious news magazine.

And it couldn’t have been more fun. I still wake up many, many mornings and read a story that makes me wish I’d never quit to do more mainstream nonsense.

While fellow journalists shunned me, I was always the most popular guy at the party. Everyone wanted to hear my swashbuckling stories about the time I sneaked into rehab with Courtney Love, crashed Julia Roberts’s 30th birthday party and got busted hiding in a church confessional booth the day actor Chris O’Donnell married his sweetheart.

The highlight, or lowlight as it were, may have been President Bill Clinton’s 1996 State of the Union Address. I remember watching it with my wife when Clinton began talking about how laws were needed to protect the privacy of hospital patients.

“We need these laws to protect (legendary entertainer) who had her personal hospital records stolen and published on the front pages of a tabloid for everyone to read.”

Then Clinton gave a grave nod to the gallery and this legendary entertainer stood up and gravely saluted back. Divided by so much, both Democrats and Republicans rose as one and erupted in righteous cheers.

I looked at my wife and said, “Hey! He’s talking about me!”

It was a doozy of a sleuth, one I’ll share in full detail once I’m certain all relevant statutes of limitations have expired.

I justified my shady shenanigans by believing celebrities who lie about their health, their drug usage and -- praise Jesus! -- dupe their fans about their morality deserve to be exposed as fraudulent.

All this makes for a lively class whenever I do occasional teaching to prospective journalism students.

I begin the session on the topic by saying, “Tonight we’re going to talk about the importance of ethics to modern journalism . . . This ought to take about six minutes.”

I always cite South Fork scoundrel J.R. Ewing who advised, “Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

This is funny to me because somehow this little no-pay blog has made me a paragon of ethics.

I don’t know how this happened. Maybe it was a mistake to put “Amish” in the title because it hints at something purer than I’ve ever been.

Because the old me would never have turned down a free meal at one of my favorite restaurants, and that’s what I did this week.

I got a friendly e-mail from a girl representing a viral marketing firm in Pittsburgh that goes by the name Nakturnal. 

They are offering me and I assume a guest a free meal at the Sonoma Grille. Now, my wife and I love it there. We went there for her birthday last year. It’s great. In fact, I gave it a flattering mention it in a recent blog about places I take out of towners to impress them with Pittsburgh.

In return, they want me to write about how great it is -- true -- and then offer a $25 gift card to one lucky reader.

“This would be a great way to reward your readers and get more interaction on your blog, as well as benefit us by getting the word out about this affordable fine dining experience,” the note read.

I should be thrilled with the whole transaction. This is downright wholesome compared to posing as a heroin addict to interview drug-addled Courtney Love as she’s struggling through the old celebrity 12-step.

But I just can’t do it. I don’t think anyone reads my blog to learn why I think the Char Su Duck at Sonoma Grille is so sublime.

If I was that influential, I’d influence up some more readers for my blog or perhaps some actual wage-earning work. And wouldn’t that be something!

So, alas, my lofty ethical standards prevent me from accepting even graciously offered freebies from the Sonoma Grille or any of Pittsburgh’s many other fine dining establishments.

To be clear: send me no freebies.

None.

But don’t let that stop you from sending them all to my wife!




Note: You can see my Enquirer greatest hits at www.chrisrodell.com

Ahoy! At least some Pirates are winning

I nearly leapt out of my seat when I heard a news report about the Pirates beating the Indians. As a long-suffering fan, I’m always shocked whenever I hear the once-great and now-lowly Pittsburgh Pirates are beating anybody.

Their bullpen stinks, they can’t hit and they’re always getting picked off trying to steal second.

But I’d misheard. It’s not an interleague baseball between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Cleveland Indians. It’s sailors with the navy of India patrolling for a kind of pirate that is showing much more potency and pop than the major league baseball franchise that is likely to again stink up Pittsburgh next summer.

Everything about the hijacking of the Saudi-owned supertanker Sirius Star fascinates me and, really, I’m having trouble deciding for whom I should be rooting in this episodic lawlessness on the high seas.

How can I root for human rights violating Saudi Arabia? How can I root for the oil industry that’s spent so much of the past year gleefully screwing us?

As I noted in a previous post (see October’s “A Flatulent Discussion on Unfair Gas Prices”) when oil was trading at $140 a barrel, our local gas was going for $4.00 a gallon. But when it was $70 per barrel, gas was $2.69 a gallon. Simple math says gas should have been $2 a gallon about a month ago. But now it’s at $60 a barrel, we’re still paying $2.19.

(Please accept my apologies for exposing you to all that loathsome math. It was punishing for me, too.)

Of course, as a big fan of the show “Dallas,” I should have seen it coming. In fact, during the four-minute discussion on journalism ethics in the classes I teach, I always cite that great philosopher J.R. Ewing who opines, “Once you get past ethics, the rest is easy.”

So do I root for the pirates? That, too, presents me with issues. I try and play by the rules and be a nice guy -- and don’t ever let anyone tell you nice guys don’t finish last. If I’m not last, I can at least wave to the poor bastard clear at the back of the line.

It would be helpful if someone handed me a program detailing the statistics and motives about this particular team of pirates. I admire their audacity and will firmly commit to their fan base if they turn Robin Hood and start disbursing the $100 million cargo away to a needy constituency that includes struggling freelance writers who write whiny killjoy blogs about tedious things like gas prices that are actually going down.

My great fear is this game will end, much like the infamous 2002 MLB All-Star game, without any winners.

It’s likely the pirates will swap the ship for a nifty ransom that will allow them to go back to some divey port to buy even bigger guns, even faster boats and, avast ye maties, splurge on a three-month binge that’ll have guys like me putting “Become a Somalian Pirate” on our 2009 to-do lists.

The ship is said to contain more than two million barrels of oil. And someone please assure me that “barrel of oil” is simply a quaint and anachronistic description and not the true method of shipment. Because if it is, then crude oil and monkeys the only things still being inefficiently toted about the globe in full barrels.

Most amazing of all is that this enormous responsibility was being handled by just 25 men.

Think about it: the Sirius Star is roughly the same size as the 93,000-ton U.S.S. Enterprise, a 1,223-foot air craft carrier with a crew of 3,000 fighting men and women, and maybe a really tough cook or two.

But just 25 swabbies run the Sirius Star and its precious and potentially hazardous cargo. You’d think the ship owners would invest maybe $50,000 for a team of badass hombres to secure the ship. The whole absurdity of the situation is another strong argument to go solar, at least until crafty pirates figure out a way to hijack the sun.

Either way, I hope the hapless owners of my Pittsburgh Pirates are dispatching a squad of scouts to say ahoy to some of the Somalian Pirates.

I don’t know if their bullpen will be able to hold this lead but, guaranteed, some of these guys are bound to be good at stealing bases.